To a Prospective Cook
Curly locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet weed the flowers,
But stand in the kitchen and cook a fine meal,
And ride every night in an automobile.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, come to us soon!
Thou needest not to rise until mid-afternoon;
Thou mayest be Croatian, Armenian, or Greek;
Thy guerdon shall be what thy askest per week.
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, give us a chance!
Thou shalt not wash windows, nor iron my pants.
Oh, come to the cosiest of seven-room bowers,
Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Related quotes
Curly Locks
_Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine,--
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream._
Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
The throb of my heart is in every line,
And the pulse of a passion as airy and glad
In its musical beat as the little Prince had!
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine!--
O I'll dapple thy hands with these kisses of mine
Till the pink of the nail of each finger shall be
As a little pet blush in full blossom for me.
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And thou shalt have fabric as fair as a dream,--
The red of my veins, and the white of my love,
And the gold of my joy for the braiding thereof.
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream
From a service of silver, with jewels agleam,--
At thy feet will I bide, at thy beck will I rise,
And twinkle my soul in the night of thine eyes!
_Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine.--
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream._
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Gecko Named Curly Tail
Looking down on the ground
Curly Tail the gecko waits
without a sound.
I say "Hello honey-how are you?
Where are your kids this afternoon?
Then when I leave the door
Curly Tail's offspring
is scampering once more.
Curly Tail waits for me
on the black mat—
It's like he knows where I am at.
He knows when I leave to go far,
he knows when I get out of my car.
Thanks Curly Tail for waiting for me-
see you later by the tree.
Written by Christina Sunrise on July 4,2012
www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Curly
Mister mackan was a practical man,
Curly was his only son,
And he loved him like no other can,
Bi-dum, bi-dum, bi-dum.
He discovered the world in a wonderful girl,
Though he played with more than one.
But he loved her like no other can.
Bi-dum, bi-dum, bi-dum
Chorus:
Oh curly has she let you down and run?
Oh curly wheres your girly? wheres she gone?
Ran all over the town,
Till he covered the ground,
Every inch of liverpool,
In a way I feel so bad
That she let he be made a fool.
But remember shes right,
As we freeze in the night,
When the dawn took years to come,
Does he love her like no other can
Bi-dum, bi-dum, bi-dum
Chorus
Now curse the day,
Yes it really shok you good.
Just broke away, no,
You didnt feel she would.
You didnt feel she would.
La-da-da, na- na- na- na-
Desolation tones play on
Though it breaks you curly
Cant you see what she has gone and done?
He discovered the world
Such a wonderful girl,
So he played with more than one,
But he loved her like no other can
Bi-dum, bi-dum, bi-dum
Oh curly, wheres she gone?
You didnt feel she would.
Feel she would. la-da-da,
Na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Penny Wise?
Woman is a paradox,
maid man, unmade-up, shocks:
first fair, then jet, straight, curly locks
preferring, spends her pounds
in losing pounds and thus she mocks
her wai(s) t on earth - weight grounds
high hopes for lightness - Goldilocks,
spends cents sans sense, from birth to box -
like men who her pet mirth are found,
both sage and jester, light, profound -
lies soon, sighs, swoons, earth bound.
2 December 1995 revised 18 July 2007
robi03_0794_robi03_0000 WXX_DJX
for previous version see below
Penny Wise?
Woman is a paradox,
She heights and depths both plumbs;
who golden here, there curly locks
prefers, who spends her pounds
in losing pounds and thus she mocks
her wai[s]t on earth - weight grounds
high hopes for lightness - Goldilocks
lies soon, sighs, swoons, earth bound.
2 December 1995
© Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Little Jamie
Ither laddies may ha's finer claes, and may be better fed,
But nane o' them a'has sic a bonnie curly heid,
O sie a blythe blink in their e'e,
As my ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.
When I gang oot tae tak' a walk wi' him, alang the Magdalen Green,
It mak's my heart feel lichtsome tae see him sae sharp and keen,
And he pu's the wee gowans, and gie's them to me,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.
When he rises in the mornin' an' gets oot o' bed,
He says, mither, mind ye'll need tae toast my faither's bread.
For he aye gie's me a bawbee;
He's the best little laddie that ever I did see,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.
When I gang oot tae tak' a walk alang the streets o' Dundee,
And views a' the little laddies that I chance to see,
Nane o' them a' seems sae lovely to me,
As my ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.
The laddie is handsome and fair to be seen,
He has a bonnie cheerie mou', and taw blue e'en,
And he prattles like an auld grandfaither richt merrily;
He's the funniest little laddie that ever I did see,
My ain curly fair-hair'd Iaddie, Little Jamie.
