A Bleak Black Picture
Swat teams that come in and swat like flies
Are being used to terrorize.
They look like the Nazis that everyone feared
And are under the impression they should be revered.
Dressed in black with shielded faces,
They use their clubs and disperse their maces.
Set up by law enforcement to enforce the law
Against our own citizens with "shock and awe".
What are we teaching our kids of today?
That this kind of action is justifiably okay?
It's not and it's wrong.
It demonstrates that we're weak,
And not at all strong.
In a free society this does not belong.
What have we become? I can't believe my eyes.
The swat teams are fearsome and we are the flies.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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To A Fly Of The Land
a personal prayer, an excuse and a warning
On this the land
On which I swat
you steward of the land
On which I squat
Forgive me my trespasses.
I acknowledge my failings:
I swat flies on railings.
Keep out of my way
Don't lose your glasses
Don't give me cause
To go to swat classes.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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To a Fly of the Land (revised)
An apology, an excuse and a hope and a warning.
On this the land
On which I swat
You steward of the land
On which I squat
Forgive me my trespasses.
I acknowledge my failings:
I swat flies on railings.
You think I kill for thrill.
It hurts me more than you.
I pray that I can change my habit,
That you can change yours too:
Vomit on my food, don't do it,
Right after you have dined on poo.
A prayer is a hope that comes with a warning:
Keep out of my way
Don't lose your glasses
Don't give me cause
To go to swat classes.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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The Akond of Swat
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a POT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
poem by Edward Lear
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2 2=5
Are you such a dreamer?
To put the world to rights?
I'll stay home forever
Where two & two always
makes up five
I'll lay down the tracks
Sandbag & hide
January has April's showers
And two & two always
makes up five
IT'S THE DEVIL'S WAY NOW
THERE IS NO WAY OUT
YOU CAN SCREAM
& YOU CAN SHOUT
IT IS TOO LATE NOW
BECAUSE
YOU HAVE NOT BEEN
PAYING ATTENTION
I try to sing along
I get it all wrong
Eezeepeezeeeezeepeeezee
NOT
I swat em like flies but
Like flies the buggers
Keep coming back
NOT
Maybe not
All hail to the thief
But I'm not!
Don't question my
Authority or put me
In the dock
Cozimnot!
Go & tell the king that
The sky is falling in
When it's not
Maybe not.
(ahh diddums.)
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bewildered
I hear the forthcomming buzz
Mosquitoes in demonic fuzz
Done something should be
Rebel, repel, hit it be
Ah, ready now to coil them all
An electrifying swat to burn them all
'Beware o' insecta-devils
Beware of a shocking batallion
Matted to balm and net and bang you all
Buzzing and fizzing muted thereon
Beware o'venom-vectored devils
Hubby dear ready with an electric bat
And me and the kids and the servant
And whoever comes home will swat
All by a magic of an electric racket
No more of your proboscis fright
And your saliva-welt
Flee away, flee away bloody heart
Frightened of ashed your breeds a lot
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Farmhouse
Welcome this is a farmhouse
We have cluster flies, alas
And this time of year is bad
We are so very sorry
There is little we can do
But swat them
She didn't beg, oh not enough
She didn't stay when things got tough
I told a lie and she got mad
She wasn't there when things got bad
I never ever saw the Northern Light
I never really heard of cluster flies
I never ever saw the star so bright
In the farmhouse things will be alright
(2x)
Woke this morning to the stinging lash
Every man rise from the ash
Each betrayal begins with trust
Every man returns to dust
I never ever saw the Northern Light
I never really heard of cluster flies
I never ever saw the star so bright
In the farmhouse things will be alright
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There was one I met upon the road
There was one I met upon the road
Who looked at me with kind eyes.
He said, "Show me of your wares."
And this I did,
Holding forth one.
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
Then held I forth another;
He said, "It is a sin."
And so to the end;
Always he said, "It is a sin."
And, finally, I cried out,
"But I have none other."
