Money Talks
The village streets are dark and cold.
Most stay at home and watch T.V
Its not the place it used be
when coal was king in days of old.
When miners earned a princely wage.
The village pubs were thriving then,
those days will never come again.
Commuting now is all the rage.
The many pubs are all closed down
the shops have dwindled to a few.
There is so little we can do
We have shop in the next town.
But they are building everywhere.
New houses thrown up in a flash
For other folk who have the cash
The planners do not seem to care.
This valley is a beauty spot
where tacky houses spoil the view.
An old complaint forever new
I can complain. Why should I not.
I’m not against making progress.,
Sometimes a change is for the best
when it is made at our request.
It seems our choice grows ever less.
The speculators buy the land.
Pull down the pubs which they replace
with houses tightly packed in place.
The only thing they understand.
is how much profit they can make.
Their balance sheets must always show
how they can make their money grow.
They are in charge make no mistake..
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
What Happened To His Village
He was born just a short distance from Adelaide
And he could see the sea from his back door
And in his young days there were not many houses
But the years have brought great change to Semaphore.
His sea side Village has grown to a coastal suburb
And his old Homeplace has undergone great change
Where once were trees and paddocks now there's houses
A stranger to your old Homeplace seems strange.
What happened to the Village of his childhood
The paddock where he played in years ago
He only can refer now to his memories
Of peaceful place the Homeplace he once did know.
The cottage of his childhood gone forever
A doctor's surgery where once it stood
And not one know him he is now a stranger
In Semaphore the place of his boyhood.
But of the past he still has good old memories
Of his old Village how it used to be
And from the cottage by the wide brown paddock
Six hundred yards off he could see the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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R.I.P story poem
Here where once there used to be.
A quiet village cemetery
A hallowed place in which to find
Tranquillity and peace of mind.
The graveyard served the village well
Though for how long no man can tell.
I’m sad to say the village died.
The land on which they all relied.
Suddenly lost fertility.
The people facing poverty.
Saw no good reason they should stay
and one by one they moved away.
To other places far from here
they seemed to simply disappear
to destinations we don’t know.
They had no choice they had to go
Houses fell into disrepair
because there was no one to care.
The passing years were none too kind.
There’s very little left to find.
Bar rotten floorboards here and there.
Weeds in profusion everywhere
The churchyard too is over grown
with brambles hiding each gravestone.
A long forgotten tragedy
a piece of ancient history.
The city suburbs must expand
and in their search for building land.
The greedy eyes are cast this way.
They know they will not have to pay.
The true worth of this empty land,
The kind of price it will command.
When it is cleared ready to build.
They hope their coffers will be filled.
But fate has other plans in mind
and to their great surprise they’ll find
That they have made a grave mistake.
The profits which they hope to make.
Will not now materialise.
Because they failed recognise.
The old grave yard as hallowed ground
Despite the evidence they found.
They wantonly destroyed head stones
showed no respect for buried bones.
It makes me happy to report
the vaunted plans all came to naught.
Because some archaeologists
Researching local history lists
Discovered this old cemetery
and they decided it must be.
Preserved in perpetuity
for generations yet to be.
The greedy men had lost their cash
Their dreams of profit turned to ash
the damage done for no reward.
The good folk who were buried here
can sleep in peace they need not fear.
That their rest will be disturbed.
The greedy builders have been curbed.
A happy ending to my tale
Their efforts were to no avail.
It seems that fate itself decreed
they must be punished for their greed.
Wednesday,28 July 2010 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
But he had scant use on off-days for his little goal of tin,
Save when, to keep the town's repute, he ran some roysterer in;
To come the 'morning after' with a foaming pot of beer:
''Tis agin the regulations; but I want no corpses here.
You perishing with heat an' thirst to but a spot of grease.
An' me firewood there needs splittin',' said the Sergeant of Police.
