Milk For The Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.
At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be
sour,
She is never late.
And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.
Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing, trembling purr.
The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.
The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.
She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.
A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,
Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.
poem by Harold Monro
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Related quotes
When the tea is brought at five o'clock And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.
quote by Harold Monro
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Silk
Passionate touches
Chocolate kisses
Silk perfection
My body and soul on fire
My eyes glow incandescence
My mind and body sway and rock
You slip into my world
Breathing heavy and high
Fly
Bold and black connections
Silk and creamy perfections
Still life
Real love
Here we go
Lets ride
Lets dance
Lets play
Silk romance
You are my…
You are my…
You are mines
Worth more than all wealth
Greater than any king
Finally the real thing
Silk love
My skin
Milk chocolate
Your skin
Caramel
And we swirl and blend
How does it feel?
Silk feelings never end
His scent
My fragrance
Honeysuckle and milk
His power, my vulnerability
my push, his stroke, our affection…..silk…perfection.
poem by Danielle Beechum
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Fish with no tail
as i gaze out of nature... i have seen a fish without a tail
impossible but its true, first things came up to my mind
is, ask whether its worth to give time to remember all
the scene or perhaps, just a memories of a simple
goodbye
as the fish swim, deep beneath the crystal blue water, i
couldn't remember the minutes, the hours past, nay i felt
that i haven't taken my meal, it seems all are just a blink
of a second in my eyes
it keeps on bubbling, even in a thousands seconds it
stay in the water, until i notice that the fish fail to surface
beneath the running water, for the absence of the tail
the body is nothing
all is just a mirror of a fish that, every movement of the
body, the twist of the tail has to follow, its a paradox to
believe that we see the tail of other fish, nay never we
saw that we don't have tail of our own
like the fish it swim, with no direction, only an inspiration
that we can do, yet as it goes there we go, tail that swim
in the water stream with no affection of what to do
now i see, how to swim, in water, lou! where i may go...in
the world of stream when everybody is frame......
poem by Antonio Liao
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When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
I held you in an embrace,
while the moon did cling bright white to the heaven,
winking stars appeared in the night
and sweet we were blissful together
when you trusted me, with your body, spirit and soul.
When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
I held you in an embrace,
suddenly the evening star did disappear
while I held your hand in mine,
saw the glance in the depths of your eyes
and all the misunderstandings and pain were gone,
when the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Cleopatra the Queen of Beauty
Cleopatra the queen of beauty
had the softest of skin,
Enticing Anthony
into a lovers spin
Alas a rash suddenly
covered her slinky body
A physician cried
‘Oh my God the only cure is a bath of milk
To bring your skin
back to the feel of silk
A servant set off
on a fast camel train
With milk galore his trip
was not in vain
The bath was prepared,
“Your majesty I have your milk
did you want it pasteurised? ”
“No up to my chin will do”
poem by Ken e Hall
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Tinkerbell is back
Slowly a small white dog
steals up on our yard in the street
with big black outstanding eyes
and she watches scared,
at every thing that she sees
as far as she walks.
There’s something familiar to her
and the small pink tongue
that hangs out of her mouth
where she stands dehydrated
against the green palisades,
the emaciated small body
on which the spinal cord
and ribs protrude
and the small tail
that wraps into the stomach
tells their own tale
of neglection
and lovelessness
and of people
that has lost all humanity.
My heart rejoices because Tinkie is back
and Tinkerbell has escaped from somewhere
and I know that there’s a Lord
that answers prayers,
but if I get hold
of the people
that had stolen her
I will loose more than just my head
and it feels as if I can kill them
with my bare hands.
Somewhere nearby
there’s a lady that sells cosmetics
and my neighbour says
that her child wanted Tinkie
and ten devils,
turn inside my heart
and the Lord
just has to keep me in check.
The front teeth are missing from kicks
and to see the tongue hanging out grudges me
and the vet is wonderful like always
and says that she will be all right with time
and treats her for everything and more
and after more than eight months,
Tinkie is disarranged
and the other dogs
wants to smell her
and my darling and I are happy
because one of our children
is back and there’s again
light and life in her eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Darkness
I
The twilight is framed and covered in black,
drawn closed on the one side,
when suddenly it carries blue-white thunder
that burns sparking, it's deadly risky,
where no sign of any moon
rise up against the closed night sky,
there are only thunder flashes hitting flickering
without a sign of the Southern Cross
and still the earth waits on drops of rain
to start their irrigation
when a shower continuously patters down,
seeping into the deep ground,
thunderbolts reports constantly
while twilight falls silver over the beach.
