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Dorothy D.

I'm sick of 'musn'ts,' said Dorothy D.
Sick of musn'ts, as I can be.
From early dawn till the close of day
I hear a musn't, and never a may.

It's 'you musn't lie there like a sleepy head,'
And 'you musn't sit up when it's time for bed.'
'You musn't cry when I comb your curls,'
'You musn't play with those noisy girls.'
'You musn't be silent when spoken to,'
'You musn't chatter as parrots do.'
'You musn't be pert, and you musn't be proud,'
'You musn't giggle or laugh aloud.'
'You musn't rumple your nice clean dress,'
'You musn't nod, in the place of a 'yes.''

So all day long the musn'ts go,
Till I dream at night of a great black row,
Of goblin 'musn'ts' with monstrous eyes
That stare at me in a shocked surprise.
Oh, I hope I will live to see the day
When some one will say to me, 'Dear, you may.'
For I'm sick of 'musn'ts,' said Dorthy D.
Sick of musn'ts, as I can be.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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This or That

That is that. And this is this.
And that was that.
And this was this.
And that was this. And this
definitely was almost that.
And that was pretty much that.

And this was definitely this or that.
And that will, in all likelihood, be this.
But it's too bad that can't be that
as, nice, awfully, if this was this,
because if that wasn't that, this would be
this, pretty much.

Shall that not be this?
'Only if you really want it to,
be this, that is, if not, not.
And if this is that
by law commutative
musn't that be this?

Once That said to This
'Though I am That and you This,
we are much alike.
Let us marry our differences and thrive'.
'Are you nuts'? replied This, 'let's,
in the interest of proximity, not'!

poem by Morgan Michaels
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You musn't force sex to do the work of love or love to do the work of sex.

quote by Mary McCarthy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pathetic on christmas

It's Christmas eve
and I'm seated on this same old chair
in front of this same old tube
I'm a pathetic little twig
left on a christmas tree lot
on a very merry christmas eve
It happens to everyone
Oh yes it does...maybe it does..
It must...or could i be the only one?
Nooo...i musn't think this way
Christmas happens every year,
whether we like it or not...
It's no big deal...
but see I got no gifts to share...
maybe i'll give someone
my pc...just so i could show
some christmas spirit...
An I won't even feel bitter
it's christmas eve...
I'll just report it stolen the next day.

poem by Maya Crisol
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Her Date

She waved down a passing cab,
And said, Hi Frank can I grab
A quick lift home, cos I'm a little late tonight,
Oh sure, he said, and smiled,
As if she were a child,
I'll set you down outside your door, if that's alright!

That would indeed be great,
She answered, I've got a date,
And I'll have to change and also snatch a bite,
I hope he will wait for me,
I told him that I'd hurry,
Musn't keep him standing long, on our first night.

Where are you going to meet,
I probably know the street,
I won't let you down, if time is getting tight,
No, don't you worry Frank,
But you, I would like to thank,
And if he doesn't show up, I'll ring you, if I might.

No problem, just you phone,
And don't walk home alone,
I'll be right there, I'd hate you to have a fright,
But there was no need for Frank,
To leave his taxi rank,
She found that her date turned out to be just right.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Why Am I Alone?

Why am I feeling alone?
Invisable and feeling like I don't belong,
I'm hurting inside,
But I musn't show,
Everything inside of me is screaming,
'It's ok to not be ok.'
It's not, you live in hurt and destruction,
I want it all to end,
All this pain and sorrow,
I want it to go away,
I live in fearof myself,
Wondering who will be my next victim,
My anger is hard to control,
Little outbursts all the time,
Then I'm ready to explode!
Don't wanna hurt nobody,
So I keeped myself locked up,
Hiding all my anger and hurt,
I cry alone, I cry silently, I cry inside of me,
If I cry around others, I make excuses up,
But people are starting to see,
All of the hurt inside of me.

poem by Charlie Bones
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The Watcher