Then they made him an inspector in the city one sad day;
But he had a glorious 'send off' before he went away
One night of wild carousal that gave scandal for a week,
But the man sent to replace him was a truckler and a sneak,
A plague to petty sinners, a peeping Tom in pubs;
But a jest among the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs.
So we missed the human touch that lurked beneath the bluster
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Propinquity (I've Just Begun To Care)
by Gerry Goffin & Carole King
The local rock group down the street
Is trying hard to learn their song,
They serenade the weekend squire
Who just came out to mow his lawn.
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
Charcoal burning everywhere,
Rows of houses that are all the same,
And no one seems to care.
See Mrs. Gray, she's proud today
Because her roses are in bloom,
And Mr. Green, he's so serene,
He's got a TV in every room.
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
Here in Status Symbol Land,
Mothers complain about how hard life is,
And the kids just don't understand.
Creature comfort goals, they only numb my soul,
And make it hard for me to see.
Ahhh...thoughts all seem to stray to places far away,
I need a change of scenery.
Ta ta ta ta, ta ta ta ta... (etc.)
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
Charcoal burning everywhere.
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
Here in Status Symbol Land.
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
(A pleasant valley Sunday)
Another pleasant valley Sunday,
(A pleasant valley Sunday)
(fade out)
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Money, Power, Woman
[Chorus 2x]
"You gotta make the money first"
"Then when you get the money, you get the power"
"Then when you get the power, Then you get the woman"
[Ice-T]
The problem is you broke, You ain't got no car or job
You slow with youer hustle, You dress like a slob
Ladies ain't looking for no brothers like this
They want the dub-twisting ballers with the ice on their wrist
You gotta get your cash right to get in the game
Might have to pull a pistol, Flip some caine
Get out in them streets and hustle hard in the rain
Take your come up and reinvest to the game
"You gotta make the money first"
You need a lot to go far
What you think is rich, I just spent on a car
What you think is paid, I just blew on a watch
What you think is wealthy, I just dropped on a yacht
Flip the street cash and try to pick some stocks
Kick back in your pad and watch it roll like crops
But it really ain't that easy, Or we all would be rich
One mistake, You're broke, The come up's a bitch
Make the right moves and forget about sleep
concentrate on the paper chase, Join the elite
Few dun got mad cash and money to spend
Money to straight blow and money to lend
And only then, You made it past stage one, My friend
[Chorus 2x]
[Ice-T]
Now you got the money and the cash flow thick
But you really ain't nothing but a richer trick
Just because you're paid, you can still get thick
By your low life homies or skanless bitch
You gotta move it around, put it in the right hands
Maybe a judge, Make a PA your friend
Understand what really moves the world
Recognize what really moves these girls
Juice is more important than cash for real
Money you spend, But true power you feel
It ain't that easy to reach
Respect is about the hardest damn thing in the streets to get
Make your moves correct, Watch your crew
Watch your back, They watching you
Anybody round you has gotta be true
Or you never make it past stage two
Listen, when you get the real true power, You know
People will feel you, Wherever you go
And when you really max this game
You'll never have to say your name
[Chorus]
[Ice-T]
Now you got the power, It's on, My friend
Cuz the one thing women love is powerful men
The one thing women hate are brothers that bend
They act like they like 'em, But they only pretend
They wanna be with that man in the V.I.
They don't wanna stand in line
You outta your mind?
