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Robin And Harry

Robin to beggars with a curse,
Throws the last shilling in his purse;
And when the coachman comes for pay,
The rogue must call another day.
Grave Harry, when the poor are pressing
Gives them a penny and God's blessing;
But always careful of the main,
With twopence left, walks home in rain.
Robin from noon to night will prate,
Run out in tongue, as in estate;
And, ere a twelvemonth and a day,
Will not have one new thing to say.
Much talking is not Harry's vice;
He need not tell a story twice:
And, if he always be so thrifty,
His fund may last to five-and-fifty.
It so fell out that cautious Harry,
As soldiers use, for love must marry,
And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd;
(All for Love, or the World well Lost!)
Repairs a cabin gone to ruin,
Just big enough to shelter two in;
And in his house, if anybody come,
Will make them welcome to his modicum
Where Goody Julia milks the cows,
And boils potatoes for her spouse;
Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches,
While Harry's fencing up his ditches.
Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix,
To live without a coach-and-six,
To patch his broken fortunes, found
A mistress worth five thousand pound;
Swears he could get her in an hour,
If gaffer Harry would endow her;
And sell, to pacify his wrath,
A birth-right for a mess of broth.
Young Harry, as all Europe knows,
Was long the quintessence of beaux;
But, when espoused, he ran the fate
That must attend the married state;
From gold brocade and shining armour,
Was metamorphosed to a farmer;
His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd;
Nor twice a-week will shave his beard.
Old Robin, all his youth a sloven,
At fifty-two, when he grew loving,
Clad in a coat of paduasoy,
A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay,
Powder'd from shoulder down to flank,
In courtly style addresses Frank;
Twice ten years older than his wife,
Is doom'd to be a beau for life;
Supplying those defects by dress,
Which I must leave the world to guess.

poem by Jonathan Swift
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harry Rag

Ah, tom is young and tom is bold
Tom is as bold as the knights of old
But whenever he gets in a bit of a jam
Theres nothing he wont do to get a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And he curses himself for the life hes led
And rolls himself a harry rag and puts himself to bed
Ah, toms old ma is a dying lass
Soon they all reckon shell be pushing up the grass
And her bones might ache and her skin might sag
But still shes got the strength to have a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And she curses herself for the life shes led
And rolls herself a harry rag and puts herself to bed
Ah, bless you tax man, bless you all
You may take some but you never take it all
But if I give it all, I wont feel sad
As long as I got enough to buy a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And I curse myself for the life Ive led
And roll myself a harry rag and put myself to bed
Ah, the smart young ladies of the land
Cant relax without a harry in their hand
And they light one and they boast and brag
So content because they got a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And theyll light one and theyll boast and brag
So content because they got a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Ill do anything just to get a harry rag
And I curse myself for the life Ive led
And roll myself a harry rag and put myself to bed

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harry Rag

Ah, tom is young and tom is bold
Tom is as bold as the knights of old
But whenever he gets in a bit of a jam
Theres nothing he wont do to get a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And he curses himself for the life hes led
And rolls himself a harry rag and puts himself to bed
Ah, toms old ma is a dying lass
Soon they all reckon shell be pushing up the grass
And her bones might ache and her skin might sag
But still shes got the strength to have a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And she curses herself for the life shes led
And rolls herself a harry rag and puts herself to bed
Ah, bless you tax man, bless you all
You may take some but you never take it all
But if I give it all, I wont feel sad
As long as I got enough to buy a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And I curse myself for the life Ive led
And roll myself a harry rag and put myself to bed
Ah, the smart young ladies of the land
Cant relax without a harry in their hand
And they light one and they boast and brag
So content because they got a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Do anything just to get a harry rag
And theyll light one and theyll boast and brag
So content because they got a harry rag
Harry rag, harry rag
Ill do anything just to get a harry rag
And I curse myself for the life Ive led
And roll myself a harry rag and put myself to bed

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harry the Wu

What can I do, Harry the Wu,
A policeman will come
And ask questions of you,
He'll pull out his book
And his pencil, too,
And look very sternly
At Harry the Wu.

Oh, Harry the Wu, what did you do,
While I was in bed
Going down with the flu,
I didn't get up until
Half past two,
And you're so impatient,
Harry the Wu.

I knew there was something that
I had to do,
I had to get up and feed
Harry the Wu,
That bowl in the fridge of
The left-over stew
Was meant for your dinner,
Harry the Wu.

