The Song of Ninian Melville
Sing the song of noisy Ninny - hang the Muses - spit it out!
(Tuneful Nine ye needn't help me - poet knows his way about!)
Sling me here a penny whistle - look alive, and let me slip
Into Ninny like a father - Ninny with the nimble lip.
Mister Melville, straight descendant from Professor Huxley's ape,
Started life a mute for daddy - pulling face, sporting crape;
But, alas, he didn't like it - lots of work and little pay.
Nature whispered, 'you're a windbag - play your cards another way.'
Mister Melville picked the hint up - pitched the coffin 'biz' to pot;
Paid his bills, or didn't pay them - doesn't matter now a jot!
Twigging how the bread was buttered, he commenced a 'waiting game':
Pulled the strings upon the quiet - no one 'tumbled' to his aim.
Paine, he purchased, Strauss, he borrowed - read a page or two of each;
Posed before his father's porkers - made to them his maiden speech.
Then he spluttered, 'Ninny has it! Nin will keep himself in clothes,
Like the gutter Tully, Bradlaugh, leading noodles by the nose!'
In the fly-blown village pothouse, where a dribbling bag of beer,
Passes for a human being, Nin commenced his new career -
Talked about the 'Christian swindle' - cut the Bible into bits -
Shook his fist at Mark and Matthew - gave the twelve Apostles fits:
Slipped into the priests and parsons - hanunered at the British Court - -
Boozy boobies were astonished: lubbers of the Lambton sort!
Yards of ear were cocked to listen - yards of mouth began to shout
'Here's a cove as is long-headed - Ninny knows his way about.'
Mister MelviRe was delighted - game in hand was paying well:
Fools and coin don't hang together - Nin became a howling swell!
Took to 'stumping' on the Racecourse - cut the old debating club:
Wouldn't do for mighty Ninny now to mount a local tub!
Thornton's Column was his platform: here our orator began
Hitting at the yellow heathen - cracking up the 'working man' -
Spitting out at Immigration: roaring, like a worried bull,
At the lucre made from tallow - at the profit raised on wool.
Said our Ninny to our Ninny, 'I have not the slightest doubt
Soaping down the ''orny 'anded' is the safest 'bizness' out!
Little work for spanking wages - this is just the thing they like,
So I'll prop the eight hour swindle - be the boss in every strike.
In the end, I'll pull a pot off ~ what I'm at is bound to take:
Ninny sees a bit before him - Ninny's eyes are wide awake!
When the boobies make me member, Parkes, of course, will offer tip -
I will take the first fat billet - then my frouzy friends may rip.'
So it came to pass that Melville, Mister Melville, I should say -
Dodged about with deputations, half a dozen times a day!
Started strikes and bossed the strikers - damned employers, every one,
On the Column - off the Column - in the shanty - in the sun!
'Down with masters - up with wages! keep the 'pigtail' out of this!'
This is what our Ninny shouted - game, you see, of hit or miss!
World, of course, is full of noodles - some who bray at Wallsend sent
Thing we know to be a windbag bouncing into Parliament!
Common story, this of Ninny! many fellows of his breed
Prowl about to bone the guinea, up to dirty tricks indeed;
Haven't now the time to tan them: but, by Jove, I'd like to tan
Back of that immense imposter that they call the 'working man'!
Drag upon our just employees - sponger on a worn-out wife
Boozing in alley pothouse every evening of his life.
Type he is of Nin's supporters: tot him up and tot him down,
He would back old Nick to-morrow for the sake of half a crown!
House with high, august traditions - Chamber where the voice of Lowe,
And the lordly words of Wentworth sounded thirty years ago -
Hall familiar to our fathers, where, in days exalted, rang
All the tones of all the feeling which ennobled Bland and Lang -
We in ashes - we in sack cloth, sorrow for the insult cast
By a crowd of bitter boobies on the grandeur of the past!