Then did he look at me
With kinder eyes.
"Poor soul!" he said.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Classified Files Ultra Death Seals
Miroslava Odalovic said
“ETs look like some poets
(a phenomena unearthly
observe such random poets
are DNA spaced out ones)
lol metaphorically
speaking but metaphors
do not seem to knock
the door loudly enough”
SWAT teams do not knock
on suspect doors these days,
they smash the doors open
real men
in drama
black
are black
craft ops
covert dirty
guarding
gates entry
Hades
pursuing X-files
iced officially
clown conspiracy
ostracized academia
accidental sudden
or bizarre dead ends
wisdom dictates
classified files
ultra death seals
are not played
out in public arena
prematurely
word dimension mists
fog public landscapes
black hole event realities
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The turtle and the frog
Said the turtle to the frog
'I wish that I could climb that log'
the frog said in his deepest drawl
'at least you know that you won't fall! '
THE FLY
The fly was busy buzzing round'
then quickly landed on the ground
and as I raised my hand to swat
the fly said..'gimme' all you got! '
In doing what the fly just said
I came down hard upon his head
I raised my hand to see the mess
but all I found was one fly-less
There doesn't seem to be much thrill
in swating flies that don't stand still!
poem by Michael Hubbert
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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What we have to do is to find a solution that the interests of the national teams are respecting the interests of the clubs. And also the clubs they shall respect the interests and the aspirations of national teams.
quote by Sepp Blatter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rear Echelon Combat
Far from high velocity rounds zinging
overhead, rear echelon MFers type
up the morning reports and casualty
lists from Company A on a hot day.
They swat pesky flies and sweat
in air-conditioned pyramid tents
wearing starched BDUs and
shiny jump boots laced just so
No CBIs here! Crossed rifles
are just a far-fetched metaphor
for three hots and a cot
in a combat zone -
no purple hurts here!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Us Two
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.
"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.
"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.
"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."
So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Soccer world cup 2010
Soccer is the word on many lips
soccer world cup 2010
Joyous is the mood all
over the land
A first for a our small nation
flags to be hosted proudly
all over the land
White and black soccer balls
will be played over many fields
Some teams will win
some teams will loose
some teams will cry
some teams will be happy
Praise God Almighty
for this special occasion
a first for our small nation
in Jesus Name
poem by Allen Brodell
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In the depth of night
I swat down a mosquito,
it is still buzzing
haiku by Sumitaku Kenshin, translated by Nakaoka Naomi
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Too Much Truth...
when we arrive here
we carried with us our own lies
we keep them
and we survived
when they come and see us
for the first time
they keep wondering why unlike
them we glow with happiness
we did not tell them the truth as usual
we believe that it is not necessary
from that distant place where we left
we have seen how too much of truth
has killed the land and its natives
how the lies were driven away like flies
they swat what are some of the possibilities
those white ghosts
those black birds that guide us to places
that we never once imagine
what we discover are islets of desires
those that they shy away from
we have masks that protect us from so much brightness
we have boots from mud
we have words
and with their pretensions we have learned the art of
hedonistic euphemisms
the artistry of phrases the promises of incomplete clauses
some periods are angry
but our commas still smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sniper
Because back home in Tennessee
I was a champeen shot,
They made a sniper outa me
An' ninety krouts I got:
I wish to Christ I'd not!
Athinkin' o' them blasted lives
It's kindo' blue I be;
Them lads no doubt had kids an' wives
An' happy home like me:
Them stiffs I still can see.
Aye, ninety men or more my hand
Has hustled down to hell;
They've loaded me with medals and
They tell me I done well:
A hero for a spell.
But Heaven help me to forget
Them fellow men I've slain,
The bubbling flow of blood I've let . . .
I'll never kill again:
To swat flies gives me pain.
Just let me dream when we will see
And end of soldierin';
When flags of famous victory
Will be amoulderin':
An' lethal steel an' battle blast
Be nightmares of the past.
poem by Robert William Service
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You Are Old Father William
"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head --
Do you think, at your age, it is right?