Like a watcher I must listen and see.
But never intervene.
Death of the soul has come over me.
A conscience with a little less stress.
Secrets galore, one time, one place, a person is erased.
Like venom it eats at you inside.
To know and do nothing.
So powerless.
I've become the watcher.
A star collector,
A master of all and none.
What is wrong cant be undone.
With an erie sound and light.
Guidance should be forthright.
But still I hear the whispers of many clouded minds.
Dark are the times.
I've become the watcher.
Distant but so close that i can feel the auras of those who walk the path a little too fast.
An error in judgement call.
To proud to take a chance instead of the fall.
I've become the watcher and yet still I musn't make a move.
For my turns coming.
But till then I must be patient and use the indirect power suggestion.
For any act of aggression would just lead them astray.
And that will never be okay.
So I will be on the front line with my eyes and ears as a watcher.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Maveric

Maveric Prowles
Had Rumbling Bowles
That thundered in the night.
It shook the bedrooms all around
And gave the folks a fright.
The doctor called;
He was appalled
When through his stethoscope
He heard the sound of a baying hound,
And the acrid smell of smoke.
Was there a cure?
'The higher the fewer'
The learned doctor said,
Then turned poor Maveric inside out
And stood him on his head.
'Just as I though
You've been and caught
An Asiatic flu -
You musn't go near dogs I fear
Unless they come near you.'
Poor Maveric cried.
He went cross-eyed,
His legs went green and blue.
The doctor hit him with a club
And charged him one and two.
And so my friend
This is the end,
A warning to the few:
Stay clear of doctors to the end
Or they'll get rid of you.

poem by Spike Milligan
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Chocolate Creations

You wouldn’t believe what we’re having
Right down at our plaza hall
There are tables of delicious chocolate
Tiny red apples, and that’s not all

A chocolate vase, can you imagine?
Clusters of chocolate with nuts
I’ll tell you one thing folks
This is one way to get out of a rut

Makes you smile just to imagine
What chocolate can do for you
Not only can it make you smile
But it’s sweet and good and true

But, you have to be so careful
About how you eat this treat
Oh yes, you musn’t gobble
My way just can’t be beat

Why, chocolate’s something to savor
You can’t just start to chew
Oh no, you must let it melt
On your tongue and mouth, it’s true

So if you have a need for something
Sweet and oh so good
Join us, but make it quick
Or I’ll eat your share for you!

poem by Marilyn Lott
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Kafka

Short of ending up like Kafka
Who toiled in obscurity
And died peniless
I work myself up
Not to allow myself down
Becoming one voice
For the community of
Published writers
Storming through the
Clutter of red tape
And desks covered in
Layers of dust
I dig my fingers into
Manuscripts
Of old
And allow my eyes
To file away alphbetically
The words
Words of virtue
Of nature
Of life
Of love
Written in free form
Or rhyme
Oh to wax poetic
With some unique prose
Nothing compares to
The poetic Rose
Got to raise myself up
From the words of before
Recapture their essence
In a more elegant form
Brainstorming creative
Issues is not all what it seems
Musn't end up like kafka
Lost in obscurity's
Almost famous dreams

poem by Theodora Onken
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The Confession

I HAVEN'T always acted good:
I've taken things not meant for me;
Not other people's drink and food,
But things they never seemed to see.
I haven't done the way I ought
If all they say in church is true,
But all I've had I've fairly bought,
And paid for pretty heavy too.

For days and weeks are very long
If you get nothing new and bright,
And if you never do no wrong
Somehow you never do no right.
The chap that daresent go a yard
For fear the path should lead astray
May be a saint--though that seems hard,
But he's no traveller, any way.

Some things I can't be sorry for,
The things that silly people hate:
But some I did I do deplore,
I knew, inside, they wasn't straight.
And when my last account is filed,
And stuck-up angels stop their song,
I'll ask God's pardon like a child
For what I really knew was wrong.