That other player's got cash, But no juice
Cuz the powerful men get to choose
From a multitude of women that be steppin in crews
Willing to do much more than before
Give you quick brains, It's insane
Just what the woman'll do just for you
Cuz if you got the power, Then they gets it too
If you rollin benz, Then they rollin too
If you livin phat, Then they ballin too
That sounds stupid to you, Not to me
They winning one move when it takes us three
Cars, Big houses, And shopping sprees
While most of us see the penitentiary
[Chorus 2x]
song performed by by Ice T
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boomtown
(Toby Keith)
The people came here from parts unknown
Sleepin' in their cars 'cause they didn't have homes
Thought this place was the promised land
If you could roughneck, we could use a good man
Come on boy let me show you around
You could make a lot of money here
Livin' in a boomtown
Well some build bars and big hotels
Downshift drive and the people live well
High on the hog and wild on the range
Pocket full of cash instead of chump change
This place kicks when the sun goes down
Ain't life great when you're livin' in a boomtown
See oil was the blood that flowed through the soul
To keep a man workin' when it's forty below
Relent to the devil in the cold cold ground
Trying to make a dollar here livin' in a boomtown
Six short years the oil fields went
Rigs came down and the money got spent
And the wisemen saved for a rainy day
The fools packed up and moved away
The hotels closed and the bars shut down
And it got real quite livin' in a boomtown
See oil was the blood that flowed through the soul
To keep a man workin' when it's forty below
Relent to the devil in the cold cold ground
Trying to make a dollar here livin' in a boomtown
Now the cafe's filled with people tellin' lies
Trying to figure out how the town went dry
You can buy a house a dime on the dollar
Need a good home just give me a holler
I can move you in with no money down
Still tryin' to make a dollar here livin' in a boomtown
Livin' in a boomtown
Livin' in a boomtown
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No architect troubled to design houses that suited people who were to live in them, because that would have meant building a whole range of different houses. It was far cheaper and, above all, timesaving to make them identical.
quote by Michael Ende
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Monkee's Theme
Pleasant Valley Sunday
The Monkees
Your local rock group down the street
Is trying hard to learn this song
To serenade the weekend squire
Just came out to mow his lawn
Another pleasant valley sunday
Charcoal burnin everywhere
Rows of houses that are all the same
And no one seems to care
See Mrs. Gray she's proud today
Because her roses are in bloom
And Mr. Green he's so serene
He's got a TV in every room
Another pleasant valley sunday
Here in status symbol land
Mothers complain
About how hard life is
And the kids just don't understand
Creature comfort goals
They only numb my soul
And make it hard for me to see
My thoughts all seem to stray
To places far away
I need a change of scenery
(Ta ta ta ta....)
Another pleasant valley sunday
Charcoal burning everywhere
Another pleasant valley sunday
Here in status symbol land
Another pleasant valley sunday (repeat)
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Guedi
Guedi is my name and i am from the land of many waters,
But you came along to see what i do behind me when the calls came;
For the days of man are like the days of unrest,
But joy is it if we can live in peace with one another on this earth.
The fruit of your love is now being shared up by many!
And like the numbers of the houses in your village;
Because you are very much noted by your acts,
But, the heavy winds were much experienced by all of us last night.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Pleasant Valley Sunday
The local rock group down the street
Is trying hard to learn their song
Seranade the weekend squire, who just came out to mow his lawn
Another pleasant valley sunday
Charcoal burning everywhere
Rows of houses that are all the same
And no one seems to care
See mrs. gray shes proud today because her roses are in bloom
Mr. green hes so serene, hes got a t.v. in every room
Another pleasant valley sunday
Here in status symbol land
Mothers complain about how hard life is
And the kids just dont understand
Creature comfort goals
They only numb my soul and make it hard for me to see
My thoughts all seem to stray, to places far away
I need a change of scenery
Ta ta ta...
Another pleasant valley sunday
Charcoal burning everywhere
Another pleasant valley sunday
Here in status symbol land
Another pleasant valley sunday...
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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1104 Wintertime Blues
This Poem is dedicated to everyone
who thinks their Town or Village
closes down in Winter!
What has become of my poor Town
Now that the Winter's really is here?
The Cafe tables have been stowed
And all the cars are our of gear!
All the houses have been shuttered
They seem empty - quiet - still
All the gardens are uncluttered
There's no flowers on the sill!
There's less sign of bussling life
On the Town Centre Arcade
Where I'd sit and watch my wife
Haggle with the passing trade!
The Corner Cafe is very quiet
The freezing swimming pool is closed
No chance of Winter Regatta
Now the Harbour has all froze!