Take again your penny whistle - boy, it is no good to me:
Last invention is a bladder with the title of M.P.!
poem by Henry Kendall
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Related quotes
I'd rather work with someone who's good at their job but doesn't like me, than someone who likes me but is a ninny.
quote by Sam Donaldson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When you're younger they always try to get you to do every ninny role that's going.
quote by Faye Dunaway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ninny Nanny Netticoat
Ninny Nanny Netticoat,
In a white petticoat,
With a red nose, --
The longer she stands,
The shorter she grows.
poem by Beatrix Potter
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Birdbrain
I am but a fool
To love you so
Simply a fool
I should have let go
I am but a fool
A ninny, a nit
I am but a fool
A birdbrain, a twit
I am just a bonehead
A halfwit, a boob
I am but a dimwit
A silly old goose
But I just can't help it…
My heart's made that way
I'll still love tomorrow
What I've loved so today…
poem by Leria Hawkins
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Two Or Three
Two or three Posies
With two or three simples--
Two or three Noses
With two or three pimples--
Two or three wise men
And two or three ninny's--
Two or three guineas--
Two or three raps
At two or three doors--
Two or three naps
Of two or three hours--
Two or three Cats
And two or three mice--
Two or three sprats
At a very great price--
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies--
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs.------
Two or three Smiles
And two or three frowns--
Two or three Miles
To two or three towns--
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets--
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets.
poem by John Keats
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Kleitos' Illness
Kleitos, a likeable young man,
about twenty-three years old
with a first-class education, a rare knowledge of Greek
is seriously ill. He caught the fever
that reaped a harvest this year in Alexandria.
The fever found him already worn out morally
by the pain of knowing that his friend, a young actor,
had stopped loving and wanting him.
He's seriously ill, and his parents are terribly worried.
An old servant who brought him up
is also full of fear for Kleitos' life;
and in her panic
she remembers an idol she used to worship
when she was young, before she came there as a maid,
to the house of distinguished Christians, and turned Christian
herself.
She secretly brings some votive bread, some wine and honey,
and places them before the idol. She chants whatever phrases
she remembers from old prayers: odds and ends. The ninny
doesn't realize that the black demon couldn't care less
whether a Christian gets well or not.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Portrait
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,
And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine,
If, mastering time's illusion, I could call
You back to share this quiet candle-shine.
For you were young, three hundred years ago;
And by your looks I guess that you were wise…
Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know
You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.
Strange is your voice… Poor ninny, dead so long,
And all your pride forgotten like your name.
'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song.
And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'
And so you died before your songs took wing;
While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake.
'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing
But for a moment, — but for beauty's sake.'
Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs
The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom.
Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers.
And there was more than silence in this room
While you were gazing at me from the wall
And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine,
If, mastering time's illusion, you could call
Me back to share your vanished candle-shine.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Hard To Please
(To be said in one breath)
Elaine gives me a pain,
Gill makes me ill,
Winnie is a ninny,
Orin is borin'
Milly is silly,
Rosy is nosy,
Junie is loony,
Gussie is fussy,
Jackie is wacky,
Tommy is balmy,
Mary is scary,
Tammy is clammy,
Abby is crabby,
Patt is batty,
Mazie is lazy,
Tiny is whiney,
Missy is prissy,
Nicky is picky,
And almost everyone
Makes me sicky.
(Whew!)
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Old Mister Time
He looked funny
The children called him the scarecrow
An old raincoat
And baggy trousers and sneakers
He found at the dump
Oh, but if you bothered to look
There was something behind the rags
Oh there was a look in his eyes
It was something youd never forget
He lived badly
A broken shack on the railway
An old moggy
The only one who replied
When he talked to the walls
Oh we didnt understand
We were fooled by the dirt on his face
Oh we were human then
We were searching behind his disgrace
Why dont you leave me alone
Why dont you go to your homes
Why dont you keep to yourselves
Im tellin you
Why dont you leave me alone
Youre never gonna realise
When all you do is criticise
Youre never gonna make it work
You never seem to get enough
You crumble when its getting rough
Youre never gonna make it work
Im tellin you therell come a day
Youre gonna blow yourselves away
Its wrong that I should interfere
I just get in the way
Why dont you leave me alone
Why dont you go to your homes
Why dont you keep to yourselves
Im tellin you
Why dont you leave me alone
Deep into the night
He was working by the light
Of the candle by his bed
On the theory in his head
He was building from the junk
That he rescued from the dump
And when he turned the power on
There was a sound and he was gone
Oh in the gray of the dawn
We discovered the thing he was working on
Oh we didnt understand
The future was old mister time
Future was old mister time
Future was old mister time
Future was old mister time
Old mister time (mister time, mister time....)
Old mister time (mister time, mister time....)
Old mister time (mister time, mister time....)
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mister Moon And Mister Sun
Time goes so fast today. Don't blink she'll go away. Don't
close your eyes. Not for one moment. You feel so good right
now. You have to stay somehow. Don't let it slip. Let time
stay frozen.
She needs you. You need her. Just like the sun. Don't think
that it's over. It's just begun.
Oh Mister Moon and Mister Sun. Our song has only just
begun. Oh Mister Sun and Mister Moon. Don't let these
minutes go too soon.