Oh what can I do, Harry the Wu,
They'll probably lock you
Away in the zoo,
And then you will miss me
And I'll miss you too,
Life is a tragedy,
Harry the Wu.

I thought that you knew,
Harry the Wu,
That there are some things
You are not meant to do,
Now all that is left is
The Postman's shoe,
His hat and his bag
You have eaten them too.

What can I do, Harry the Wu,
You've ripped off the policeman's
Trousers, too,
You'd better go hide in
The chimney flu,
Stop wagging your tail at me
Harry the Wu.

13 April 2009

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harry Truman

America needs you
Harry truman
Harry could you please come home
Things are looking bad
I know you would be mad
To see your favorite men
Prevail upon the land you love
Americas wondering
How we got here
Harry all we get is lies
Were gettin safer cars
Rocket ships to mars
From men whod sell us out
To get themselves a piece of power
Wed love to hear you speak your mind
In plain and simple ways
Call a spade a spade
Like you did back in the days
You would play piano
Each morning walk a mile
Speak of what was going down
With honesty and style
Americas calling
Harry truman
Harry you know what to do
The world is turnin round and losin lots of ground
Oh harry is there something we can do to save the land we love
Oh woah woah woah
Americas calling
Harry truman
Harry you know what to do
The world is turnin round
And losin lots of ground
Harry is there something we can do to save the land we love
Oh
Harry is there something we can do to save the land we love
Harry
Harry is there something we can do to save the land we love

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harry

you must be smellin' cherries and strawberries and peaches
and plums
roses and dandelions

special lovin' on the nite I spent with you
it was the best that I've had lately
but it didn't mean anything
and I will be glad when you stop callin' me

harry
don't wanna be your girlfriend
but boy when you want the lovin'
come and see me harry

swore my ever lasting true love to you
said that I need ya I want ya didn't I baby
but I was just kiddin' 'round
and I will be glad when you stop callin' my house

harry
don't wanna be your girlfriend
but boy when you want the lovin'
come and see me harry

it's a shame harry
cause you such a beautiful thing harry
you tell em that you love and I bet you do
but love's not my thing right now harry
all I wanna do is swing
and when you're ready
I'm here for you

please harry
stop callin' me

harry
don't wanna be your girlfriend
but boy when you want the lovin'
feel free to come and see me harry

song performed by by Macy Gray from The ID
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Countryside Dream

Harry and his wife were up in their loft
at their home just outside Felixstowe
they were rummaging through stuff
left to them by his eccentric Aunt Flo.
'Old Flo loved to collect antiques, said Harry
she was always going to auctions and sales
so you never know what we could find
look, remember this old painting she bought in Wales? '
They wiped away years of dust and cobwebs
to reveal a picture of verdant fields and a stream
in the bottom corner was the artists signature
on the back were the words: A Countryside Dream.
Whilst looking for the picture and artist on the Internet
Harry suddenly began to sweat and then shake
because unbeknown to his eccentric Aunt Flo
she had obtained a masterpiece by the great Mr Cake.
So the painting went up for sale at Sotheby's
Harry and his wife wondering how much would it make?
It eventually sold for a staggering Fifty Million Quid
this Victorian masterpiece by the illustrious Mr Cake.
But sadly this tale isn't all what it seems
as poor old Harry was just having a weird dream
he'd fallen asleep whist watching the Antiques Roadshow
after eating far too much Cake, and Ice-Cream!

poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mess Of A Man

Meet a man,
A man named Harry,
He's in need of a shave,
And it's quite scary,

He's got hair on his chest,
Hair on his back,
Hair on his ass,
And hair in his crack,

He leaves hair on the soap,
Hair on the floor,
Hair every place,
Including the store,

Harry, dear Harry,
Do something, please,
Your hair retains odor,
And you reek of cheese!

Look at your cat,
What will you do?
Your cat's hairballs,
They're the hairs from you!

No hope, it seems,
For your hairiness,
It'll just regrow,
So live in your mess.

poem by Maddy Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harry’s Come Marching Home Again (Written In March 2008)

Harry’s come marching home again, Hooray! Hooray!
From Afghanistan, not to roam again, he is back, to stay.
Whilst the flags are out and the bugles blare
I am sure he wishes he still were there.
And we all feel proud Prince Harry has come back home.