The old freindly French knife sharpner
Now no longer passes through
And Chop Low - the Chinese gardener
Has gone down with Asian Flu!
All the Station's clocks have stopped
And also has the daily train
Because so icy is the line
And deep snow's replaced the rain!
The local bar is changing hands
And the bookshop has closed down
The local park becomes a morgue
Since cold Winter came to Town!
Some folk really welcome Winter
The Town is now a quiter place
You can walk from dawn to sunset
Never see another face!
But it happens every year
Soon the Winter - it will go
Please cheer up don't shed a tear
Goes the Winter - Goes the snow!
And then soon will come the Spring
And the blossom all will grow
And the fledglings preen and sing
In the Sunny Springtime glow!
poem by John Knight
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Global Village
Global village
Though we are all human
we are made to be different
by forces beyond our clout
Yet they want remake us
in a new image of their choice
in a village too big to be safe
The world they now call
a single village in the globe
with a big brother to match
As long as we are second class
within that large village fashioned
we would be subjected to
someone’s standards
someone’s culture
someone’s technology
someone’s understanding
someone’s world view
someone’s theories and concepts
They try hard in harder ways
to make us part of that village
but we know we are different
and shall strive to leave outside
that fashioned unsafe village
poem by Yusuf Adamu
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Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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It's up to you for M lady Flora
The mist that crept in from the sea.
Advancing inexorably,
enveloped first the sandy beach.
Then well beyond the high tides reach
Invaded streets and avenues
the thoroughfares that people use.
To go about their business.
A wet and cold unpleasantness.
Which nobody had seen before
at least along that friendly shore.
Exuding sheer hostility
as if the demons of the sea.
Deciding that humanity.
had forfeited their right to be.
Had gathered there with one intent
to prove the sea omniscient.
The villagers were sore afraid
some cursed and swore while others prayed.
Though neither made much difference.
Against such mist there’s no defence.
The village disappeared from sight.
Hid by a mist as black as night.
When morning broke there was no one.
No body left to greet the sun.
Now to this day the village stands
although nobody understands.
What happened on that dreadful night
when the sea fret absorbed the light.
No one survived to tell the tale.
Enough to make the bravest quail.
Perhaps you think I’m telling lies
But you will find to your surprise.
If you should choose to visit me
from my front window you can see.
The evidence that what say
A village empty to this day.
Nobody dares to move into
the empty village and renew
a single house in which to live.
Because of legends kept alive.
By older folks who can recall
the night the demons came to call.
If you should wish to you could buy
the whole village and you could try.
To sell the houses one by one
if you’re convinced it can be done.
I think your work would be in vain
What happened once could come again.
To local folks it is taboo
and there is nothing you can do.
but try to sell to foreigners
Who do not know about the curse.
I own the site and I would sell
quite cheaply and I’d wish you well
If you’re prepared to take the chance
There’s been a change of circumstance.
For there are profits to be made.
Maybe the mist will not invade
maybe the tales I tell aren’t true
what you believe is up to you.
I am too old to change my ways
and I prefer to end my days
believing as I’ve always done.
This village should left alone.
24-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Demolition
(sung by flash and his cronies in their den)
I spy with my little eye
Anything here that I can buy.
I see a little thatched cottage
Looking so neat
With compulsory purchase we can buy it up cheap.
Then well pull up the floor boards,
Knock down the walls,
Rock the foundations,
Until the house falls.
Like a pack of cards,
Crashing to the ground.
Then well build a row
Of identical boxes
And sell them all off at treble the profits.
Demolition.
The deeds are in my pocket,
Ive got a contract in my hand.
An opportunity for luxury living.
Ill arrange the mortgage
To be repaid a hundred percent.
I cant wait around so make your decision.
Well buy up all the cottages
And every house and every street,
Until weve got everything we need.
Every town in the vicinity,
Every farm and village green.
Were gonna buy up everything,
Then its demolition.
Demolition. demolition.
Two up, two down,
It hasnt got a garden,
But its got a lovely patio.