If you've a child, you'd rather see
A bit of temper, off and on,
A greedy grab, a silly spree--
And then a brave thing said or done
Than hear your boy whine all day long
About the things he musn't do:
Just doing nothing, right or wrong:
And God may feel the same as you.

For God's our Father, so they say,
He made His laws and He made me;
He'll understand about the way
Me and His laws could not agree.
He might say, 'You're worth more, My son,
Than all My laws since law began.
Take good with bad--here's something done--
And I'm your God, and you're My man.'

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Down With The Clique (LP Version)

First Verse:
Well now I guess it's time for me to wreck shop,
So show your peace while the beat drops,
And if you're in the house just throw your hands up,
And let me see my brothas and sistas spread luv
And if you're not down there's sumthin wrong see,
'Cause see my project homies, they got my back G,
Droppin' a old school with a new school..
PA's in the house and it's a good thang..
(chorus)
Well if you down with the clique,
let me hear you say (I'm down wit it)
(repeat 4X)
Second Verse:
Now it's a phone checker, I musn't do this
And if you didn't know I thought you knew this,
It took a little time but now it's on see
You been waiting for so long to beep me...hmmm...
So check check check it out, all the dogs in the house (woof woof woof),
So pump your fist in the air and say,
R. Kelly's on the track and it's a good thang
(chorus)
Well if you down with the clique,
let me hear you say (I'm down wit it)
(repeat 4X)
(break it down)
tonite is the night that I...
I take you boy and I put you in my good thang all night...
R.Kelly Rap:
First we have the Black ground posse in her clique
Then we have the funky second chapter in her clique
PA's in the house and yes you know they're in her clique
And all the project homies are down with the clique
Well now we have the double x-tra large in her clique
Plus we have the DA to the Smahd in her clique
Then we have the down town possee in her clique
Peace to the hood cause ya down with her clique
(chorus repeat til' fade out

song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fall of Fitzmickle

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
His house and home; 'neath its red-tiled dome
He struts like a little tin god.
When Popper says stay, the family stay;
When Popper says go, they go;
And early and late, like the trumpet of Fate,
Sounds the fierce Fitzmicklean 'No!'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Came on his small son when
There, listening in to the cricketing din,
He sat as the clock struck ten.
'What? Sporting rubbish? At this hour, too!'
Said he: and his brow grew black.
'Things that I wouldn't do my son musn't do.
Bed, sir! And don't answer me back!'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
His hand on the wireless switch,
Listened a wile, and a ghost of a smile
His stern face seemed to twitch.
'Another man out!' He paused in doubt,
As he noted the latest score.
'Well, I might as well sit and listen a bit;
But a bare half hour, no more.'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Just as the clock struck four,
Weary and worn in the cold, bleak morn
Crept by his small son's door.
And out of the stygian darkness there,
Swift to discover his sin,
A small voice cried from the gloom inside:
'Please Popper. Did our side win?'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Wiley Wildebeest

I'm just a young wildebeest, and to say the very least,
Not all that appealing to the eye,
See 'round these plains, between crocs and manes,
By the grace of God, go I.

Now it's fair to think, I'm a food-chain link,
But that's not what irks me the most,
More the continual strife, of the migratory life,
The tough slog from pillar to post.

Incredulously, we do this annually,
Because we're genetically predisposed,
Whoever got it in their brain, to follow the rain,
To me that name must be disclosed.

See we're a million strong, and our tumultuous throng,
Trek for kilometres in countless degrees,
Our way's riddled with foes, but it's me that they've chose,
And so I must the crocodiles appease.

Now they line the river-banks, in reptilian ranks,
As it's reached this time of year,
Making their moves, upon hearing our hooves,
And smelling the quadrupedal fear

So it's me who goes first, disobeying my thirst,
To summon the croc king close by,
'Excuse me sir, ' in nerves I slur,
'Make way for my friends and I.'

