En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Profiteers

Who profits from
these wars we wage?
The ones who read
the Wall Street page.
The young men fight.
The young men die
and do not know
the reason why?

For if they knew
they'd not be there.
Then there'd be silence
in the air.
The profiteers would
sit in rage
while reading again
the Wall Street page.

Sweet Mother of God
can they not find
another way
within their mind
to profit from
some other means
besides these
bloody awful scenes?

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Street Only Knew Your Name

Your street, rich street or poor
You should always be sure of your street
There's a place in your heart,
When you know from the start
And you can't be complete without a street
Keep movin' on, just like a train
Sometimes you gotta look back to the street again
Would you prefer all those castles in spain
Or a view of the street from your window pane
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name, oh your precious name, precious name
There was walter and joy, kate and roy
All hung around the corner lamplight
Get together sing some songs
Like boppin' the blues - you make me feel alright
That was long before fortune and fame
No such thing as a star when you've played that game
Everyone knew who everyone was
There was no preference in the street no, no
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name, oh your precious name
And you walked around in the heart of town
Listening for that sound
And you walk around in the heart of town
Listening for that sound
Blue suede shoes, it was the blue suede shoes
When you were young, so young
So very very young
When you were young, so young
So very very young
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name
And the street only knew your name

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rebel Son

Youre still young, still so sure
So determined you can find the cure
Youve always been the driven one
Speak your mind, rebel son
In your eyes, wildfires rage
You read between the lines on every page
Take your chances while youre young
Seek the truth, rebel son
Shatter the silence
Fill the night with your righteous defiance
While youve still got the will to run
*take your message to the street tonight -- rebel son
Theres a distant voice thats callin you --
Through the darkest night -- fight the fight -- rebel son
To yourself alone you must be true -- rebel son*
Stand your ground, against the tide
The proof of history is on your side
Fight the cause for everyone
Dare to dream -- rebel son
Shatter the silence
Fill the night with your righteous defiance
While youve still got the will to run
( * repeat)
In the dark, thunder in your heart
Cant you hear the sound and fury in the night
Feel the heat, rising from the street
Passion runs so deep
To match the fire in your eyes
( * repeat)

song performed by by Survivor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slender's Ghost

Vide Shakspeare.

Beneath a churchyard yew,
Decay'd and worn with age,
At dusk of eve methought I spied
Poor Slender's Ghost, that whimpering cried,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

Ye gentle Bards! give ear,
Who talk of amorous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose,
Come learn of me to weep your woes:
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?
I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fired my breast or pierced my heart,
But sigh'd, 'O sweet Anne Page!'

And you! whose lovesick minds
No med'cine can assuage,
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

And ye! whose souls are held,
Like linnets in a cage;
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend and imitate my strains;
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

And you! who boast or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage,
Of wounds received from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do, when I sigh,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

Hence every fond conceit
Of shepherd or of sage;
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
Expresses all you have to say,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'

poem by William Shenstone
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The Lovely Couple

The Lovely Couple

In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Having The Flu And With Nothing Else To Do

I read a book about John Dos Passos and according to
the book once radical-communist
John ended up in the Hollywood Hills living off investments
and reading the
Wall Street Journal

this seems to happen all too often.

what hardly ever happens is
a man going from being a young conservative to becoming an
old wild-ass radical

however:
young conservatives always seem to become old
conservatives.
it's a kind of lifelong mental vapor-lock.

but when a young radical ends up an
old radical
the critics
and the conservatives
treat him as if he escaped from a mental
institution.

such is our politics and you can have it
all.

keep it.

sail it up your
ass.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Wall Street Shuffle

