En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude VI.

All praised the Legend more or less;
Some liked the moral, some the verse;
Some thought it better, and some worse
Than other legends of the past;
Until, with ill-concealed distress
At all their cavilling, at last
The Theologian gravely said:
'The Spanish proverb, then, is right;
Consult your friends on what you do,
And one will say that it is white,
And others say that it is red.'
And 'Amen!' quoth the Spanish Jew.

'Six stories told! We must have seven,
A cluster like the Pleiades,
And lo! it happens, as with these,
That one is missing from our heaven.
Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.'

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went
Forthwith to seek his missing star,
But did not find him in the bar,
A place that landlords most frequent,
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire,
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;
It was in vain to ask or call,
There were no tidings of the Squire.

So he came back with downcast head,
Exclaiming: 'Well, our bashful host
Hath surely given up the ghost.
Another proverb says the dead
Can tell no tales; and that is true.
It follows, then, that one of you
Must tell a story in his stead.
You must,' he to the Student said,
'Who know so many of the best,
And tell them better than the rest.'

Straight by these flattering words beguiled,
The Student, happy as a child
When he is called a little man,
Assumed the double task imposed,
And without more ado unclosed
His smiling lips, and thus began.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude II.

Soon as the story reached its end,
One, over eager to commend,
Crowned it with injudicious praise;
And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.

The Theologian shook his head;
'These old Italian tales,' he said,
'From the much-praised Decameron down
Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighborhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds
And deadly nightshade on its banks.'

To this the Student straight replied,
'For the white lily, many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice, and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy.'

Then a long pause; till some one said,
'An Angel is flying overhead!'
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
'God grant, if what you say be true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!'
And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again:
'This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,
A tale that often comes to me,
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,
And never wearies nor grows old.'

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude III.

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme
Of Eginhard and love and youth;
Some doubted its historic truth,
But while they doubted, ne'ertheless
Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,
And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.
This they discussed in various mood;
Then in the silence that ensued
Was heard a sharp and sudden sound
As of a bowstring snapped in air;
And the Musician with a bound
Sprang up in terror from his chair,
And for a moment listening stood,
Then strode across the room, and found
His dear, his darling violin
Still lying safe asleep within
Its little cradle, like a child
That gives a sudden cry of pain,
And wakes to fall asleep again;
And as he looked at it and smiled,
By the uncertain light beguiled,
Despair! two strings were broken in twain.
While all lamented and made moan,
With many a sympathetic word
As if the loss had been their own,
Deeming the tones they might have heard
Sweeter than they had heard before,
They saw the Landlord at the door,
The missing man, the portly Squire!
He had not entered, but he stood
With both arms full of seasoned wood,
To feed the much-devouring fire,
That like a lion in a cage
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.
The missing man! Ah, yes, they said,
Missing, but whither had he fled?
Where had he hidden himself away?
No farther than the barn or shed;
He had not hidden himself, nor fled;
How should he pass the rainy day
But in his barn with hens and hay,
Or mending harness, cart, or sled?
Now, having come, he needs must stay
And tell his tale as well as they.
The Landlord answered only: 'These
Are logs from the dead apple-trees
Of the old orchard planted here
By the first Howe of Sudbury.
Nor oak nor maple has so clear
A flame, or burns so quietly,
Or leaves an ash so clean and white;'
Thinking by this to put aside
The impending tale that terrified;
When suddenly, to his delight,
The Theologian interposed,
Saying that when the door was closed,
And they had stopped that draft of cold,
Unpleasant night air, he proposed
To tell a tale world-wide apart
From that the Student had just told;
World-wide apart, and yet akin,
As showing that the human heart
Beats on forever as of old,
As well beneath the snow-white fold
Of Quaker kerchief, as within
Sendal or silk or cloth of gold,
And without preface would begin.
And then the clamorous clock struck eight,
Deliberate, with sonorous chime
Slow measuring out the march of time,
Like some grave Consul of old Rome
In Jupiter's temple driving home
The nails that marked the year and date.
Thus interrupted in his rhyme,
The Theologian needs must wait;
But quoted Horace, where he sings
The dire Necessity of things,
That drives into the roofs sublime
Of new-built houses of the great
The adamantine nails of Fate.
When ceased the little carillon
To herald from its wooden tower
The important transit of the hour,
The Theologian hastened on,
Content to be allowed at last
To sing his Idyl of the Past.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I had a guinea golden

23

I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho' the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye—
That when I could not find it—
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin—
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away—

Time brought me other Robins—
Their ballads were the same—
Still, for my missing Troubador
I kept the "house at hame."

