Spanky Sundays
What did you do in your spanky sundays
beneath my nothing makes sense
and my everything does
What your thoughts were wondering at
when i was thinking of the biggest frame
what did you tell her about me
when she wanted to be the one
did you think that i cared
did you think that it mattered
did you think that i never knew
about your spanky sundays
poem by Erika Conti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taking You Down Memory Lane
.
It is time to take you down memory lane
With the hit t. v. series “Spanky and our gang”.
They were on for many a year
They gave us laughter and a few tears.
There was Spanky, alfalfa, buckwheat
Froggy and Darlene, and we can’t forget
The teacher Mrs. Crabtree.
Alfalfa with his one strand of greased up hair
Standing straight up - two pounds of grease
And still not enough.
Spanky was the leader- he was short and round
Any problems, he had to be found.
Buckwheat was the daring young guy
He would do anything for a ride.
Then there was Froggy - his name says it all
Like a frog his voice did fall
Darlene with her shoulder length hair
And the voice of an angel from above
Had the “ our gang” all in love.
OH! The t. v. series that we used to watch
Like “ I love Lucy” and “ the honeymooners”
And “our hit tunes” with all the crooners.
What about “ Laurel and Hardy” and
“Abbott and Costello”
The two most comical fellows.
This is the trip down memory lane
And you know it’ll never be the same.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I remember when
some Sundays were spent in bed,
getting to know each
other's bodies, to please,
now, Sundays, we go to church
tanka by Abigail Greene from Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (2006)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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I studied all about Gauguin. He was a banker. He was a banker who - he used to paint on Sundays. And one day he hated himself for painting on Sundays.
quote by Anthony Quinn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seven Sundays
One day
Well find the time
To spend, together
Until then, my love
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
Seven sundays in a row
Cause thats the day
That I spend with you
Someday soon,
You and i
Will hold each other
Once again, my love
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
Seven sundays in a row
Seven sundays in a row
Seven sundays in a row
Cause thats the day
That I spend with you
If I had one wish
It wouldnt be hard to choose
song performed by by Extreme
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Always Another Sunday
There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?
Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.
Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.
Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
That Sunday is merely a cog, attached to the sports wheel,
And is born and dies each week, with the big game.
You will not find most people discussing their sins
On Sunday afternoons:
You already know what they will be talking about.
poem by Patti Masterman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tommy Richard, who's your favorite little rascal Alfalfa or is it Spanky
Time
You got to make a sense yeah
Everything affects ya
Youre turning up the pressure
But can you keep it on
Well its only time
Its only time that makes you
Well its only time
Its only time that breaks you
Yeah theyre gonna make ya
Pay for the crime
And put you up in cages
Treat you unkind
All your plans are made now
Just like they told you
So what becomes of monday
Now that sundays gone
All you ever wanted
Will come to you one day
Just when you taste it
You turn and walk away
song performed by by INXS
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taho (english)
Tahooo! ! !
The loud voice
of the young Taho vendor
awokes the children
early in the morning
of Saturdays and Sundays.
The young Taho vendor
he always had the smile
and he always added more Taho
at the same price of two pesos
in every cup of every child.
Taho,
I like it too
it's not only delicious
but nutritious too.
But so sad,
several Saturdays
and Sundays passed by
and the voice
of the young Taho vendor
I heard no more.
Oh, yes...
the young Taho vendor,
he's now in Singapore.
How lucky he is
he could earn more
in Singapore.
Taho,
I'm afraid
I could no longer taste it
and the children....
oh, yes
now they wake up late
on Saturdays and Sundays.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Adventures of Dally and Spanky
Brenna D'Amico, Reylynn Caster, Elaine Hendrix, Timothy Hornor, Trace Adkins, Denise Richards, Brielle Barbusca, Alexie Gilmore
from Adventures of Dally and Spanky (2019)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thinking Man's Blues
i was thinking about Jesus
i was thinking about robbing a bank
thinking about the band a playin'
while the Titanic sank
thinking 'bout salvation
thinking about getting free
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?
i was thinking about generations
i was thinking about saving grace
i was thinking about truth and lies
thinking about flesh and lace
thinking about redemption
and rivers running to the sea
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?
i was thinking about the Dharma
'bout Martin Luther King
thinking about Merle Haggard
thinking about James Dean
thinking about the costs of war
about moral depravity
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind Up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
And taught me how not to play the game,
I didnt mind if they groomed me for success,
Or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning
With their God tucked underneath my arm --
Their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
And by way of firm reply,
He said -- Im not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before Im through Id like to say my prayers --
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to sunday school
And have all the bishops harmonize these lines --
How do you dare tell me that Im my fathers son
When that was just an accident of birth.
Id rather look around me -- compose a better song
'cos thats the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory youre a poorer man than me,
As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Speak the truth and you'll be heard.