Do the Wall Street shuffle
Hear the money rustle
Watch the greenbacks tumble
Feel the Sterling crumble
You need a yen to make a mark
If you wanna make money
You need the luck to make a buck
If you wanna be Getty, Rothschild
You've gotta be cool on Wall Street
You've gotta be cool on Wall Street
When your index is low
Dow Jones ain't got time for the bums
They wind up on skid row with holes in their pockets
They plead with you, buddy can you spare the dime
But you ain't got the time
Doin' the....
Doin' the....
Oh, Howard Hughes
Did your money make you better?
Are you waiting for the hour
When you can screw me?
'Cos you're big enough
To do the Wall Street Shuffle
Let your money hustle
Bet you'd sell your mother
You can buy another
Doin' the....
Doin' the....
You buy and sell
You wheel and deal
But you're living on instinct
You get a tip
You follow it
And you make a big killing
On Wall Street

song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Are You Surprised?

Tunisia, Egypt, Spain, Greece and others did protest
Economic enslavement perpetrated by global banks
Bloody wars, poverty and famine moved slowly West
So why are you surprised at U.S. joining protest ranks

ROTMS

Oct 8,2011

99% vs.1% - The Latest on Occupy Wall St. Movement: 853 Cities Across the World Shoring Up for the Long Haul...
 

“It's Day 21 of Occupy Wall St. (#OWS) , a movement that has inspired Americans all over the country to fight Wall St.'s assault on their political and economic rights. Wednesday, in the biggest action yet, over 20,000 people marched in Lower Manhattan. Occupations have sprung in hundreds of cities all over the country. Occupy Wall Street is only getting bigger.”

poem by Ray Lucero
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Richie Rich Rips Up Written Page

Many many years ago when I lived
across seas in a far far away land.
Richie Rich Tip Top Ice Cream boss
livid ranted in outburst out of hand.

Imagine that an employable grown man
sat around all day on his butt writing what?
He should be working in Tip Top factory
cleaning machines making minimum wage.

Richie Rich greedy capitalist sage
places no value on a written page.
Only artist long dead hung on profit
wall has value in this bosses hot rage.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Die Young

Goto the wind, though the wind wont help you fly at all
Your backs to the wall
Then chase the sun, and it tears away and it breaks you as you run,
You run, you run!
[chorus]
So live for today
Tomorrow never comes
Die young
Behind the smile, theres danger and a promise to be told:
You never knew.
Lifes fantasy - to be locked away and still to think youre free
Youre free, were free!
[chorus]
So live for today
Tomorrow never comes
Die young
Die young, die young
Cant you see the writing on the wall?
Die young, gonna die young
Someone stopped the pain
Goto the wind, though the wind wont help you fly at all
Your backs to the wall
Then chase the sun, and it tears away and it breaks you as you run,
You run, you run!
So live for today
Tomorrow never comes
Die young, young!
Die young, die young!
Die young, die young, young!
Die young, die young, die young, die young, die young!!

song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shadows On The Wall

When the fantasy we live in
Lies in pieces on the ground
And there is no false illusion
That can turn your heart around
Nothing can change the way I feel
Nothing can take your love from me
If only I didnt worry
If only I could see
If only I could see
Chasing shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows as they dance on the floor
Chasing dreams that were forever young
Now Im on my own
Chasing shadows on the wall
Shadows on the wall
On the sea of mediocrity
Drifting from a distant shore
No goodbyes no celebration
No-one there to close the door
Only the silence that I feel
Only the lonely road is real
If only I didnt loose you
If only we could be
If only we could be
Chasing shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows as they dance on the floor
Chasing dreams that were forever young
Now Im on my own
Chasing shadows on the wall
Shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows as they start to fall
Chasing dreams that were forever young
Chasing shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows on the wall
Chasing shadows as they dance on the floor
Chasing shadows on the wall

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Boom, My Bust

So the he said
'Tell me capitalist
what is profit? '

He said
profit is what I earn
when I sell something for more than it is worth,
it is a reward for my effort.'