I had a star in heaven—
One "Pleiad" was its name—
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho' the skies are crowded—
And all the night ashine—
I do not care about it—
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral—
I have a missing friend—
"Pleiad" its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear—
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here—
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind—
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Where Do I Go From Here?

(words & music by paul williams)
If I knew the way Id go back home
The countryside has changed so much Id surely end up lost
Half-remembered names and faces so far in the past
On the other side of the bridges that were burned once they were crossed
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Get back home where my childhood dreams and wishes still are none of my regrets
Go back to a place where I can figure all the odds
Have a fighting chance to lose the blues and win my share of bets
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Missing You

(bernadette cooper)
Everybodys got to cry sometime
I never understood the reason why
Suddenly the answer is so clear Im - missing you
Never thought that we would end this way
And if I only had three words to say
They would simply flow so easily, Im - missing you
Casa blanca and white orchids I sent to you
Just a symbol of hop that you still love me too
Im missing you baby
Im missing you honey
(Im missing you)
We cant be through
Im missing you
If I had a chance once again
Id approach us like a love song
So tenderly Id orchestrate us to be
(a sweet melody)
Sending you romantic cards to remind you of us
Just a token of to entice you to
Come back to love
Im missing you baby
Im missing you honey
(Im missing you)
A love so true
Im missing you darlin
(Im missing you)
Baby I will take the blame
So lets stop playing silly games
If it will bring you back to me
Baby Ill say that Im sorry
I will gladly sacrifice
To have you back in my life
Im beggin you honey please
Come back to me darlin
Everybodys got to cry sometimes
I never understood the reason why
The answer is so clear to me now
Im missing you baby
Im missing you honey
(Im missing you)
We cant be through
Im missing you

song performed by by Paula Abdul
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Missing

Woke up this morning, there was a chill in the air
Went to the kitchen, my cigarettes were lying there
Jacket hung on the chair, the way I left it last night
Everything was in place, everything seemed alright
But you were missing, missing missing..
Last night I dreamed the sky went black
You were drifting down, couldnt get back
Lost in trouble, so far from home
I reached for you, my arms were like stone
Oh, but you were missing, missing... missing
Searched for something to explain
In the whispering rain and the trembling *(? )*
Tell me baby, where did you go
You were here just a moment ago
At nights I still hear your footsteps fall
I can hear your voice moving down the hall
Drifting through the bedroom
I lie awake but I dont move

song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Miss You (remix)

What's up baby girl! (Ho!)
Thought I had to talk to you again, missing you (Hey, ey, ey, ey)
Tim is missing you Missy's missing you
Rashad is missing you your mom is missing you (N-n-n-n-no no no)
Your pop is missing you Dame is missing you damn we missing you whooh!
All we listen to is all the different yous
Four page letters in addition to
Have you ever loved somebody used to get the party poppin
We used to party hop, we used to be in the Hampton's partied a lot
We was The Breakfast Club you was a part of the ROC
We used to make up special names for the food we ate
Remember serial pie one of your favourite plates (I miss you)
Well Dame told me tell you he's doin well
Due to the circumstances, it could've been Bellevue
But I ain't got to tell you, you lookin over us
Our little angel, but you know what
Brooklyn's missing you Detroit is missing you
New Orleans missing you Philly's missing you
(It's been too long and I'm lost without you)
Your uncle's missing you your families missing you
Your fans is missing you the galleries missing you
Damn we missing you
(It's been too long and I'm lost without you)
Now Star is mad I won't grant him a interview
Now he's dissing me cause he dissed you
Can you believe the nerve of this dude?
Cause of your memory I won't bring in the pistols
(Wondering if your the same and who's been with you)
But he got issues enough of that lame
I never seen pain like your parents pain
But I know God protecting you
You used to read Seed Of The soul I know God perfecting you (I miss you)
All the estrogens the darker texture you are the more intellectual
You are so professional our little purple

song performed by by Jay-Z
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. Interlude V.