She told me she cared,
I knew she lied,
She told them she cared,
They knew she lied,
She said she wanted me to be the best,
I knew she lied,
She said to them she wanted me to be the best,
They knew she lied,
She whispered she loved me,
I knew she lied,
She whispered to them she loved me,
They knew she lied,
She pretended everything when I was there,
She pretended to love me,
She pretended to care,
She said she wanted me to be happy,
We all knew the truth was not what she speak,
We all knew the truth was just about to leak,
We all knew the truth would come out,
We all knew the truth, with no doubt,
She was just like the people surrounding,
Pretending, acting, lying,
So the truth is what I spoke when I spoke to her,
I told her the truth is true, the truth is fair,
I told her...
If it's a lie, don't say another word,
However, speak the truth, and you'll be heard,
To lie to someone who truly loves you for you,
Is one of the most cruel things you can ever do,
To let them believe what you say to them is true,
When really all your thinking about is you, you and you.
poem by Jodie Louise Pollock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sabbaths, W.I.
Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,
in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping
those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore
of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are
selling yellow sulphur stone
the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute
gommiers peeling from sunburn still wrestling to escape the sea
the dead lizard turning blue as stone
those rivers, threads of spittle, that forgot the old music
that dry, brief esplanade under the drier sea almonds
where the dry old men sat
watching a white schooner stuck in the branches
and playing draughts with the moving frigate birds
those hillsides like broken pots
those ferns that stamped their skeletons on the skin
and those roads that begin reciting their names at vespers
mention them and they will stop
those crabs that were willing to let an epoch pass
those herons like spinsters that doubted their reflections
inquiring, inquiring
those nettles that waited
those Sundays, those Sundays
those Sundays when the lights at the road's end were an occasion
those Sundays when my mother lay on her back
those Sundays when the sisters gathered like white moths
round their street lantern
and cities passed us by on the horizon
poem by Derek Walcott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Untold Story
You once told me your race
(Not if I really cared)
You once showed me the true color of your face
(Not if that mattered)
You are whom you want to be
You are the sheep, you are the bee.
You once told me who you were
Once you discovered what the dean did
You called the police supervisor
And filed a report, there you hid
Your true genealogy
You wanted to be conveniently
Different than the jerk
Because there was no perk
For you to win
What an egregious sin
What a sad hypocrite
You are the pit
The pit bull that lies
And the other one, the cat
That steals the pies
You are no different than the bat
Who behaved like a wise crow
At day time and at night time
Chased the house mouse like a deadly owl
I never knew you’d stoop so low
By perjuring yourself; you duly committed a crime
By lying; you are just like the scarecrow
The kleptomaniac, which filed the death certificate
To claim the benefits that no longer fit.
You once told me your race
(Not if I really cared)
I just wanted the black ace
(Because that truly mattered)
The white pearl, the black gold
The white gold and my story told.
poem by Hebert Logerie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cant Help Thinking About Me
Question-time that says I brought dishonour
My heads bowed in shame
It seems that Ive blackened the family name
Mother says that she cant stand the neighbours talking
Ive gotta pack my bags, leave this home, start walking, yeah
Im guilty
I wish that I was sorry this time
I wish that I could pay for my crime
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
Remember when we used to go to church on sundays
I lay awake at night, terrified of school on mondays
Oh, but its too late now
I wish I was a child again
I wish I felt secure again
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
As I pass a recreation ground
I remember my friends, always been found and I cant
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
Now I leave them all in the never never land
The station seems so cold the tickets in my hand
My girl calls my name hi dave
Drop in, see around, come back
If youre this way again
Oh, Im on my own
Ive got a long way to go
I hope I make it on my own
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Child's Prayer
I wish my Daddy would live here
I wish he didn’t have to go away
I wish if he could only for one day
Perhaps tell me he loved me at all
I would have known a father’s mind
I asked Santa, Tooth Fairy and even God
On Sundays and all ordinary days
I wish if he could only for just one day
Pass me by just so I’d wave him goodbye
I would have seen a father’s hand
I pray to God, Tooth Fairy and even Santa
On Sundays and all ordinary days
I wish I could find the bestest prayer
For my mother and all those who talk to me
For they have given me the mostest love
Amen
060108
poem by Sylvi Sylva
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Church Going
Show me a health
That can context death,
There will be no escape
From age.
We shall all die some day,
And meet judgement day.
That is why we follow Christ,
And sleep while He rise.
In our sleep;
We dine in His house,
As we live in his heart.
Sundays!
Church going steals our day.
We are the Christians
Who worship in Jerusalem.
I was talking with a boy the other day
And to me he says:
Brother Benjamin
Why do we worship him?
And I said: We worship Him
Because there is non above Him
He sits on a throne up above,
And rule over us down below.
I worship him my dear boy;
Because I am Benjamin
And I wouldn't be
If not for Him.
They all go to church on sundays;
Because that is what the bible says,
But this is the only page they obey.
poem by Efe Benjamin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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