II
While twilight falls silver over the beach
the neon lights of the night glitter,
cut-off from the whole universe
as if each one is waiting for discovery
and it's as if the backwash wants to
pull you deeper into the sea,
in the space where the great ocean stretches
and there is something in each dream and wish
like that Wide Ocean unlimited
that waits free without any bonds,
as if each day and night
works together in a perfect balance,
as if the darkness keeps you for moments,
here where the dark night now folds around me.
III
Here where the dark night now folds around me.
I hear your steps coming closer
the wild wind jerks some of the windows open,
in thunder I am stripped from you
and grief will after years have an impact
that still strips me down roughly
from reason and all kinds of hope,
to keep you against me once more.
The much deeper pain of only being human
does not want to subside in my heart, in my soul,
and sometimes like now with full fury
it becomes real in each thought, in fear,
outside purity is in everything,
as if the white street light shines with sympathy.
IV
As if the white street light shines with sympathy
the city lies stretched out in the distance
as if it is a gigantic spaceship
that continually draws people to it
of which the lights flash on and off
when travellers in their cars come near,
bright lights are seen from a distance
while people gather at many places.
At places the lights are blinding
where people revel at each kind of place
or as if it wants to takeoff with a wild wind
while the darkness of the city stretches out wide,
I wonder where people go soulless;
it's night with a very small crescent moon.
V
It's night with a very small crescent moon
that hangs somewhat shameful in the darkness,
at places shadows catch my eyes,
with popular branches swishing about,
I can swear something is following me for a while,
somewhere something hisses like a cat or snake,
I stretch my steps and am far too scared
to look back or now to stop walking,
it's as if something is suddenly blowing in my neck,
now I am afraid, my arm hairs raise
and I hear the churchyard gate moaning shrilly
while I am in a much greater hurry,
against my back there's a cold shiver,
with open eyes I pray for God to protect me.
VI
With open eyes I pray for God to protect me,
see some old tramps standing around a fire
when a black cat suddenly moans next to me,
while I see coals with flames rising.
It's only a big cat moving next to me
and I bend down and stroke it gently,
it's no unearthly kind of thing
as I had imagined,
above us stars are blazing the night full,
prostitutes triple on like display-dolls,
on the horizon lights are red, yellow and white
one whistles at me while I pass them,
three stand astride arguing with each other,
one girl draws up her blouse and I walk past.
VII
One girl draws up her blouse and I walk past,
I see breasts in their finest detail,
wonder how people live in this godless city,
every thing is getting worse than it had been.
I am alone and almost late
to get bread and milk at the Spar
and I cross the busy street,
hear them call in a choir at me
where one of the girls pulls her skirt up
showing her legs and a white panty,
trying her best to arouse desires,
I catch the smell of vinegar, chips and aniseed
while she begs: Come along with me;
the twilight is framed and covered in black.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Never Ending Kind Of Intimate Thing
Your white body lies like a continent
with breasts as hillocks, slender thighs
and the valleys somewhere in between
while tiny shadows fall in the afternoon.
I bury myself with great pleasure in you,
feel the warmth of your blazing volcano,
reach up to the centre core of my existence
and each and every glance in your bright eyes
draws me deeper, draws us still closer together
and the lost of self, where nature flees from me
there is a tender kind of peace at twilight
while we love each other past all feelings.
There is peace in the separation that comes later,
the separation of skin, of thighs of genitalia
but still your gaze were burning into my very soul
and I love you; love every part of your body,
with the smell of love like fresh rain around us
rising from the rose of your tender hot pubis,
with nipples still somewhat hardened aroused
on your soft firm breast that are fragile to touch.
Boundless desire flames again and again,
while your beauty bringing sheer joy,
bringing a kind of very deep tranquillity,
as if the thirst, the yearning for each other
is a never ending kind of intimate thing,
that always exists, with a kind of grace,
that has an infinite kind of ache for fulfilment
a kind of indescribable joy that comes with bliss.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Tribute to My Dog
Here lies my dog, motionless in his kennel
unable to wag his tail as he always did.
Yesterday when I saw him, curling helpless on his mat
he still wagged his tail and from him arose
a faint tremolo of love
punctuated by gutturals of pain.
At some bleak hour of the night,
the last ember of life died down
and his supple body turned stiff and stark.
Now he lies straight and majestic in death
leaving a track record of love
far difficult to break,
- a love no vessel can hold
or equated with what we humans feel.
Speechless as I stand, memories churn within.
He came to us - too young to be weaned,
a glossy black puppy with tawny gleaming eyes.