Well pleased the audience heard the tale.
The Theologian said: 'Indeed,
To praise you there is little need;
One almost hears the farmers flail
Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail
A certain freshness, as you said,
And sweetness as of home-made bread.
But not less sweet and not less fresh
Are many legends that I know,
Writ by the monks of long-ago,
Who loved to mortify the flesh,
So that the soul might purer grow,
And rise to a diviner state;
And one of these--perhaps of all
Most beautiful--I now recall,
And with permission will narrate;
Hoping thereby to make amends
For that grim tragedy of mine,
As strong and black as Spanish wine,
I told last night, and wish almost
It had remained untold, my friends;
For Torquemada's awful ghost
Came to me in the dreams I dreamed,
And in the darkness glared and gleamed
Like a great lighthouse on the coast.'

The Student laughing said: 'Far more
Like to some dismal fire of bale
Flaring portentous on a hill;
Or torches lighted on a shore
By wreckers in a midnight gale.
No matter; be it as you will,
Only go forward with your tale.'

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Slowpoke

Something opened up the gates again,
I cant control it, so I rushed right in.
Here comes a mommy and a little girl,
Saw open drawers from around the world.
I got some medals hanging on my chest,
Ive seen some good ones, but I missed the rest.
Lady luck dont you turn on me,
Im just a student of your history,
Im just a student of your history.
Slowpoke Im gonna run with you,
Wear all your clothes and do what you do.
Slowpoke we got some things to find,
When I was faster, I was always behind,
When I was faster, I was always behind.
Something pushed back the curtain again,
The stage is deeper and the crowd is in.
The song is gentle, but the song is now.
Somethings missing, but something is found,
Somethings missing, but something is found,
Somethings missing, but something is found.
Slowpoke Im gonna run with you,
Wear all your clothes and do what you do.
Slowpoke we got some things to find,
When I was faster, I was always behind.
When I was faster,
When I was faster, I was always behind,
When I was faster......

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude VII.

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes,
The Theologian said: 'All praise
Be to the ballads of old times
And to the bards of simple ways,
Who walked with Nature hand in hand,
Whose country was their Holy Land,
Whose singing robes were homespun brown
From looms of their own native town,
Which they were not ashamed to wear,
And not of silk or sendal gay,
Nor decked with fanciful array
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.'

To whom the Student answered: 'Yes;
All praise and honor! I confess
That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed,
Are wholesome and nutritious food,
But not enough for all our needs;
Poets--the best of them--are birds
Of passage; where their instinct leads
They range abroad for thoughts and words,
And from all climes bring home the seeds
That germinate in flowers or weeds.
They are not fowls in barnyards born
To cackle o'er a grain of corn;
And, if you shut the horizon down
To the small limits of their town,
What do you but degrade your bard
Till he at last becomes as one
Who thinks the all-encircling sun
Rises and sets in his back yard?'

The Theologian said again:
'It may be so; yet I maintain
That what is native still is best,
And little care I for the rest.
'T is a long story; time would fail
To tell it, and the hour is late;
We will not waste it in debate,
But listen to our Landlord's tale.'

And thus the sword of Damocles
Descending not by slow degrees,
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell,
Who blushing, and with much demur
And many vain apologies,
Plucking up heart, began to tell
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude IV.

'A pleasant and a winsome tale,'
The Student said, 'though somewhat pale
And quiet in its coloring,
As if it caught its tone and air
From the gray suits that Quakers wear;
Yet worthy of some German bard,
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard,
Who love of humble themes to sing,
In humble verse; but no more true
Than was the tale I told to you.'
The Theologian made reply,
And with some warmth, 'That I deny;
'T is no invention of my own,
But something well and widely known
To readers of a riper age,
Writ by the skilful hand that wrote
The Indian tale of Hobomok,
And Philothea's classic page.
I found it like a waif afloat
Or dulse uprooted from its rock,
On the swift tides that ebb and flow
In daily papers, and at flood
Bear freighted vessels to and fro,
But later, when the ebb is low,
Leave a long waste of sand and mud.'
'It matters little,' quoth the Jew;
'The cloak of truth is lined with lies,
Sayeth some proverb old and wise;
And Love is master of all arts,
And puts it into human hearts
The strangest things to say and do.'
And here the controversy closed
Abruptly, ere 't was well begun;
For the Sicilian interposed
With, 'Lordlings, listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That 's merrier than the nightingale;
A tale that cannot boast, forsooth,
A single rag or shred of truth;
That does not leave the mind in doubt
As to the with it or without;
A naked falsehood and absurd
As mortal ever told or heard.
Therefore I tell it; or, maybe,
Simply because it pleases me.'

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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In Heaven By Mistake

He came back from Heaven
told his tale fixed-eyed
and saintly.