"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door --
Pray what is the reason for that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment -- one shilling a box --
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak --
Pray, how did you mange to do it?"
"In my youth," said his fater, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as every;
Yet you balanced an eel on the tend of your nose --
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.
poem by Lewis Carroll
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Flies
I never kill a fly because
I think that what we have of laws
To regulate and civilize
Our daily life - we owe to flies.
Apropos, I'll tell you of Choo, the spouse
Of the head of the hunters, Wung;
Such a beautiful cave they had for a house,
And a brood of a dozen young.
And Wung would start by the dawn's red light
On the trailing of bird or beast,
And crawl back tired on the brink of night
With food for another feast.
Then the young would dance in their naked glee,
And Choo would fuel the fire;
Fur and feather, how good to see,
And to gorge to heart's desire!
Flesh of rabbit and goose and deer,
With fang-like teeth they tore,
And laughed with faces a bloody smear,
And flung their bones on the floor.
But with morning bright the flies would come,
Clouding into the cave;
You could hardly hear for their noisy hum,
They were big and black and brave.
Darkling the day with gust of greed
They'd swarm in the warm sunrise
On the litter of offal and bones to feed -
A million or so of flies.
Now flies were the wife of Wung's despair;
They would sting and buzz and bite,
And as her only attire was hair
She would itch from morn to night:
But as one day she scratched her hide,
A thought there came to Choo;
"If I were to throw the bones outside,
The flies would go there too."
That spark in a well-nigh monkey mind,
Nay, do not laugh or scorn;
For there in the thoughts of Choo you'll find
Was the sense of Order born;
As she flung the offal far and wide,
And the fly-cloud followed fast,
Battening on the bones outside
The cave was clear at last.
And Wung was pleased when he came at night,
For the air was clean and sweet,
And the cave-kids danced in the gay firelight,
And fed on the new-killed meat;
But the children Choo would chide and boss,
For her cleanly floor was her pride,
And even the baby was taught to toss
His bite of a bone outside.
Then the cave crones came and some admired,
But others were envious;
And they said: "She swanks, she makes us tired
With her complex modern fuss."
However, most of the tribe complied,
Though tradition dourly dies,
And a few Conservatives crossly cried:
"We'll keep our bones and our flies."
So Reformer Choo was much revered
And to all she said: "You see
How my hearth is clean and my floor is cleaned,
And there ain't no flies on me"...
And that was how it all began,
Through horror of muck and mess,
Even in prehistoric Man,
LAW, ORDER and CLEANLINESS'.
And that is why I never kill
A fly, no matter how obscene;
For I believe in God's good will:
He gave us vermin to make us clean.
poem by Robert William Service
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Anesthetized Shock!
People, people, people, today,
—Don't they all, but seem,
Accustomed to the agonies—
Of sorrow and shock!
To pain and suffering. (Today…)
"Today, they're only mortal comedies—
After all—as are all subversive—horror show stories".
Just shrug your nervous shoulders—aback
And give out that tenuous frigid laugh.
To all this human cost
Spill-it-out like cold-vomit over their loss…
"Over their bankrupt, souls torment".
But—you know, I'm sure? !
There is still a shock that'll
Cut you to the quick to the core.
Just occasionally, even venomously,
If it's just outwardly, cowardly, and outwardly,
They're all still looking, deeply, anesthetized.
(But I'm one-hundred per cent I'm still sure!)
There is still a shock story that'll
Cut you to the quick to the core.
"THIS JUST IN… Some Breaking News"…
"SOME PROFOUND… BREAKING, News"…
Here's a modern day horror story
A man's face is chewed—off
By another man—whilst being shot! ! !
By an armed officer of the law—a cop!
"Now here's a question; where does this register? "
Why, you may well think? I've seen Hannibal Lector
But, just you wait until you've seen…
"You've seen the core, the face missing from the picture".
poem by Mark Heathcote
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