If wishes were for free. My only hope would be. To stop the
clock. Let's keep this moment. I guess that's just a dream.
As hollow as your own moon beam. So let us revel in our
time.
She needs you. You need her. Just like the sun. It never is
over. Once it's begun.
Oh Mister Moon and Mister Sun. Our life has only just
begun. Oh Mister Sun and Mister Moon. Don't let this
moment go too soon.
Oh Mister Moon and Mister Sun. Our life has only just
begun. Oh Mister Sun and Mister Moon. Don't let this
moment go too soon. Oh Mister Moon and Mister Sun. Our
song has only just begun. Oh Mister Sun and Mister Moon.
Don't let these minutes go too soon
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nickel Romeo
Hey sugar I had that dream again
I saw you in your red crushed velvet suit
Rolling on my feather bed
A cheshire cat in yellow beatle boots
(but) whos that stranger lying in your arms
Her fingers running down your tattooed chest
Valentinos cranking up the charm
And its coming like a freight train
These pictures in my head
Hey mister nickel romeo
Everybody knows your name
Hey, hey mister
Tell me mister, whats your game?
Falling, yes she will fall
Your latest victim bites her lip and sighs
Shes do these nasty things for you
Insinuating kisses on the sly
Oh I remember how you get your kicks
Preying on the innocent at night
Strange desperation-you gotta cop that fix
Making every little girl is keeping you alive
Hey mister nickel romeo
Everybody knows your name
Hey hey mister
Tell me mister, whats your game
Oh nickel romeo you got no shame
Hey mister nickel romeo
Everybody knows your name
Hey hey mister
Tell me mister, whats your game?
Hey mister nickel romeo
Everybody knows your name
Hey hey mister
Youre the master of this game
Because you got no shame
I think Im going insane
And youre to blame...
song performed by by Bangles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jim the Splitter
The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim
Is hardly just now in the requisite trim
To sit on his Pegasus fairly;
Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse
That Jim is a subject no singer should choose;
For Jim is poetical rarely.
But being full up of the myths that are Greek -
Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique,
Which means not a rag but the pelt on;
This poet intends to give Daphne the slip,
For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip,
With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on.
No party is Jim of the Pericles type:
He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe;
And being no reader or roamer,
He hasn't Euripides much in the head;
And let it be carefully, tenderly said,
He never has analysed Homer.
He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind;
But, knowing the beggar so well, I'm inclined
To believe that a 'par' about Kelly,
The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse,
Is more in his line than the happiest verse
On the glittering pages of Shelley.
You mustn't, however, adjudge him in haste,
Because a red robber is more to his taste
Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante!
You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood,
And bangalow pith was the principal food
His mother served out in her shanty.
His knowledge is this - he can tell in the dark
What timber will split by the feel of the bark;
And rough as his manner of speech is,
His wits to the fore he can readily bring
In passing off ash as the genuine thing
When scarce in the forest the beech is.
In 'girthing' a tree that he sells 'in the round',
He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound,
And measures, forgetting to bark it!
He may be a ninny, but still the old dog
Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log
And 'palm it' away on the market.
He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule
Of his father's, and, haply, his grandfather's school;
Which means that he never has blundered,
When tying his shingles, by slinging in more
Than the recognized number of ninety and four
To the bundle he sells for a hundred!
When asked by the market for ironbark red,
It always occurs to the Wollombi head
To do a 'mahogany' swindle.
In forests where never the ironbark grew,
When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you
To see how the 'ironbarks' dwindle.
He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim,
And when a buckjumper dispenses with him,
The leather goes off with the rider.
And, as to a team, over gully and hill
He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill
And boss the unlucky 'offsider'.
He shines at his best at the tiller of saw,
On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law
To the gentleman working below him.
When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust,
Like a monarch he poses exalted, august -
There's nothing this planet can show him!
For a man is a man who can 'sharpen' and 'set',
And he is the only thing masculine yet
According to sawyer and splitter -
Or rather according to Wollombi Jim;
And nothing will tempt me to differ from him,
For Jim is a bit of a hitter.
But, being full up, we'll allow him to rip,
Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip -
He isn't the classical 'notion'.
And, after a night in his 'humpy', you see,
A person of orthodox habits would be
Refreshed by a dip in the ocean.
To tot him right up from the heel to the head,
He isn't the Grecian of whom we have read -
His face is a trifle too shady.
The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim
Would never 'jack up' her old lover for him,
For she has the tastes of a lady.