'I saw God on the throne' he said
'a host of angels
and people from my past
my grandmother and others
all there
smiling.

But it was clear I didn't fit.

I do not like happy
and everyone there was.

They called me in to ask why
I was not happy there.

I said I didn't know why.
But my answer came
later to me
that heaven was nice
but not without my friends.
I asked how did I get here?

I don't remember even dying.

They explained that likely
I had died
but somebody
decided it just wasn't my time.

I was in heaven just temporarily
just trying out;
waiting to go back.

That made sense.

Not my time
and now I'm back.

One of the few apparently
who came back with the
memory of heaven intact.

That had to be it.
I really was there.
Don't you believe me?

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Sukis Missing

Writers: leo sayer & alan tarney
Let me tell you bout a girl I knew
A rollin stone
The sort of girl you give your lifetime to
But you never own
Sukis missing -- shes not at home
Sukis missing -- address unknown
On the paper there were fifteen words
Saying sukis gone
A scribbled line to whom it may concern
Saying nothings wrong
Sukis missing -- told a lie or two
Sukis missing -- didnt leave a clue
Missing missing missing
I call on missing persons
Leave your number youll be called
Help me operator cos Im going up the wall
Ive tried every method to get suki back again
Now Im telling a computer
bout the shape that Im in
I know its looking bad cos there hasnt been
Back a word
So Im asking on the street
You seen a chinese girl?
Theres a poster on the box
Upon the police station wall
Theres a photo there of suki
She was with me I recall
Sukis missing -- missing
I got to get that chinese girl

song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words

Can you feel it when
Your throat dries?
Can you see it in the night sky?
Just a mumble round at tea time
Smile
When Im watching you
When I was a child
We were living in fear
Living in fear
When I was a child
Just a light year from here
Living in fear
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Friends past missing
Reminiscing
Words came back to haunt you
Tolerating propaganda
And your girlfriend, alexandra
With her secret memoranda
Signs
For an interview
Searching for the light
In the world of the blahs
Masquerading as stars
How can this be right?
Youve been going too far
Leaving conscience ajar
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Friends past missing
Reminiscing
Words came back to haunt you
When I was a child
We were living in fear
Living in fear
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Friends past missing
Reminiscing
Words came back to haunt you
Worlds may shatter
Years dont matter
Words came back to haunt you
Friends past missing
Reminiscing
Words came back to haunt you

song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude V.

'Signor Luigi,' said the Jew,
When the Sicilian's tale was told,
'The were-wolf is a legend old,
But the were-ass is something new,
And yet for one I think it true.
The days of wonder have not ceased;
If there are beasts in forms of men,
As sure it happens now and then,
Why may not man become a beast,
In way of punishment at least?
'But this I will not now discuss,
I leave the theme, that we may thus
Remain within the realm of song.
The story that I told before,
Though not acceptable to all,
At least you did not find too long.
I beg you, let me try again,
With something in a different vein,
Before you bid the curtain fall.
Meanwhile keep watch upon the door,
Nor let the Landlord leave his chair,
Lest he should vanish into air,
And so elude our search once more.
Thus saying, from his lips he blew
A little cloud of perfumed breath,
And then, as if it were a clew
To lead his footsteps safely through,
Began his tale as followeth.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Missing

To Leucha Mary Warner

He is 'Missing,' and forlorn
Drag her days in grief and pain.
Every morn a hope is born,
Only to be lost again.

'Missing!' Almost better 'Killed.'
The long anguish breaks her heart
That's a dead thing, numbed and chilled
Till the live fear bids it start.

Now a knocking at the door,
Now a shouting in the street,
Makes her poor heart run before,
The most bitter news to meet.

'Missing!' It may be he dies
'Mid his foes and comfortless.
When sleep shuts her heavy eyes,
Still she seeks him in distress.

Dear, he is not missing, not lost.
Rest your heart as on a bed.
For the One who loves him most
Knows where he has laid his head.

He accounted of all worth,
This beloved bought with a price,
Watchers look East, South, and North
From the heights of Paradise

Lest that he take any ill.
Still the Mighty Lover goes,
Seeks the beloved o'er many a hill.
Be at rest, dear child! He knows!