Ah, I said, if everyone did that
then the price of an object would
keep going up forever
since each person in the chain
would want their profft
and finally, the price would be so high
nobody could afford to buy
what the capitalist had to sell
and then we would all be in poverty
the last capitalist
would be the only one left with money
enough to buy up our properties
since the price would have dropped
because nobody could afford to pay
and in the end
the richest capitalist
would be the only one standing
and would own everything
while everyone else would have to sell everything to him
because all of the rest of us would be too poor
to pay the high prices its costs to live.

Sell something for more than it is really worth
on the grounds that a profit must be made
leads to disasters, and boom and bust.
Hello Wall Street.
And by the way
if everyone loses everything
who had the money to buy
it all up?
Hello Wall Street.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Click On 'Poets

When you enter,
Click on 'Poets' and then,
Type in my full name: 'Edward Kofi Louis';
There and then, it will open automatically to my page! !
And, you can read my poems.

Sage, page, cage, rage, mage, marriage, wage;
From time to time!
But not like a runaway dog in the land of your muse;
For, the cat is always in your room.

Fine, dine, wine, vine, cine, sine, line, pine, mine, nine, shine;
Inperfect health,
On to perfection! !
But, it has been a while hearing from you.

Of the miracles of my life,
Of the joy of my muse,
Of the peace of my mind,
And like the muse of your sweet love!
But, not like a runaway dog in the land of your muse.

In the heat,
In the cold,
And like the candlelight of your love!
But click on 'Poets' to find my sweet muse;
For, i do have a message for you.

We are all over there,
Poets of the world! !
But, it has been a very long time hearing from you;
Vender, finder, blender, winder, lender, mender, tender, sender!
And like the muse of love in the land of peace,
But, be my guest at this page.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Sparrow's Thoughts... (Number Eight)

'steady rain, black dirt,
birds singing, to the clouds.
streets wet, cars passing,
time turns inward, so do i...'

a long slow Sunday afternoon.
winter whispers, almost forgotten.
spring turns the page, life begins again.

we are faced with so many issues;
poverty, joblessness, hunger, homelessness,
wars fought for profit, the corruption
of Wall Street and big business,
the oil companies raping the earth....

people fighting over religions,
over politics, over pieces of ground...
forgetting, we dont own the earth,
we belong to the earth.

and anyone who believes in god,
would have to know, that if god
is a real god, he/she wouldnt love
just one type of people...
if you believe in god,
god created all of this rich diversity
for a reason!

if we quit fighting the endless wars of the elite,
we could take the money spent and feed the hungry,
and house the homeless...
if wages and goods were distributed in a fair manner,
people could live!
there should be no divide between rich and poor,
only people, working and living, side by side.

those who have excessively taken for profit need to be tried,
and convicted. we absolutely have to find a way
to replace our dependance on oil, and now!

we need to go back to teaching respect,
we must learn to accept people for who and
what they are...
we need to go back, and find our way!

will end the same way i began, (we all do!)

'steady rain, black dirt,
a sparrow leaves the nest behind.
the simple faith of beating wings....
time turns inward, so do i! '

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Picking Up the Pieces

Picking up the pieces
You scattered across the floor
When you in a fit of rage
Walked out the door

You cared not what you had done
Nor the hurt you were to cause
Your bitterness was so great
Within your jealous rage
You tore so many leaves
From our daily page

You yelled and screamed
Letting no other’s words in
You accused with contempt
At what everyone had to say
Blaming everyone for your misgivings
Saying it was all their fault

Two small faces watch from the hall
At your reckless wrath
With tears of fear they watch
As you smash things against the wall
You have no thought of what you do to them
No thought whatever at all

You are so consumed with rage
At things you’ve made up in your mind
You see not the hurt
You are going to leave behind
When you barge passed them
To get out the door for ever more