So much for our hero! A statuesque foot
Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot:
Its owner is hardly Achilles.
However, he's happy! He cuts a great 'fig' -
In the land where a coat is no part of the 'rig' -
In the country of damper and 'billies'.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Mister Moon & Mister Sun
Time goes so fast today. dont blink shell go away. dont
Close your eyes. not for one moment. you feel so good right
Now. you have to stay somehow. dont let it slip. let time
Stay frozen.
She needs you. you need her. just like the sun. dont think
That its over. its just begun.
Oh mister moon and mister sun. our song has only just
Begun. oh mister sun and mister moon. dont let these
Minutes go too soon.
If wishes were for free. my only hope would be. to stop the
Clock. lets keep this moment. I guess thats just a dream.
As hollow as your own moon beam. so let us revel in our
Time.
She needs you. you need her. just like the sun. it never is
Over. once its begun.
Oh mister moon and mister sun. our life has only just
Begun. oh mister sun and mister moon. dont let this
Moment go too soon.
Oh mister moon and mister sun. our life has only just
Begun. oh mister sun and mister moon. dont let this
Moment go too soon. oh mister moon and mister sun. our
Song has only just begun. oh mister sun and mister moon.
Dont let these minutes go too soon.
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Are Near Life's Finish Line
I feel happy for you mister on your huge superannuation payout
You've earned it so you can relax that's what life should be about
You and your wife can dine out better now and drink more expensive wine
Yet you and I only one thing in common share we are near life's finish line.
You tell me you worked as an engineer for the local council and you earned good take home pay
But you had to provide for and raise five children that's life or so they say
Still others on less than half of your wages raise their big family
And many must live till the day they die in abject poverty.
I do wish you well mister may your retirement years be great
Though you I won't be out golfing with and I'll never be your mate
You are just a well dressed fellow with your wife walking in the park
Though your dog doesn't seem to like me and at me he always bark.
Our lifestyles seem very different but that can be said of most
And I won't be there on your birthday for your happy birthday toast
But we share one thing in common with the vegetarian kine
The Reaper for us is waiting as we are near life's finish line.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mr. Banker
(ronnie vanzant -- gary rossington)
Mister banker
Mister please, how much does money mean
Won't you reconsider mister
Won't you do this thing for me
Ain't got no house
Ain't got no car
All i got, lord, is my guitar
But you can have that mister banker
Won't you bury my papa for me
Oh mister banker please
Listen to how that sound
I would not be here on my knees
But hey mister banker
It means so much to me
Oh won't you reconsider mister
Won't you do this thing for me
I told you mister
I ain't got no house
Ain't got no car
I got me a 1950 les paul guitar
Won't you take it mister banker
Won't you bury my papa for me
Oh mister banker please
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mister Wackadoodle
Mister Jackie Wackadoodle lived on the Planet Mad
And was so much off his noodle, it really was quite sad...
The poor guy never shopped around to get the lowest price,
No wonder that he always frowned, as if still paying twice...
He never used the Internet for sweet deals of the day,
No wonder that he got upset when savings slipped away...
He didn't brave the Winter gales to save some precious gold!
He missed out on the New Year sales because he felt so cold!
He felt the pinch and got a loan to pay some rising bills,
Yet even then he had no phone to help with saving skills...
He didn't listen to his friends with discount voucher codes
And so much sorrow never ends without these antidotes...
When he complained to companies, he didn't know his rights,
So life for him was no calm breeze, he couldn't sleep at nights!
Mister Jackie Wackadoodle! Try Google and TV...
I'm Mister Frank Lee Frugal and wish you were like me!
My life's a roller-coaster ride! I'm saving cash each week!
Each day I'm chuckling here inside from bargains that I seek!
I've saved a fortune through the years from magazines I read...
Like Christmas Day! All smiles, no tears! A loan I'll never need!
I've coupons here and coupons there and haggle with the best
And all the prices I compare, I test, then I invest...
Mister Jackie Wackadoodle! I know you're full of doubt...
I'm Mister Frank Lee Frugal... and I'd like to help you out...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote 'Don't be a ninny'
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls 'Metaphor' next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of 'Irony'
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.
Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
'Absolutely,' they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
'Yes.' 'Bull's-eye.' 'My man! '
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.
And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written 'Man vs. Nature'
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.
We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.
Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.
And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.
Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page
A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
'Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.'
poem by Billy Collins
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The Cobbler
WE'RE told, that once a cobbler, BLASE by name;
A wife had got, whose charms so high in fame;
But as it happened, that their cash was spent,
The honest couple to a neighbour went,
A corn-factor by trade, not overwise
To whom they stated facts without disguise;
And begged, with falt'ring voice denoting care,
That he, of wheat, would half a measure spare,
Upon their note, which readily he gave,
And all advantages desired to wave.
