Related quotes: Fog hangs heavy in London...

London Fog - 0023

Fog hangs heavy in London air,
brokers rest but for a prayer;
eyes aghast, souls in despair,
seeking business everywhere.

Bargains booked throughout the day
decline in number, then don't pay.
All about them makes them say:
'No more at market will we play! '

(12 December 1974)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes

1974

The sun is shining hard at my feet
And the city is an animal ready to eat
It's raining like a nose bleed, cigarettes and sweets
And I feel it coming on
Bloody as the day I was born
It's 1974
Just like the day I was born
It's 1974
She isn't crazy
She's just not impressed
She stabs me with her eyes
Dirty knives hidden in her dress
And it's raining like bombs in my room when I'm alone
And I swear I think I knew you before
Just like the day I was born
It's 1974
Just like the day I was born
It's 1974
Just like the day I was born
It's 1974
Just like the day I was born
It's 1974
Do you want it, do you want it, do you want it, come on
Do you want it, do you want it, come on just bring it on
Nothing gonna stop it now
But nothing
Do you want it, come on
Do you want it, do you want it, come on just bring it on
It's 1974
It's 1974
It's 1974
It's 1974

song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Now I Have My Eyes On Dinner

When I say I am seeking something substantial in my life?
Why does that make you laugh to see me at a flea market?
I am seeking something that doesn't need to be high maintenanced...
Looking for wrinkles to moisturized.
To get nipped and tucked when bags begin to sag.

'And...
You are going to find that at a flea market? '

OH yes.
Some people don't know quality to throw it away.
Just like that.
Maybe recently divorced?
Or separated?

'You are talking about being at flea market,
Right! '

Ab-so-yes indeed-lutely!
And today must be my lucky day.
Because I am looking at a bargain.
A steal that's too genuine to leave.
And...
What do you think I've discovered?

'A day you found something priceless? '

Is there such a thing...
Of hoping to spend every moment,
With something so priceless...
To wish it is available?

'What can I say?
Your discovery is as good as mine? '

Are you sure you don't want to look around?

'What makes you think I haven't been doing just that?
I was hoping to see those candleholders you purchased,
Last week...
Again.'

So you had your eyes on 'them' too?

'Very much so.
Now I have my eyes on dinner! '

With breakfast?

'And lunch? '

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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London Boys

Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
You've bought some coffee, butter and bread
You can't make a thing cause the meter's dead
You moved away
Hold your folks you're gonna stay away
Bright lights, Soho, Wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now you've met the London boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
You're gonna be sick, but you mustn't lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the London boys, with the London boys
You're only seventeen, but you think you've grown
In the month you've been away from your parents' home
You take the pills too much
You don't give a damn about that jobs you've got
So long as you're with the London boys
A London boy, oh a London boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A London boy, a London boy
You think you've had a lot of fun
But you ain't got nothing, you're on the run
It's too late now, cause you're out there boy
You've got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish you'd never left your home
You've got what you wanted but you're on your own
With the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Next Plane To London

Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Told her I was gonna be a star
But to do it I would have to go far away
But Ill come back someday
And take her away
Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Said that over here I wasnt in
Down in hollywood I couldnt find a friend
Who would help me get in
Or listen to me
Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Maybe over there Ill get a start
Only hope by leaving I dont break her heart
The more important part
Than any record on the chart
Next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
Whoa-whoa

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eulogy on a London Jobber

Now profit seems a dirty word,
or so some fine folk say!
but as I feel that is absurd,
at stocks and shares I play.

Bold timing’s ever right - you ‘eard, -
it never fails to pay!
Old Boy, my judgement’s never erred,
there’s no one can gainsay!

I deal in scraps, true size or block,
game in my box I sit,
I feel perhaps too wise, poor cock, -
tame brokers ‘elp a bit!

Should button seek to shop ‘is stock,
I’m ‘ere to ‘elp ‘im do it,
for every joker I would mock,
rehocking at a profit.

I always buy at bottom rock,
at the top, I ‘op it,
if you consider that I shock,
fortune’s fair - you’re forfeit.

I pit my wits, job round the clock,
each day the market’s ope,
there is no-one I’d rob or knock,
I won’t push paper, mope!

Its all a question of control,
of bluff and double bluff!
As market maker I’ve my role,
the smooth comes with the rough!

I trade, and though scare bears may raid,
‘tis seldom that I’m caught;
and if, as said, I am well paid,
I’m just as seldom short!

Whenever challenged or waylayed,
I’m never overwrought,
I’m cool, collected, calm and staid, -
For jobbing’s such a sport!

It’s all great fun, though true ‘tis said
its full of danger fraught,
but if I never am afraid,
‘tis ‘cause I am self-taught.

Democracy despises wealth,
aught but ‘ard labour spurns!
Jobbing’s just great, it ‘elps me ‘ealth,
I like to take those turns!