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming

While you were out...
The message says
You left a number
And I tried to call
But they wrote it down
In a perfect spanish scrawl
In a perfect spanish scrawl
Yet again
Im missing you
King size bed
(in a) hotel someplace
I hear your name
I see your face
I see your face
(the) back street dolls
And the side door johnnies
The wide eyed boys with their bags full of
Money
Back in the alley
Going bang to the wall
Tied to the tail
Of a midnight crawl
Heaven wouldnt be
So high I know
If the times gone by
Hadnt been so low
The best laid plans
Come apart at the seams
And shatter all my dreams
Sometimes I feel like...
Screaming
Close my eyes
Its times like this
My head goes down
And the only thing I know
Is the name of this town
Is the name of this town
Yet again
Im missing you
Wont be long
O coming home
Until that distant time
Ill be moving on
Ill be moving on

song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Missing puzzle

They talk of the puzzle that has the missing piece,
But none mention the piece with the missing puzzle,
It's hard when there is nowhere to turn for release,
And searches for acceptance lead to refusal,
It pains me to hear puzzles constantly complain,
For the piece with a missing puzzle cries in vain,
They try to fit in places that they never can,
And end up with a life like that of a cursed man,
They can pretend they are another puzzle piece,
And then try forcing themselves into a puzzle,
But it will hurt them until they crave for release,
And acknowledge their prospective host's refusal,
They will surely be doomed to tiresomely roam,
In a vain search for a place that they can call home,
Till they declare themselves a puzzle of their own,
And then learn how to be content being alone.

poem by Christian Lacdael
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Morning Ember

Morning Ember
By: Adam M. Snow

I arose from my slumber with haste of morning ember;
to be greeted by a knock on my chamber door.
'Who's there? ' I said as I am greeted with an;
outstretched hand and the pain I feel nevermore.
'It is me, your mourning star, greeting you from afar.'
Quoth the ghost of this morning ember.
I lie back down, confused and alone on this cold;
forsaken morning December.

'I am your morning star, traveled all this way to be;
where you are.' said the ghost on the other side;
of my chamber door.
'Leave me alone! ' I screamed with agony.
'Just let me be on my own.' I said.
As the ghost replied, 'I am your morning star,
your guardian angel who traveled so far.'
I arose from where I lay to be greeted by a woman;
covered in light, wearing a gown so pure and white.

'Who are you? ' I said as fear struck my very core.
'I am your guardian angel showing you there's;
ever so more.' said the ghost now called angel.
'What is it that you want to show? '
I ask 'Surely it's something, I don't know.'
'You were lost but now you're found,
for you are saved by the Son;
with thorns he was crowned.' said the angel;
of morning ember.

'Was I truly lost? ' I said as I stopped to ponder.
Suddenly I remembered how my life I live is broken.
'Surely by listening to all that is spoken then perhaps;
my life will be anew.' I said. 'That is true.'
said the angel. 'By me being here with you changed;
your life but for you to live anew, first you must willingly
ask the father to forgive you.' Quoth the angel of;
morning ember.

My tears fall gently to the ground as I fell to my knees;
all is calm yet all is at ease, to the heaven I look with tears;
in my eye, I called out 'Father' as a started to cry, 'Forgive me,
for I was lost yet I couldn't see for without you I could never be free,
Father forgive me.'

poem by Adam M. Snow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rough Justice story poem

Squire Cholmondely I presume
Was not prepared to meet his doom
when he was slaughtered by his groom.

Whose wife he made advances to
a thing no gentleman would do.
He got no more than he was due.

The groom decided he must pay
and slit his weasand one fine day
Then hid his corpse without delay.

Nobody liked the squire much
and he was often out of touch.
There was no hue and cry as such.

Nobody thought he might be dead.
The groom had dropped him so he said
to catch the coach for Maidenhead.

Where he indulged his appetite
for painted ladies of the night
Which he assumed to be his right.

The groom confessed on his death bed
that Squire Cholmondely was long dead
The priest absolved him readily.

The groom now dead had not revealed
where the body was concealed.
So that remains a mystery.

Now to this day nobody knows
the hiding place which the groom chose.
He hid it with great secrecy

Nobody cares sufficiently
to try to find where it might be
There’d be no useful purpose served.

The squire got what he deserved
I must conclude its for the best
Nobody knows where his bones rest.

Perhaps one day by happenstance
He will be found by some mischance.
Buried in some unhallowed plot.

But I would rather he was not.
The whole affair should be forgot
The past is past beyond recall

and I for one don’t care at all.
My granddad did what I would do
to anyone insulting you.

Sunday,08 November 2009

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

Cholmondely is pronounced Chumly
For some obscure reason

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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