Now I’m left picking up the pieces
Hoping that they will all fit
Comforting the victims
Of your fit of jealous rage
Hoping I can find enough pieces
To start a new daily page

poem by David Harris
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Sketches For A Fine Day

actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today

a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged

does her assigned task in the street
gathering dead leaves

as i watch
it is a bright day

the street light is turned off

a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus

a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree

a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard

a young woman with short blue jeans
jogs along the green valley

the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon

like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Young Heart

Im a hero in a book
Im a picture on your wall
Im on the tv
Im arrogant, seen it all
Im a distraction
Like a hideous new disease
Im in the papers
But thats not really me
Young heart
Give me something I can do
Im a decision
Im a morning filled with shame
Im a perversion
But I dont know its name
In a car
On the floor
Up against the wall
With a friend or two
Someone to watch it all
Young heart
Everyone does it here
Young heart
Does your mother know what youve seen?
Young heart
Everyone does it here
Young heart
Does your mother know where youve been?
What are you gonna do?
What are you gonna do now?
I dont believe in it
I dont believe in it
What are you gonna say?
What are you gonna say now?
I dont believe in it
I dont believe in it
What are you gonna feel?
What are you gonna feel now?
I dont believe in it
I dont believe in it
Where are you gonna go?
Where are you gonna go now?
I dont believe in it
I dont believe in it
Young heart, like you
Young heart like you
Im not the question
Im not the pain
Im not surprised
And Im certainly not ashamed
I want your number
I want your name
I wont remember
Young hearts all the same

song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've been in and out of Wall Street since 1949, and I've never seen the type of animosity between government and Wall Street. And I'm not sure where it comes from, but I suspect it's got to do with a general schism in this society which is really becoming ever more destructive.

quote by Alan Greenspan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Read The Book

Dolce said to read the book.
Don’t skip any pages though,
Lizzy; I want you to read it
From cover to cover. Ok lover,
You said and examined the
Book’s covers; the hard leather,
The well sewn pages. You knew
He wrote it without his name on
The spine with the title. It was
As he spoke, the words flowing
Across the page, the meaning
Carried on and over and into
Your head. You stopped on page
Nine; he’d written about the night
He’d screwed you five times, although
No name was mentioned, you knew
It was you. Even the bed and room
Were as it had been, written right
Down to the creaking springs and
The man next door banging on the
Wall with his darn shoe. You read on
Carrying that image with you, the way
He’d caught it all with the right words,
Hammered that night right home like
Some crucified butterfly onto the page
And into your head. You paused at page
Twelve. Some paragraph about some
Lark in the bushes in the park after dark.
That didn’t ring true, at least not with you.
Who was the woman? Who was the screw?
You closed up the book; refused to look
Or read anymore; you wondered who it
Was he’d had that night in the bushes
Beneath the moonlight. Maybe it was just
Poetic licence made up to make it sell well
And the cash machines ring loud and true.
But the bitch in the bushes wasn’t you.

poem by Terry Collett
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Writing On The Wall

Words and music by rick nielsen
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
In the midwest and in the east.
Canada, southwest, around the world,
L.a., tokyo, sounds so sweet,
Come on honey, get on your feet.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
The words were oh, so...
The words were oh, so clear.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
Saw it at the airport, it was on t.v.
Read it in a magazine, runnin down the street.
Makes no sense, but I hope its gonna last,
The next big thing, I really gotta laugh.
Worked and slaved and played like hell,
Everybodys goin crazy, youre the last to know.
Cant explain it, still a joke to me,
Maybe Im naive, cause its so plain to see.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Played like hell, whoa!
Played like hell, whoa!

song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mirror, Mirror, Bloody Fibber

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Can't you show me tall and slim?
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Must I look so bloody grim?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
You're distorting my poor waist!
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
And why the heck am I defaced?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Why have I a double chin?
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
And what's the stupid, goofy grin?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Pointless asking ‘Who’s the fairest? –
More bloody likely, 'Who’s the queerest? ’
Now look, I paid a big bucks for thee,
So why can’t you be nice to me?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who’s the fairest of them all?
Me, you say? Ah, that's better –
Mirror, mirror, bloody fibber!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

Mirror mirror bloody fibber
Mirror mirror mirror ribber
Mirror mirror mirror mirror
Mirror mirror make me slimmer

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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