Harry’s come flying home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Since media hacks have hunted him down as prey, for pay.
They’ve snitched and let the cat out of the bag
And he’s had to fly home and brave jet lag
And I’m sure he’s sick he’s had to come flying home.

Harry’s come sailing home again, Hooray! Hooray!
It would just have been a security risk to stay, they say.
Now the papers groan and wonder what
They can do with him, now he can’t get shot
But they’ve got their scoop now Harry’s come sailing home.

Harry’s come driving home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Now he can go back on the town again, to play and stray
And the paparazzi will take their snaps
While he’s on the booze with a few of the chaps
And they’ll take their cut now Harry’s come driving home.

Harry’s come marching home again, Hooray! Hooray!
From Afghanistan, not to roam again. Is he back to stay
Till the next time he is sent off to fight,
If they hush it up? Will it all be right?
Do we all feel proud Prince Harry has come back home?

poem by C. Richard Miles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Brickie

Sometimes his false teeth fell out as he ate
his sandwiches in the tea-break; but he had
the laughing eyes of a barrow boy and the
stride of Goliath. He liked a pint after work
and hated it when children didn`t get enough to eat.
No fan of book learning he was clever in his own way
- he could put up a wall quicker than a fat aunt
could crush a lost biscuit by sitting on it - and
we all liked him, even the boys from Letterkenny who
never said much.

We were gods of sand and gravel.
We could build anything.

And when we drove home through Islington
we all sang, Krishna like:

Harry Brickie, Harry Brickie, Brickie Brickie, Harry Harry.

Here`s to you mate.
Please forgive me for writing a poem about you.

poem by Leslie Philibert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Another Harrys Bar

Wet wind on the sidewalk: Im staring at the rain.
Walking up the street, yeah, and walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.
Got the scent of stale beer hanging, hanging round my head.
Old dog in the corner sleeping like he could be dead.
A book of matches and a full ashtray.
Cigarette left smoking its life away.
Another harrys bar -- or thats the tale they tell.
But harrys long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of harry will make this world turn right.
Itll all turn right.
Gods tears on the sidewalk: its the mother of all rain.
But in the thick blue haze of harrys, you will feel no pain.
And you will feel no soft hand slipping on your knee.
You dont have to pay for memories, they will all come free.
Another harrys bar -- or thats the tale they tell.
But harrys long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of harry will make this world turn right.
Itll all turn right.
Now when harry was a young man, harry was so debonair.
He walked a bouncy step in his shiny shoes.
And when harry was a young man, well, harry could walk on air.
He mixed a mean cocktail and he talked you through the late news.
You want to hear some great news?
Harrys still here.
Wet wind on the sidewalk: Im still staring at the rain.
Walking up the street, and Im walking down again.
And my feet are tired and my brain is numb.
See that broken neon sign saying, hey, in you come.
Another harrys bar -- or thats the tale they tell.
But harrys long gone now, and the customers as well.
Me and the dog and the ghost of harry will make this world turn right.
Itll all turn right.
Another harrys bar.
And another harrys bar.
And another, and another harrys bar.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Milkmaid's Song

Turn, turn, for my cheeks they burn,
Turn by the dale, my Harry!
Fill pail, fill pail,
He has turned by the dale,
And there by the stile waits Harry.
Fill, fill,
Fill, pail, fill,
For there by the stile waits Harry!
The world may go round, the world may stand still
But I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh!
O, if we two
Stood down there now by the water,
I know who'd carry me over the ford
As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord,
Though I don't live over the water.
Wheugh, wheugh! he's whistling through,
He's whistling 'The Farmer's Daugher.'
Give down, give down,
My crumpled brown!
He shall not take the road to the town,
For I'll meet him beyond the water.
Give down, give down,
My crumpled brown!
And send me to my Harry.
The folk o' towns
May have silken gowns,
But I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through
He has whistled through the water.
Fill, fill, with a will, a will,
For he's whistled through the water,
And he's whistling down
The way to the town,
And it's not 'The Farmer's Daughter!'
Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,
The sun sets over the water,
Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,
I'm too late for my Harry!
And, O, if he goes a-soldiering,
The cows they may low, the bells they may ring,
But I'll neither milk nor marry,
Fill pail,
Neither milk nor marry.