THE time for payment came; the money used;
The cash our factor would not be refused;
Of writs he talked, attorneys, and distress;
The reason:--heav'n can tell, and you may guess;
In short, 'twas clear our gay gallant desired,
To cheer the wife, whose beauty all admired.
SAID he, what anxiously I wish to get,
You've plenty stored, and never wanted yet;
You surely know my meaning?--Yes, she cried;
I'll turn it in my mind, and we'll decide
How best to act. Away she quickly flew,
And Blase informed, what Ninny had in view.
Zounds! said the cobbler, we must see, my dear,
To hook this little sum:--the way is clear;
No risk I'm confident; for prithee run
And tell him I've a journey just begun;
That he may hither come and have his will;
But 'ere he touch thy lips, demand the bill;
He'll not refuse the boon I'm very sure;
Meantime, myself I'll hide and all secure.
The note obtained, cough loudly, strong, and clear;
Twice let it be, that I may plainly hear;
Then forth I'll sally from my lurking place,
And, spite of folly's frowns, prevent disgrace.
THE, plot succeeded as the pair desired;
The cobbler laughed, and ALL his scheme admired:
A purse-proud cit thereon observed and swore;
'Twere better to have coughed when all was o'er;
Then you, all three, would have enjoyed your wish,
And been in future all as mute as fish.
OH! sir, replied the cobbler's wife at ease,
Do you suppose that use can hope to please,
And like your ladies full of sense appear?
(For two were seated with his wedded dear
Perhaps my lady 'd act as you describe,
But ev'ry one such prudence don't imbibe..
poem by La Fontaine
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The Motor Car
The motor car is sullen, like a thing that should not be;
The motor car is master of Smart Society.
’Twas born of sweated genius and collared by a clown;
’Twas planned by Retribution to ride its riders down.
And straight for Caesar’s Column,
It runs to Caesar’s Column,
Last section, Caesar’s Column
To ride its riders down!
The motor car is shame-struck, for greed and misery,
For mad and hopeless self-lust, and the sins that need not be.
The motor car is vicious, for its conscience makes it so,
It aye would smash the victims while it runs the riders low.
And straight for Caesar’s Column,
Its goal is Caesar’s Column,
It longs for Caesar’s Column
To lay its riders low.
The motor car is maddened like a horse that’s had a fright,
The shameful day behind it and the Coming of the Night!
It flees across the country and it flees back to the town
And straight for Caesar’s Column to run its riders down.
And straight for Caesar’s Column,
What ho! for Caesar’s Column!
Hurrah! for Caesar’s Column!
To seal its riders down.
The motor car is reckless like a gambler losing fast;
The motor car’s in terror of the Future—and the Past;
The motor car is worn out and has passed Sin’s boundary by,
And is bound for Caesar’s Column where to pile its riders high.
It’s bound for Caesar’s Column
And marked for Caesar’s Column,
And doomed for Caesar’s Column
To pile its riders high.
The motor car is brainless, and scornful of all tears,
Its dust is in our faces, its giggle in our ears,
Its harsh laugh is the last laugh of the last lost soul alone,
’Tis nearing Caesar’s Column to set self-damned in stone.
Change here for Caesar’s Column!
All out for Caesar’s Column!
Past Hope—and Caesar’s Column
To lodge self-damned in stone.
I don’t know how ’twill happen, or when ’twill come to pass,
But folk shall yet pass sanely by river, tree and grass;
By homesteads and farm wagons, they’ll ride each pleasant mile,
And back from Caesar’s Column where the world went mad awhile.
And back from Caesar’s Column
With lessons from the Column;
Grown sane at Caesar’s Column
To save the world awhile.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No More Mr. Nice Guy
I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing
'Til they got a hold of me
I opened doors for little old ladies
I helped the blind to see
I got no friends 'cause they read the papers
They can't be seen with me
And I'm gettin' shot down
And I'm feeling mean
No more Mister nice guy
No more Mister clean
No more Mister nice guy
They say he's sick, he's obscene
My dog bit me on the leg today
My cat clawed my eye
My mom's been thrown out of the society circle
My dad's had to hide
I went to church incognito
And everybody rose, the reverend Smith
He recognized me
Punched me in the nose
No more Mister nice guy
No more Mister clean
No more Mister nice guy
They say he's sick, he's obscene
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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