Elegy on a London Jobber

Around the pristine walls of neon glass
the London jobber posts by pillared cell, -
to take a turn, Old Boy, to buy or sell.
He shares his pitch with others of his class,
and pitches shares while brokers pell-mell pass, -
marks red to buttons blue as green as grass.
Bell rings. He takes the call which spells shell’s knell,
then calls the take, fulfilling function well, -
tied to the Old School system, - silly farce!

Too many heads swell, barter gold for brass.
Though sun still shines, most squander hay - their bell
will toll, and toll-free shall machines excel,
matchless in matching bargains to surpass
those who for short hours, for fat pay, alas,
play both sides of the coin, bulls, bears, harass,
between fear, greed, prey – arbitrage cartel.
Hammered – Fate prepares a fond farewell
for all who take for granted “vie est belle! ”

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Despair Is A Mad Man

Your thoughts are not too heavy for your heart
It is only foolery that makes it seem so
You think till you are hot
And then say you are sick
You cry in shameless misery
And lament your fate
Why me becomes a ballad
And you call the tune till tears drop
Despair is a mad man
Yet you befriend him
He goes causing a nuisance
But you seek him
Insanity has no friend they say
Still you go near to become mad as well
You go looking long and hard for gloom
If you are not mad, then you must be a fool
You do not pray
Nor invoke celestial beings
You do not sing
Nor chase dolour from your soul
You do not play
Nor fill your mind with gaiety
All you do is drone and cry
For all that has been
That should not
You make despair a nagging companion
And gain nothing by the business.

poem by Samuel Nze
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Despair Is Heavy

DESPAIR IS HEAVY

Despair is heavy
And I am heavier than I have been in a long time-
The cold and the dark and the damp
Also weigh me down.
I still can move
But more slowly now
And with much more aching.

When will the minor pain become paralysis?
And when will the weight kill me?
Perhaps I am done forever
And will never move again
And the weight will take me all the way down
So low I will not even be aware anymore of my despair.

It is a heavy day now
And I am too heavy a person
And Heaviness is in the air
And rules the Universe
And everything is sinking down
And falling into its own meaninglessness.

Life is heavy
I am heavy
Everything is heavy now and getting heavier.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Prayer is Life

Prayer is life,
Life is prayer,
Prayer gives me strength,
Strength to face
All the problems
Of this world.
Prayer brightens my day,
It gives me sound sleep at night.
I abide in My Saviour,
And humbly I rest.

Prayer makes me strong
To defeat Satan.
Prayer continues unceasingly,
It does not stop
In the morning or at noon.
It goes on and on,
Until sleep shuts my eyes.
O, that blessed life
Of prayer,
I long for the
Sweet life.

poem by Aleyamma Jacob
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The London Boys

Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
Youve bought some coffee, butter and bread
You cant make a thing cause the meters dead
You moved away
Hold your folks youre gonna stay away
Bright lights, soho, wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now youve met the london boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
Youre gonna be sick, but you mustnt lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the london boys, with the london boys
Youre only seventeen, but you think youve grown
In the month youve been away from your parents home
You take the pills too much
You dont give a damn about that jobs youve got
So long as youre with the london boys
A london boy, oh a london boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A london boy, a london boy
You think youve had a lot of fun
But you aint got nothing, youre on the run
Its too late now, cause youre out there boy
Youve got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish youd never left your home
Youve got what you wanted but youre on your own
With the london boys
Now youve met the london boys
Now youve met the london boys
Now youve met the london boys

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Investment Apology

In this air I do aspire
to appeal and make aware, -
Allah answer all anger -
else ague appear and attract ire

Bait can but bate the buyer!
Brokers must the market bear,
bidding board while bulls be bear,
blare is bare and boars betire.

Why cry the creator’s choir?
Calm your coma, clear your care!
Come, seek and call the cover.
Can still the chartists’ charts inquire!

Dost dearly dollar desire?
Dabbler dare, don’t disappear, -
dealer’s drear or in despair,
His strait’s dire, his coffer drier.

Fear a further fall to fire?
That your future fare be fair
find a fella full of flair,
full of feel for a fine flier.

Th’institutional investor,
out of gear, he tears his hair.
Interest rates round here I hear
High, hint heavily hunt higher.

The alphabet is far too long
to continue this careless song,
so here’s to hope, and let us pray
tomorrow brings a brighter day.

19 June 1974

Paris Parley Parle_19740607_The Market today could go either way ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0007_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Clare Market

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;
That I take a delight on a Saturday night
In walking that way and in viewing the sight.
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.

A rich man comes down from the elegant town
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.

But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end--
And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze--
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?

So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,
So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.

poem by Eugene Field
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Elegy on a London Jobber

poem by Jonathan Robin
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But Don't Despair

Despair, if you must –
But how's it going to pull you through?
Despair, when you trust
Naught since then there's naught to do.
Despair, should you thrust
Aside your pride, your self-esteem.
And so despair, if it's dust,
The only substance that you deem.
Despair, when a gust
Of slightly breeze can break your stance.
And do despair, when lust
Is your interpretation of romance.