'You what, ' he said, and I watched in dread,
As his suppressed vexation grew,
'You loricates won't feast, on fresh wildebeest,
For all of us, we are gnu.'

'Oh! ' he replied, as if he'd just denied,
All his ancient ancestral genes,
'I must be confused, ' he ruefully mused,
'All is not quite as it seems.'

'Then won't you make way, as we musn't delay,
We are all travelling toward pastures new, '
And we gambolled across, without solitary loss,
And slaughter did somehow eschew.

poem by Greg Costello
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Young Munro the Sailor

'Twas on a sunny morning in the month of May,
I met a pretty damsel on the banks o' the Tay;
I said, My charming fair one, come tell to me I pray,
Why do you walk alone on the banks o' the Tay.

She said, Kind sir, pity me, for I am in great woe
About my young sailor lad, whose name is James Munro;
It's he has been long at sea, seven years from this day,
And I come here sometimes to weep for him that's far, far away.

Lovely creature, cease your weeping and consent to marry me,
And my houses and all my land I will give to thee,
And we shall get married without any delay,
And live happy and contented on the banks o' the Tay.

Believe me, my sweet lady, I pity the sailor's wife,
For I think she must lead a very unhappy life;
Especially on a stormy night, I'm sure she cannot sleep,
Thinking about her husband whilst on the briny deep.

Oh, sir! it is true, what you to me have said,
But I must be content with the choice I've made;
For Munro's he's young and handsome, I will ne'er deny,
And if I don't get him for a husband, believe me, I will die.

Because, when last we parted, we swore to be true,
And I will keep my troth, which lovers ought to do;
And I will pray for his safe return by night and by day,
That God may send him safe home to the banks o' the Tay.

Forgive me, noble heart, for asking to marry you,
I was only trying your love, if it was really true;
But I've found your love is pure towards your sailor lad,
And the thought thereof, believe me, makes my heart feel glad.

As homeward we retraced our steps her heart seemed glad,
In hopes of seeing again her brave sailor lad,
He had promised to marry her when he would return,
So I bade her keep up her spirits and no longer mourn.

Dear creature, the lass that's true to her sweetheart deserves great praise,
And I hope young Munro and you will spend many happy days,
For unto him I know you will ever prove true,
And perchance when he comes home he will marry you.

What you have said, kind sir, I hope will come true,
And if it does, I'll make it known to you;
And you must come to the marriage, which you musn't gainsay,
And dance and rejoice with us on the marriage-day.

When we arrived in Dundee she bade me good-bye,
Then I told her where I lived, while she said with a sigh,
Kind sir, I will long remember that morning in May,
When I met you by chance on the banks o' the Tay.

When three months were past her sailor lad came home,
And she called to see me herself alone,
And she invited me to her marriage without delay,
Which was celebrated with great pomp the next day.

So I went to the marriage with my heart full of joy,
And I wished her prosperity with her sailor boy;
And I danced and sang till daylight, and then came away,
Leaving them happy and contented on the banks o' the Tay.

So all ye pretty fair maids, of high or low degree,
Be faithful to your sweethearts when they have gone to sea,
And never be in doubts of them when they are far away,
Because they might return and marry you some unexpected day.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Boss Over the Board

When he’s over a rough and unpopular shed,
With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;
When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin,
And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin—
I am moved to admit—when the total is scored—
That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of -the-board.
I have battled a lot,
But my dream’s never soared
To the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.
’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the Boss
Was a small man to see—though a big man to cross—
We had nought to complain of—except what we thought,
And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought;
But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,
So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.
We could tolerate ‘hands’—
We respected the cook;
But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.

He’d a row with Big Duggan—a rough sort of Jim—
Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him!
His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deep
That his shearing grew rough—and he ill-used the sheep.
And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’d
When he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,
For the Boss was ten stone,
And the shearer full-grown,
And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.

Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,
Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.
And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied,
For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,
But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,
That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!
And the fight was a sight,
And we pondered that night—
‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’

Next day at the office, when sadly the wreck
Of Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,
Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone;
‘I am short of good shearers. You’d better stay on.’
And we fancied Jim Duggan our dignity lower’d
When he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.
We said nothing to Jim,
For a joke might be grim,
And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.

The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first,
And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;
And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down—
With the hawkers and spielers—to take us to town,
And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!
Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.
’Twas a bit off, no doubt—
And with Freedom about—
But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.

With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,
And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,
He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,
And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.
The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored—
But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.
I am all for the Right,
But perhaps (out of sight)
As a son or a husband or father he’s white.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Im sick

im sick of not knowing,
im sick of not showing,
im sick of all the starring
im sick of not caring
im sick of being labled bad
im sick of always looking sad
im sick of feeling locked in bars
im sick of all the painful scars
im sick of all the thugs
im sick of all the drugs
im sick of asking myself why
im sick of telling myself i want to die
im sick of feeling like i always want to cry
im sick of living a lie
im sick of not having a dream
im sick of lifes borring theme
but thares only one was out...
so what does that mean?

poem by Malorie Genoff
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So Sick

im sick of not knowing,
im sick of not showing,
im sick of all the starring
im sick of not caring
im sick of being labled bad
im sick of always looking sad
im sick of feeling locked in bars
im sick of all the painful scars
im sick of all the thugs
im sick of all the drugs
im sick of asking myself why
im sick of telling myself i want to die
im sick of feeling like i always want to cry
im sick of living a lie
im sick of not having a dream
im sick of lifes borring theme
but thares only one was out...
so what does that mean?

poem by Ricky Baker
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I Am Sick....

I am sick …. The pain I feel.
I am sick…. This must be surreal.
I am sick…. I will not die.
I am sick…. But I must live on with this lie.
I am sick…. It’s not like cancer it’s not that bad.
I am sick… but the say depression goes with this pain I have.
I am sick…. It will never disappear.
I am sick…. My days will go on with the same o’l tear.
I am sick…. That I have thought of taking my pain away.
I am sick…. For that I cannot for the pain must stay.
I am sick… and no one can fix me.
I am sick…. That no one can see.
I am sick…. They believe nothing is wrong with me.
I am sick…. Because of this disease.
I am sick…. Because I beg god please.

poem by Winifred Harkness
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Sick of Being Sick

I’m sick of being rejected;
I’m sick of being emotionally neglected;
I’m sick of crying so many tears;
I’m sick of running away from my fears;
I’m sick of my childhood nightmares;
I’m sick of being told to do those stupid dares;
I’m sick of not having friends;
I’m sick of all these dead ends;
I’m sick of myself for what I’ve become;
I’m sick of feeling oh so numb;
I’m sick of watching myself drown;
I’m sick of my heart falling to the ground;
I’m sick of this life;
I’m sick of this everyday strife;
I’m sick of not having a dad;
I’m sick of getting mad;
I’m sick of my childhood past;
I’m sick of being harassed;
I’m sick of the dread;
I’m sick of wanting to be dead;
I’m sick of being the one who’s always so strong;
I’m sick of being somebody that doesn’t belong! !

poem by Shelby Brockway
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A January Fear

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
My class is all here
Down to each little sneer

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Those cute little creatures
Have nothing to fear

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Still knowing that teacher's
not entirely all here

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Each little tear
Makes it perfectly clear

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
A day off is coming
And hopefully near

a sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
It's harder and harder
Maintaining my leer

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Perhaps my behavior's
becoming quite queer

A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Perhaps in the morning
I'll call in and cheer

A SICK DAY A SICK DAY
I GOT A PAIN IN MY EAR

Alas...I can hear my principle sneer
With a resigning smirk easy to hear
NO SICK DAY NO SICK DAY
SORRY MY DEAR

NO SICK DAYS NO SICK DAYS
REMAINING THIS YEAR

poem by Robert John Meehan
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