Whene'er that he kens I am coming hame frae my wark,
He runs oot tae meet me as cheerful as the lark,
And he says, faither, I'm wanting just a'e bawbee,
My ain curly fair-hair'd laddie, Little Jamie.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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I Like Being Brown
I like being brown
Caramel with red undertones
I love my thick lips and wide nose
I can create kinky masterpieces from my locks
And yes my round hips can be seen for blocks and blocks
These things are part of my culture you see-traits, characteristics
Yet they don't define me
They don't tell you that I don't like to fly
And am sometimes afraid of the dark
You can't tell by them that on Saturdays
I take my son to the park
My intelligence cannot be seen in the color of my skin
The thickness of my lips does not tell you what kind of person I am
You may assume from my kinky locks that I am a certain 'type'
But only by knowing my heart, can your predictions be right
See whether you are red or tan, white, yellow or brown
With curly or straight hair, eyes slanted or round
Be proud to show love for your culture and your heritage
And celebrate your fellow man as he shows pride in his
poem by Tamika Stubblefield
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thy Delicate Lips
Thy delicate lips
Thy delicate lips
Ye talking eyes
Yond curly locks
These velvety hands
Cone shaped Fingers
On a Brittle wrist
Milky white feet
And prominent nose
Under lucky forehead
Are well arranged
As a rhyming scheme
In a classical sonnet
poem by Akram Saqib
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She loves her hair stretched
accustomed to curly hair
when we were yet children
living in the same house
I feel uneasy why she
wears stretched hair
And she takes pride
about her new found fashion
And taste for something straight.
Curly hairs and split ends
Never gave her luck
She got an ugly husband
Who does not understand her
Rich maybe, but slaps her
It is time she gains confidence
In herself to a newer face
A stretched hair, straight
And candid and ready to
Fight now, win or lose,
At whatever costs she must
Deny her old self, the one
With the curly hair, she is
Ready for the consequences.
Her right as a new woman
With stretched hair is now
Or never, she has no time left
Anymore for hiding and cowardice and tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wilt Thou Take Me For Thy Slave?
Wilt thou take me for thy slave,
With my folly and my love?
Wilt thou take me for the bondsman of thy pride?
Thou who dearer art to me than all the world beside;
For I love thee as no other man can love.
Wilt thou take me to thy soul,
For the truth which thou shalt prove?
Wilt thou clothe me with the riches of thy care?
Thou who dearer art to me than gold and jewels rare;
For I love thee as no other man can love.
Wilt thou take me for thy king,
While the sun and stars shall move?
Wilt thou pay me back the homage I have given?
Oh thou dearer unto me than sun and stars and heaven!
For I love thee as no other man can love.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Sliver Dream
To a curly hair girl
Last night, I dreamt in the dream
Orange tree, growing at my heart
Under blue sky, on the blue ocean
Wind of change, lifting my heart
Last night, I dream in the dream
Curly hair girl, walking softly
Visible into my eye, I only saw her shadow
With wing of angel, flying slowly
Over my starry sky, in my dream
Oh, curly hair girl, beheld me with your eye
And you will see, life is not a dream
Or love is not dream in my eye
Through lonely night, I dreamt of song
That neither lyric, nor music
Nor word, but I still could hear the song
Of your walking, softly, on my heart.
poem by Kathup Tsering
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Erotic Hair
when my hair
gets long enough
after a month
uncut by
my gay barber
they become
so curly
like my pubic
hair
and women
and even gays
love all the curls
of my hair
erotic hair
and i am wearing it
as a crown
understand
i am coping up
with mid-crisis
and i like to
say
i got hair
and they are too curly
like my
(messy) sex life
listen, my life
begins at 69.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXVI
THE THREE AGES OF WOMAN
Love, in thy youth, a stranger, knelt to thee,
With cheeks all red and golden locks all curled,
And cried, ``Sweet child, if thou wilt worship me,
Thou shalt possess the kingdoms of the world.''
But you looked down and said, ``I know you not,
Nor want I other kingdom than my soul.''
Till Love in shame, convicted of his plot,
Left you and turned him to some other goal.
And this discomfiture which you had seen
Long served you for your homily and boast,
While, of your beauty and yourself the queen,
You lived a monument of vain love crossed,
With scarce a thought of that which might have been
To scare you with the ghost of pleasures lost.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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I have six locks on my door all in a row. When I go out, I lock every other one. I figure no matter how long somebody stands there picking the locks, they are always locking three.
quote by Elayne Boosler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Got Chocolate?
Snowflakes the size of marshmallows fall to the earth;
Frosty icy winds play havoc with her red curly hair.
She delights in frolicking in snow so deep;
Bundled up in bright green coat and leggings,
pink hat, scarf and gloves
she brightens up the gray day.