His short, sturdy limbs, large drooping ears,
slender waist and elongated frame
well proclaimed his pedigree aloud
So full of mischief, he capered and hopped,
like a new born calf, always up on his heels.
Sniffing with moist nose, he dug and dug
as if unearthing a treasure trove
buried deep beneath the soil.
With alert vigil, he guarded our home,
barking at strangers and driving rodents away
He expected nothing in turn but love.
His loyalty as we deem was never servile.
Never was he on chains to be hauled like cattle.
He enjoyed sauntering through the courtyard
giving company as we took our evening rounds.
He gloated rubbing his body over our knee
and sat content as our stroking fingers ran all around
Licking our feet and arms,
what he conveyed in inarticulate words
could be deciphered thus -
‘I love you, love you true'
Like the bouncing ball, he often played with
our hearts made to bounce up in love
and our hands fold in benison
for a comrade who departs,
valiant in life and loyal to the core
hoping to meet him anon
on the far green meadows of bliss,
still wagging his tail, avowing a bond
too strong to be snapped or splintered.
poem by Valsa George
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The White Witch
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night,
Trust not your prowess nor your strength;
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
The great white witch you have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
Like nursery children you have looked
For ancient hag and snaggled tooth;
But no, not so; the witch appears
In all the glowing charms of youth.
Her lips are like carnations red,
Her face like new-born lilies fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters blue,
She moves with subtle grace and air,
And all about her head there floats
The golden glory of her hair.
But though she always thus appears
In form of youth and mood of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her birth;
The child of throbbing Life is she,
Twin sister to the greedy earth.
And back behind those smiling lips,
And down within those laughing eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
The shadow of the panther lurks,
The spirit of the vampire lies.
For I have seen the great white witch,
And she has led me to her lair,
And I have kissed her red, red lips
And cruel face so white and fair;
Around me she has twined her arms,
And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those eyes
As the needle trembles to the pole;
And did not care although I felt
The strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud and gay,
And in your voices she has caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the earth;
And she has marked you for her prey.
She feels the old Antæan strength
In you, the great dynamic beat
Of primal passions, and she sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine, beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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I sit in Teasers
I sit in Teasers
and there’s tenfold
of the most pretty
bare breasted girls around me,
but my thoughts
do not want to
be with them.
Light falls through
the yellow of the Hunters
in my glass
and throws a golden gleam
over the table
and my thoughts,
are with my life
that is fraying slowly
bit by bit.
The girls are merry
and maybe a man
can get a chance to touch
or more from some of them
and nowhere there’s fridgetness
that hides behind the surface,
but I am not here
to catch a beautiful butterfly.
Some of them glance at me
and a few dance with twisting bodies
near to me
and I wonder why my soul
wants to stay in its dungeons
and darkness keeps folding in
and slowly but surely
wants to kill
and I cannot also
like this pleasure,
get a quick fix
and happiness and the meaning of life
cannot be found here
or anywhere else.
Two couples come and sit near me
and I see how the men
watch the dancing girls wide-eyed
and a redhead clenches her husband’s hand
and I hear a black head say,
that she can also lie like that
and see how she kicks
her husband under the table.
.
a Soft hand is suddenly
on mine
and deep blue eyes
takes my pain away
and it’s as if every thing round me
disappears by itself
and we are in our own little world
and my fingers stroke
blonde curls,
but I am brought back
to reality
when a beautiful girl
shakes her supple body
right against me
and her perfume hangs strong between us
and her dark eyes catch mine
and a stranger
lifts his glass in a salute to me
and my blue-eyed girl stays dead
and hit by a car
and only for a moment
I can escape from it all.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Down On The Run
(hicks / horton-jennings)
Its late, and the week-ends near
You could say I cant wait
Till the gang gets here
Eight, and the angels are roaring
Shining those dips
Straight line for the strip
If I back out
Fake a black out
At my night on the chicken run
Need some moonshine
Doctor goodtime
Keeping my nerves in line
Down on the run
Cy, the pack leaders wild
Even preaches to ride
In a brando style
Fast, two shadows are closing
Passing like knives
Short cut on our lives
If I back out
Fake a black out
At my night on the chicken run
Needs some moonshine
Doctor goodtime
Keeping my nerves in line
Down on the run
When the boys are called together
To hand me out a feather, Im through
Sweating in my leather so I guess its now or never
Something Ive gotta do, just gotta do
What I gotta do
Its late, and the week-ends near
You could say I cant wait
Till the gang gets here
Eight, and the angels are roaring
Shining those dips
Straight line for the strip
Shining those dips
Straight line for the strip
Passing like knives
Short cut on our lives
Shining those dips
Straight line for the strip
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Purr-fect Awakening
This morning was odd, I'll agree with that,
For I woke up believing that I was a cat.