But don't despair, if you can care
About the plight of any other being.
And you can focus on the help,
Support, and altruistic further actions
For the seeing. Be believing,
As despair will start receding
All around – simply since you found
A way to steer you clear
From this: the very cause of your despair!

So give to others; give them all a helping lift:
Despair, you'll find will disappear –
And that has got to be a well-deserved
And saintly gift!

Rain of despair

despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair
despair despair despair despair despair despair despair

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Iron Cross

THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Good Friday and More

Good Friday. Dark purple over
All the statues. Grimstock stares
At windows coloured glass light
Shines through. Kim Keltis on his
Right dressed in black mind in prayer
Standing there. Crucified on a brass
Crucifix a Christ hangs the eyes
Closed arms stretched out the hands
Nailed. Grimstock's eyes lower down
To the slim waist of Kim and lets
Eyes move over firm buttocks fleshy
Thighs her dark dress caressing.
Unaware of his eyes her eyes closed
Holds to prayer talks to God confident
God is there not knowing Grimstock's
Stare. Grimstock's eyes like feelers
Reach and touch suck and feed in mind's
Eye greedily the prayer book in his hands
Clutched tightly becomes part of the girl's
Fleshy thighs becomes this becomes that
His dark eyes moving up rest upon her
Brushed hair. Kim standing still in prayer
Not aware Grimstock's there with finger
From forehead to her breast from shoulder
To shoulder makes soft sign of the cross
Imagines her own sweet Crucified hangs
For her in pain there Sweet Jesus she mutters
Like eased breath. Grimstock dreams she's
Undressed beside him in his bed making
Love passionate utterings sexual soft touches.
Kim opens her dark eyes sees Grimstock's
Greedy stare travelling over her standing
There his rough eyes like fingers touching
Her ravishing her soft flesh raping her in his
Mind and knowing that deep down that this
Man pushes hard onto her Jesus' thorny crown.

poem by Terry Collett
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Flea Market

It is claimed,
After nine years of conflict...
A man labelled,
To be the originator of it...
Can not be found.
But children in our grade schools,
Know his name.

And his comments are given more attention...
As 'if' aired like a TV series.
And this man can not be found?
But a citizen minding his or her own business,
Can be detected walking on Earth...
By a satellite orbiting,
Miles above the ground?

And...
Uh...er...
Are there any other bargains at this flea market?
Or should we wait for something else fresh to be sold,
At the 'next' tag sale?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Zig-Zag on a London Train

Shifted her
Glasses
To rest on her
Head
Closed her
Eyes
Tried to
Rest
But
In vain
On a slow
London train

The case
Is
Uneasy feelings
Uneasy posture
Uneasy place
The case
Of
A rainy
Afternoon
On a crowded
London train

Not possible to
Rest
She opened her
Book
Searched for page
Forty four
Where she stopped
Before
A
Romance
With a
Distant
Stranger
Would bring a
Smile
To her
Tired
Face
On a London Southbound
Train

poem by Najib Altawell
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Play On

(eric carmen/scott mccarl)
It a hard life but you play it for laughs
Its a cold-hearted business keep away from the draft
And your fingers and your throat get sore
But theyre out there callin for some more
So play on
(while the lights shine around your head)
Play on
(every night in a different bed)
And the nights go on and on
Get a break and find a place you can hide
cause tonight youve got to be a star personified
Youre rushing round to get your plane
And its back in the bubble again
So play on
(while the lights shine around your head)
Play on
(every night in a different bed)
And the nights go on and on
Critics comin cause youre number one (number one)
Play all your hits and all the girls will come
(play on), play on, (play on), play on
Yeah, so play on
(while the lights shine around your head)
Play on
(every night in a different bed)
And the nights go on and on
It a hard life but you play it for laughs
Its a cold-hearted business keep away from the trap
And your fingers on your throat get sore
But theyre out there beggin for some more
So play on
(while the lights shine around your head)
Play on
(every night in a different bed)
And the nights go on and on
The nights go on and on

song performed by by Eric Carmen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rule Number One

Rule number one,
'I don't go begging'!
Because it brings down my spirit;
For i really know who i am and,
I really know what i have on the world market!
So, you need to approach me through the right way for business.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I think the market is always going to be around. The goal is not to say, let's get rid of the market, because the market does render a huge number of services, and I don't want to have a fight about the price of something every time I buy a book or a bottle of water.

quote by Susan George
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

London Fog - 0023

Related quotes

1974

Now I Have My Eyes On Dinner

London Boys

Next Plane To London

Eulogy on a London Jobber

Despair Is A Mad Man

Despair Is Heavy

Prayer is Life

The London Boys

Investment Apology

Clare Market

Elegy on a London Jobber

But Don't Despair

The Iron Cross

Good Friday and More

Flea Market

Zig-Zag on a London Train

Play On

Rule Number One

En.Citatepedia^®.ro