My brow beats on thy flank, Fill pail,
Give down, good wench, give down!
I know the primrose bank, Fill pail,
Between him and the town.
Give down, good wench, give down, Fill pail,
And he shall not reach the town!
Strain, strain! he's whistling again,
He's nearer by half a mile.
More, more! O, never before
Were you such a weary while!
Fill, fill! he's crossed the hill,
I can see him down by the stile,
He's passed the hay, he's coming this way,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
Give silken gowns to the folk o' towns,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
That she walks to-night with Harry!
Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon,
O, I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through,
My Harry! my lad! my lover!
Set the sun and fall the dew,
Heigh-ho, merry world, what's to do
That you're smiling over and over?
Upon the hill and down in the dale,
And along the tree-tops over the vale
Shining over and over,
Low in the grass and high on the bough,
Shining over and over,
O world, have you ever a lover!
You were so dull and cold just now,
O world, have you ever a lover?
I could not see a leaf on the tree,
And now I could count them, one, two, three,
Count them over and over,
Leaf from leaf like lips apart,
Like lips apart for a lover.
And the hillside beats with my beating heart,
And the apple-tree blushes all over,
And the May bough touched me and made me start,
And the wind breathes warm like a lover.

Pull, pull! and the pail is full,
And milking's done and over,
Who would not sit here under the tree?
What a fair fair thing's a green field to see!
Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me!
I have set my pail on the daisies!
It seems so light, - can the sun be set?
The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet.
I could cry to have hurt the daisies!
Harry is near, Harry is near,
My heart's as sick as if he were here,
My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet,
He hasn't uttered a word as yet,
But the air's astir with his praises.
My Harry!
The air's astir with your praises.

He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone,
He's among the kingcups, - he picks me one,
I love the grass that I tread upon
When I go to my Harry!
He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe,
There's never a faster foot I know,
But still he seems to tarry.
O Harry! On Harry! my love, my pride,
My heart is leaping, my arms are wide!
Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside,
Roll up, and bring my Harry!
They may talk of glory over the sea,
But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me,
My love, my lad, my Harry!
Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow,
What cares Dolly, whether or no,
While I can milk and marry?
Right or wrong, and wrong or right,
Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight,
But I'll bring my pail home every night
To love, and home, and Harry!
We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake,
There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the bake,
The world may sleep, the world may wake,
But I shall milk and marry,
And marry,
I shall milk and marry.

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Goody Blake and Harry Gill

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the 'canty' Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead:
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again?--on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"--
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!" 0
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poor old Harry!

Harry looked in his mirror
and he didn't like what he saw
his hair was thin and Grey
in fact he didn't have a lot anymore.
Although he was now in his fifties
he wanted to appear trendy and young
so when he noticed his thinning locks
it upset him because he was highly strung.
So he decided to change his look
and he went and bought himself a wig
Harry began to dress like a teenager
and pumped Iron to build muscle real big.
His wife thought that he'd gone mad
or he was having a secret affair
but Harry thought he looked great
especially with his new dark hair.
He felt like a young man again
as he danced at the disco every Saturday
but one night he slipped a disc in his back
and a strong wind blew his toupee away.
So no longer could he lift any heavy weights
and he couldn't afford another costly wig
then all that muscle turned to fat
and he grew large and very big.
So Harry decided to just age naturally
but alas things didn't go according to plan
sadly his wife had her own mid-life crisis
and she ran off with a much younger man!

poem by Kevin Halls
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Set In The Ways

Set in the ways we recognise,
The ways of men are not condemned;
Do not harry me intentionally or frustratingly,
Harry me never in this world.
Set the standards of health and live beyond,
Beyond this life is another death,
Death shall appear and recognise you.
Harassing me is like giving a death to me,
So please understand the ways of slaughter
Before you harry my body and mind
For your very benefit.
Men are smoothly appearing before us
With women on their shoulders,
Children are hanging not harrying
So please do not condemn their appearance,
It is another death.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Marry Or Not To Marry?

A Girl’s Reverie

Mother says, ‘Be in no hurry,
Marriage oft means care and worry.’

Auntie says, with manner grave,
‘Wife is synonym for slave.’

Father asks, in tones commanding,
‘How does Bradstreet rate his standing? ’

Sister, crooning to her twins,
Sighs, ‘With marriage care begins.’

Grandma, near life’s closing days,
Murmurs, ‘Sweet are girlhood’s ways.’

Maud, twice widowed (‘sod and grass’)
Looks at me and moans ‘Alas! ’

They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should aye be youth’s adviser.