It began in the bathroom, I'll admit that's for sure,
When instead of a shower, I started licking my fur.
I said, 'Wait a minute! There must be a flaw! '
As I began scratching my head with a feline paw.
The shock that I felt when from my mouth flew
Not the words that I spoke, but 'Meow, meow' and 'Mew'.
So I tossed and I turned and I played with my tail
To try to wake myself up and make this dream fail.
But no matter how hard I pinched myself…OUCH!
All I could do was scratch my claws on the couch.
I'd chew on some catnip, and play with some yarn.
I'd drink milk from a dish, and chase mice in the barn.
I was furry and cute, and could sit in people's laps.
I would purr by the table and get the best scraps.
Then, one day, as I was purring and preening myself,
Who should appear before me but a stout little elf.
He said, 'I'm the one who made you a cat,
Because you wouldn't look good as a dog or a rat.'
Then, with a wave of his hand and a nod of his chin,
I became very drowsy, and fell asleep again.
I dreamed of cat toys, cat food, and cat spit,
Then I woke up again, feeling quite fit.
I was no longer a cat, so I'm glad, of course,
For that stupid fat elf turned me into a horse.
Ed Poet
©5-12-94
poem by Wayne Wickham
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Virgin Youth
Now and again
All my body springs alive,
And the life that is polarised in my eyes,
That quivers between my eyes and mouth,
Flies like a wild thing across my body,
Leaving my eyes half-empty, and clamorous,
Filling my still breasts with a flush and a flame,
Gathering the soft ripples below my breast
Into urgent, passionate waves,
And my soft, slumbering belly
Quivering awake with one impulse of desire,
Gathers itself fiercely together;
And my docile, fluent arms
Knotting themselves with wild strength
To clasp—what they have never clasped.
Then I tremble, and go trembling
Under the wild, strange tyranny of my body,
Till it has spent itself,
And the relentless nodality of my eyes reasserts itself,
Till the bursten flood of life ebbs back to my eyes,
Back from my beautiful, lonely body
Tired and unsatisfied.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Le Chat (The Cat)
Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux;
Retiens les griffes de ta patte,
Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,
Mêlés de métal et d'agate.
Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir
Ta tête et ton dos élastique,
Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir
De palper ton corps électrique,
Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard,
Comme le tien, aimable bête
Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,
Et, des pieds jusques à la tête,
Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum
Nagent autour de son corps brun.
The Cat
Come, superb cat, to my amorous heart;
Hold back the talons of your paws,
Let me gaze into your beautiful eyes
Of metal and agate.
When my fingers leisurely caress you,
Your head and your elastic back,
And when my hand tingles with the pleasure
Of feeling your electric body,
In spirit I see my woman. Her gaze
Like your own, amiable beast,
Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart,
And, from her head down to her feet,
A subtle air, a dangerous perfume
Floats about her dusky body.
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Cat
Come, my fine cat, against my loving heart;
Sheathe your sharp claws, and settle.
And let my eyes into your pupils dart
Where agate sparks with metal.
Now while my fingertips caress at leisure
Your head and wiry curves,
And that my hand's elated with the pleasure
Of your electric nerves,
I think about my woman — how her glances
Like yours, dear beast, deep-down
And cold, can cut and wound one as with lances;
Then, too, she has that vagrant
And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant
Her body, lithe and brown.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
The Cat
My beautiful cat, come onto my heart full of love;
Hold back the claws of your paw,
And let me plunge into your adorable eyes
Mixed with metal and agate.
When my fingers lazily fondle
Your head and your elastic back,
And my hand gets drunk with the pleasure
Of feeling your electric body,
I see in spirit my personal lady. Her glance,
Like yours, dear creature,
Deep and cold, slits and splits like a dart,
And from her feet to her head,
A subtle atmosphere, a dangerous perfume,
Swim around her brown body.
— Translated by Geoffrey Wagner
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Comes The Changes
When the days are full of fun,
Bright, warm with a lovely sun,
Suddenly comes the changes,
There’s a mist across the moon.
When a face displays a smile,
And it’s trying to beguile,
Suddenly comes the changes,
There’s a mist across the moon.
When one’s heart begins to fly,
Finding love with a great guy,
Suddenly comes the changes,
There’s a mist across the moon.