Grandpa dons his own snow gear, dark brown coat,
black ear muffs, gloves and red Santa hat;
shovel in hand he begins to clear the path
when 'she' playfully jumps into it re-snowing it
to Grandpa's chagrin as he grins
pretending to be annoyed.
but he re-shovels again with great patience.
The worst of the storm has passed. The white stuff
is the perfect setting this day, this Christmas Eve.
Cold, wet and tired Grandpa and granddaughter
come in to warm up to hot chocolate with marshmallows
and it reminds curly head of the snow fall today.
Grandpa's white mustache is chocolate dyed.
Curly Head's mouth says: 'Got chocolate? '
Bedtime has evolved, Santa's on his way.
Curly head has left him a treat in a cup.
Santa arrived;
he put Curly Head's presents under the tree
Santa's white mustache gave him away;
he looked at himself in the mantle mirror
and laughed a hearty, 'HO, HO, HO'
His white mustache was chocolate dyed
and he cried aloud:
'GOT CHOCOLATE?
'HO, HO, HO! '
© Mel Patterson,11-2011
poem by Mel Patterson
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Telling the Bees: (For Edward Tennant)
Tell it to the bees, lest they
Umbrage take and fly away,
That the dearest boy is dead,
Who went singing, blithe and dear,
By the golden hives last year.
Curly-head, ah, curly-head!
Tell them that the summer's over,
Over mignonette and clover;
Oh, speak low and very low!
Say that he was blithe and bonny,
Good as gold and sweet as honey,
All too late the roses blow!
Say he will not come again,
Not in any sun or rain,
Heart's delight, ah, heart's delight!
Tell them that the boy they knew
Sleeps out under rain and dew
In the night, ah, in the night!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Chaucer's Words to His Scrivener
Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall
Boece or Troilus for to write anew,
Under thy long locks thou may'st have the scall
But after my making thou write more true!
So oft a day I must thy work renew,
It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape;
And all is through thy negligence and rape.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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You Can Have Him
(1951) irving berlin
I don't want him you can have him
He's not worth fighting for
Besides there's plenty more where he came from
I don't want him you can have him
I'm giving him the sack
And he can go right back where he came from
I'm afraid i never loved him
Sweetie he'd be better off with you
I could never make him happy
All i ever wanted to do was
Run my fingers through his curly locks
Mend his underwear and darn his socks
Fetch his slippers and remove his shoes
Wipe his glasses when he's read the news
Rub his forehead with a gentle touch
Mornings after when he's had a little too much
Kiss him gently when he cuddles near
And give him babies one for every year
So you see that i don't want him you can have him
You can have him cos i don't want him
Because he's not the man for me
Then i'd close the window while he soundly slept
Then i'd raid the icebox where the food is kept
I'd fix the breakfast that would please him most
Eggs and coffee some apricot juice and some buttered toast
Oh oh then i'd go out and buy the papers
And when they've been read spend the balance of the day in bed
So you see that i don't want him you can have him
You can have him cos i don't want him because he's not my man
I don't want him you can have him
You can have him i don't want him
You can have him i don't want him
Cos he's not the man for me
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hair
Take care of your locks,
Stress and clocks,
Can shed the locks,
When it drops,
There's no stops.
But you can regain
with Rogaine?
A head massage
and hair tonic
Get back visage
and look supersonic!
The Day That Curly Billy Shot Down Crazy Sam Mcgee
(clarke)
Big tall man standing in the street
Gun hanging by his side
Just one man that hed like to meet
Thats when I began to hide
I recognised him from the face of his son
The hate in his eye didnt lie
Oh what I did cant be undone
Borrowed time theres none to buy
Well I hid round the back of a derelict shack
Aint looking for a mad showdown
But he was smart, hed already checked
A week in advance Id paid down
Well the hotel clerk was a fun-loving man
The job he had it didnt pay
He told all about what happened that night
There he is, thats the ones all hed say
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
Big tall man standing in the street
Now a hand hovering waiting to slide
Drew out his gun it wasnt for fun
Let me in theres nowhere to hide
Well I made my play but it wasnt my day
I felt the ripping lead
Thats when I knew my time was through
Rest in peace were the last words he said
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little Girl With Curly Hair
there is this little girls with black curly hair
flat nose, thin eyelashes, wavy goatish eyelids,
sitting on a bamboo pole
(the common furniture there)
with bare hands and bare feet
staring at me,
for i am new here and i have a big tummy
and i am white skinned, and i have candied
inside my pockets, she knows that soon
i will throw all these candies in the air
for all the other children
but there is something strange about this
little brown girl with curly hair sitting all alone
on that bamboo chair
her father and mother were killed in the last rebellion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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