Stainless steel kitchen sink,
Gas fired central heating,
Whaaa -- specifically designed for modern-day living,
Nothings permanent and nothing lasts,
Weve sold all the houses so put em up fast.
Were gonna buy up this town
And pull it all down.
How I love to hear the demolition sound
Of concrete crashing to the ground.
Demolition.
Its time to make some money,
Its time to get rich quick.
Its the wonderful world of capitalism.
Ive got to make a profit,
Ive got to satisfy my greed,
Its my faith and my religion,
Demolition. demolition. demolition.
And well buy up the towns,
And well knock em all down
Build a brand new world of our own.
(repeat)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here's Luck
Old Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,
A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;
Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.
I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared.
I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;
It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.
The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—
They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.
No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,
An’chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.
We’ll laugh an’joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,
An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.
Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-sense
Or legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?
Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?
The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer.
The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,
But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut,
When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,
An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.
For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past’n’ far—
Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;
An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—
I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.
’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;
And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.
But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,
I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’
The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,
But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.
While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,
They’ll find a private entrance still! Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!
poem by Henry Lawson
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His For To Destroy
That he does not love Nature seems such a sad thing
The one who never admires the wildflowers of the Spring
With Land for Wildlife he could never agree
He sees Land for Development as a better idea
He could not recognize a starling from a crow
And anything of Nature's ways he does not wish to know,
He reckons greenies of progress are standing in the way
And not one good thing of them he does have to say
he has made millions out of land development but greed leads to more greed
And for to build more houses more land he does need
Last year he made two million in profit this year he wants four
'Tis the same old story much always wants more
Making millions from land development is a thing he enjoy
And he feels Mother Earth is his for to destroy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Homelessness In Winter
back about 30 years ago,
living on the streets in Charlotte...
finally found a job... was lucky enough
to have a place to take a shower...
sleeping in the backseat of a broke
down Ford Maverick... cold winter...
got up and walked 4 miles to work
every morning,4 miles 'home' in the
evening...
went on for a couple months before
i got a place to live...
so yes i know what homelessness
feels like...and i cant help thinking
about all the empty foreclosed houses....
empty houses, homeless people....
back then, even if you couldnt find a
real job, they had a place where you
could go and line up to do day work...
worked all day for about 25 dollars...
if you couldnt do that, you could always
sell blood.... i dont know what they do
now....i just know it's a hard life...and if
you've got family, got kids...
something to think about the next time
you see a homeless person walking the
streets!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The High Life
She pinned her shapeless hat in place.
Then stood before the fireplace
and gazed into the mirror bright.
To make quite sure that she looked right.
Before she ventured down the street
to purchase what she needs to eat.
A weekly trip she undertook
and perhaps change her library book.
The library first and then she’ll go
around the village to and fro.
The simple things she wants to buy
the village shops can well supply.
She’s shy and seldom stops to speak
This is the highlight of her week
She nods to neighbours on the street.
She will stop soon to rest her feet
She will outside the baker’s store,
she’ll do as she has done before
Beneath an awning find a seat.
Have tea and cakes her weekly treat.
She’ll sit and watch the world go by
surprised at how the hours fly.
Then quite content she’ll make her way
back home. She has enjoyed her day
Once back at home she’ll feed the cat
and carefully hang up her hat
Then put her groceries away
thus ends another shopping day.
18-Aug-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Gone but not forgotten
The water meadow by the stream
where I was wont to sit and dream.
Has disappeared, replaced by
much less pleasing to my eye.
A street of brick red bungalows.
You can’t halt progress I suppose.
This used to be a pleasant place
of beauty now there’s little trace.
Developers just do not care
they’re building houses everywhere.
Despoiling every beauty spot
in search of any vacant lot.
Though city dwellers wish to live
Somewhere at least an hours drive
from the city where they strive.
I do not think I can forgive
Destruction of my riverside.
Now ugly bricks and mortar hide.
the water meadows where I dreamt.
I owe them nothing but contempt.
2-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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