Life’s full of times that shatter,
The things that really matter,
Suddenly comes the changes,
There’s no mist across the moon.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Dead Robin
The inadvertent fact of a robin
Carelessly snapping its back on a glass bus shelter
Is not a major tragedy of epic proportions.
Nevertheless, today there has been a death,
Two beautiful slender legs
Are crossed, a demure crucifix of twigs.
Tail feathers, folded away
Like ironed packing.
The small red body nestles in my hand
A cold flame
Fragile as an egg.
I do not want to bury it.
I do not want to draw earth's curtain over its closed face.
This delicate two-winged coffin.
I stroke and stroke the fiery breast
The light brown back
Turning it round and round like a roasting spit,
Regret its fading essences
Its lightness and its grace
Its softly thudding heartbeat
Has sunk without a trace
Into a sealed silence.
Over morning smells of toast and tea
I have read columns of obituaries
Black lists of names on thin cheap paper
My eyes dusted the dead as lightly as swatting a fly
But today one of the winged ones
Has tumbled from the sky
And I may stroke and stroke that small stilled throat
But cannot stir one feather with my gentling.
poem by Sheena Blackhall
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My Silver Bell
Just look at that sweet thing
wearing a tight silver wrap!
Sitting at the table, inhaling
and exhaling smoke rings,
his eyes sparing not a minute
off that sweet southern bell,
yet keeping
his desire under his cap,
his dazzling red eyes on her
bell-shape bottom.
Salavating like pavlo's dog
He grabs it! Peeled off the shiny wrap-
completely exposing her milk -chocolate -body.
Extending his trembling hands
to meet her offer as beads of moisture rose
like the morning dew, cooling his forehead.
The hard-eating chocoholic
grabbed silver-bell off the table,
tossed It into his waiting mouth,
circled it with his tongue,
milk chocolate flowing down his chin and
smacking his lips in delight. he said:
“I'LL NEVER EAT ANOTHER CHOCOLATE KISS”
By
Almedia S. Knight or A.S.K
October 3,2006
(This poem was written at a writing workshop. A chocolate kiss was placed on the table as a prompt.)
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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The Four Children
A Ballad of Good Intentions
Four children played by an old oak tree,
Big John and James and little Benjie,
And, threading a chain of daisies fine,
On the leaf-brown sward knelt Geraldine.
Quoth John, 'I'll ride on the gipsies' road,
For narrow space and a small abode
Would break this vagrant heart in me,
And the world is wide and good to see.'
'I'll stay,' said James, 'for my father's sake
From his ageing hand his toil to take,
So he have at last his heart's desire
To sit at ease by the glowing fire.'
'I shall not work,' said little Benjie,
'Nor roam the world that is fair to see;
But here I'll stay in the green beech wood,
By my mother's side and I'll just be good.'
Linking her chain sweet Geraldine said,
'Big John or James I will surely wed;
I soon must choose which shall best please me,
I care not at all for little Benjie.'
The oak grows brown and the oak grows green
The owl and thrush on her branch have been;
For fifty winters a snood of snow
She wears all white till the spring winds blow.
For fifty autumns a robe of red
She wears till the wet west wind has fled,
But ne'er from dawn till the dusk of day
Hath she heard the sound of a child at play.
Big John grows old and all full of care,
He works till night in his oaken chair;
His feet have led him not long nor late,
No more than a league from his father's gate.
Where yew trees wave and their dark leaves shed
Young James lies cold in his four-foot bed,
O soft did his father lay him down,
And over him drew the earth so brown
In a far-off land on a lonely height
Geraldine weeps full many a night,
And prays all day 'neath a gallows tree
Where hangs the corpse of little Benjie.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Its Not Too Late
Gently rolling father time
Is calling to him now,
And though he hears him
He looks out to sea.
Somewhere out there lie his dreams
A story with no ending
And till he finds his answers
He wont be going nowhere
For him, its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
Quietly knocking on her door.
He patiently stands waiting,
And though she hears him
She sits steadfast in her chair.
Somewhere out there never seen
Her hopes and dreams lie waiting,
And till she finds an answer
She wont be going nowhere
For her, its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
For everything we know thats certain
There is much we cannot see,
So we choose to close the curtain,
Never knowing what could have been
Its not too late, its not too late, never too late
Slowly rocking the babys bed
He strokes its head and whispers
And though it hears him,
It keeps smiling and kicks its feet
Somewhere out there is a life,
A lifetime made for living
So it holds on fast, it aint going nowhere
For some its not too late,
Its not too late
For some its never too late
For some its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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