They must know – and yet, dear me,
When in Harry’s eyes I see

All the world of love there burning –
On my six advisers turning,

I make an answer, ‘Oh, but Harry
Is not like most men who marry.’

‘Fate has offered me a prize,
Life with love means Paradise.’

‘Life without it is not worth
All the foolish joys of earth.’

So, in spite of all they say,
I shall name the wedding day.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flat Harry

Flat harry

Held onto his ship of 'one dimensionals'

His poster dream was full of ruin

His passion was to be found in the wreckage

These relics of some ancient grief

Flat harry kept a piece of the 'Titanic'

Under his bed

With his darkest dream

Flat harry was full of flaws and held his scars well

In a mirror crowd

He was the chat show celebrity

He gathered up his wounds for applause

He opened up his milk white pores

Knowing only clear white transparency

He slept at night with dreams of drowning

In someone elses life

Harry held onto his inflatables

His half intact ego

His 'tell it all confessional'

His 'dog collar' and his choirboy looks'

And someow he always floated to the surface

Amidst the so much ruin

The blank faced ocean

Still too shallow to drown

Head just above the abyss

And not for one second

Did he think

'There must be more to life than this? '

yvette m smith jan 09

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Songs Without Words

When they brought him to the Hospital

He was listed as John Doe.

He would have liked the irony-

as Harry Chapin was well known.

His hair was like a lion’s mane

His face both kind and strong

Though doctor’s tried and nurses cried

Harry had sung his last song.

Like Wednesdays’ child with far to go,

He’d been on the road that day.

He was scheduled for a concert

For which he’d take no pay.

He sang songs for the suppers

of the poor and the deprived.

He may not have been “Religious”

-but he lived life sanctified-

His car was observed slowing down

And weaving between lanes

He might even have been dying then

of Coronary pains.

The trucker behind him could not stop

He rode the brakes in vain.

The truck smashed into Harry’s car

which promptly burst in flames.

The Trucker and a Motorist

dragged Harry from the flames.

I’d dearly love to thank them both

But I don’t know their names.

They Med-evacuated him

A helicopter came.

They brought Him to Nassau County Med-

reporting “John Doe” as his name.

On that torrid summer day,

Without a breath of air,

There would not be an encore

That much, at least, was clear.

Harry’s eyes were glazing over,

It was certain he had passed.

I hope he had a peaceful end

when his Corey came at last.

(A tribute to Harry Foster Chapin: , Singer, Songwriter and Philanthropist. 12/07/42-07/16/81)

poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harrys Circumcision - Reverie Gone Astray

Looking in the mirror
Harry didnt like what he saw
The cheeks of his mother, the eyes of his father
As each day crashed around him
The future stood revealed
He was turning into his parents
The final disappointment
Stepping out of the shower
Harry stared at himself
His hairline receding, the slight overbite
He picked up the razor to begin his shaving and thought -
- oh, I wish I was different
I wish I was stronger
I wish I was thinner
I wish I didnt have this nose
These ears that stick out remind me of my father
And I dont want to be reminded at all
The final disappointment
Harry looked in the mirror thinking of vincent van gogh
And with a quick swipe lopped off his nose
And happy with that he made a slice where his chin was
Hed always wanted a dimple
The end of all illusion
Then peering down straight between his legs
Harry thought of the range of possibilities
A new face, a new life, no memories of the past
And slit his throat from ear to ear
Harry woke up with a cough
The stitches made him wince
A doctor smiled at him from
Somewhere across the room
Son, we saved your life
But youll never look the same
And when he heard that
Harry had to laugh
And when he heard that
Harry had to laugh
Although it hurt harry had to laugh
The final disappointment

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the road to Gundagai

Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out.
We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about,
So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.

Chorus
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai!
Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we'd Sydney in our eye.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Oh, I've seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I've met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar,
And we called for rum-an'-raspb'ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I —
And we camped at Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.

In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down,
So we shouldered our "Matildas," and we turned our backs on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said "Good bye,"
And we tramped from Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.

poem by Anonymous Oceania
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Road To Gundagai

Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out.
We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about,
So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.

But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai
The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai!
Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we'd Sydney in our eye.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Oh, I've seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I've met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar,
And we called for rum-an'-raspb'ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I
And we camped at Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.

In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down,
So we shouldered our "Matildas," and we turned our backs on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said "Good bye,"
And we tramped from Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai;

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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