Verisimilitude of Grandiose II: The Fiesta
Unlatch the porticos of this colossal wardrobe
Titivated with banderitas and foxtrot musicales
And you shall find the serpentine-reposed bedlam
Hissing in the cacophony of a grandiose festival
Where everyone gorge upon the guilty pleasure
Of watching a picador ignite the wick of a skirmish
Brawl with the raging prongs of an uncouth bull
And their eyes flutter with the palming sway of the cloth
Painted in the incinerating passion of blood thirst
And the echoing roars of their squalid orifices
That is either hungry for a sloppy tongue sex
Or for a cigarillo, or a rum, or a chance
To spill out the teeming chutzpa and arrogance;
Unsheathes an impaling impetus to the picador
With his heart bursting on the creases of the seams.
Definitely, he is the idée fixe of the festivity
But the pantomimic cries of the spectators
Are not for the invigoration of the valiant exhibition
But for whetting the bull's smoldering horns
And for hasting the coiling death of the picador.
The rendezvous of the scant chest and the horn
Will rejoice and hurtle with the frenzied ambiance
And revel with the inebriation of injury
That shall draw more of their infinite sycophancy
While the picador gratifies himself with the potency
In another festival inside the bones' frailty;
Indeed, life is a blaring pulp of a fiesta.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Burnt
Why can't we look
Deep inside ourselves?
While my sole existence
Is a fountain of amber
In the breadth of your
Burning waltz with each other
You fan his putrefaction
By throwing a dry stick
And the victim of the immolation
Is my scarce flame
And he fans his own fire
With the coals of my dying
To meet a fire break
With you
While the sly tongue
Of fire I held is
A picador hurtling
For its own death
Because I shall not
Succumb to this
Incendiary death
So while we banter
About valiance,
Lies and promises,
And selfishness,
I shall careen into
The holes of the stitches.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gil, the Toreador
THE QUEEN sat in her balcony,
The Loveliest of Spain;
Beneath rode all the chivalry,
And roses fell like rain
To crown the gallant gentlemen
The gonfalon who bore:
A woman’s favor fell for one,—
Gil, the Toreador.
Beneath the royal canopy,
To see the red bull slain,
They sat, like loyal lovers,
The King and Queen of Spain.
Came marshal, noble, knight and squire,
Chulo and picador:
Of all a woman saw but one,—
Gil, the Toreador.
The trumpets clanged, the sport was on,
The royal sport of Spain;
Maddened by shouts and thrust of lance
The bull now charged amain:
Down to their death went chulos then,
And many a matador:—
A woman only knew there fell
Gil, the Toreador.
When through the streets of proud Madrid
Swept next the courtly train,
Sat not upon her balcony
The Loveliest of Spain.
Long live the King and his fair Queen,
Still loyal thousands roar:—
None know what woman died when fell
Gil, the Toreador.
poem by Charles Harper Webb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Verisimilitude of Grandiose IV: Backyard Rendezvous
Puncture the vermilion bleeding and find
The veracity in torment that buried your feet
Among the Venus Traps and asphodels
Of the immaculate Garden of Eden
And do not be deceived by the serpent's lure
That you are among the stained-glass butterflies
For you are banished amid their psychedelic eyes
In your untainted hues they have surmised
What putrid medley of a garden you are!
If I can proffer a veritable escape goat
I will immolate the assuage of sedations for
A revelry is a revelry, a carousal is a carousal, and
Honesty, sincerity, love or the deficiency thereof,
Is not invited in the garden rendezvous
So come, in your best tuxedo and best masque
Clandestine a sympathy for a poor picador
And engage in a preposterous charade
But never show it to anyone
Not even a tatterdemalion flower on the wall
Or a woebegone harried jester
Because you do not want to be a tea bag
Or a gnat among the butterflies
In this soigné and mirthful garden tryst.
And if you can, ingest the redolent
Of conceit, deceit, and defeat
In the verisimilitude of grandiosity;
Indeed, life is an ubiquitous backyard rendezvous.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gambling (Last Card)
I shuffled like a virtuoso -
A picador taunting his sly perdition
with his bloody caper
but there was no console
in defeating the beast
by becoming one
and with every fold and shamble
I lost my flimsy gaze
from you
Or was it you
who abandoned my frail hopes?
Regardless,
the tables had turned
and the dice
had rolled perfidiously
trouncing my gambles
The roulette fell
on its own vertigo
and the house of cards toppled
and in this speculated demise
I held you, waveringly
with a feigned assurance
for you are my
last card
and I cannot afford
to lose
in haggling and waging
against my wracking bones
So when I laid you,
in between the rapine
of all my machinations,
hoping for hope,
I laid you
to my defeat
I knew
that I lost you
with all that I earned
in our gambles
So in this roofless chasm
I wallowed against
the deluge
of trepidation
losing and losing
without a gamble
and no
condole
at all.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Saudade Banquet
A plethora of unconscious states dwindle
And sifts through the intricately entangled
Living, whilst recounting the direst in every breath
Fumbling downhill the insurmountable breadth
Of superfluous strides towards a slumbering aubade
Without a paramour, a beau without the valor
To brawl and bicker with the profane matrimony
To the innuendos of the picador's grand party—
The clout of spears girdled to every slip of malady
Augmented for every bat of the lash, regardless of
Vying, struggling, living on the surface or not,
We all are rather desiccating beneath our colors
Dead as cold fountains trying to spew glacial films
Of flimsy incorporeal yearnings, searing aloft
Reaching the singeing grazes of the Quasar King
Building a vertex to oust the quintessence,
To kiss the ring and slob the strangling,
Dispensing the stashed castles into the quicksand
And fulminating the feral feint cloyed inside
The orbs and corpuscles pumping not too subtly
As the myriad of action crawls in every word
To personify the form of a double-edged sword
That this nostalgic flagellating wisps beckon.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I remember in 1968 when we were in Cannes, in the festival, and we were supposed to be there 10 days, and the second day the festival collapsed because the French, you know, film-makers raised the red flag in the festival and ended the festival.
quote by Milos Forman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Bull For Me
I think, Sirs, and most inimitable Ladies
I think I prefer to look at a bull
The sketch of a bull, the head of a bull perhaps
even if but a study by an artist
rather than some fancy prophet in glorious paint
or in grand chapel or some miracle recounted
in paint and colors and with consummate skill
or even God descending
ah, all these do not take my fancy
they smack too much of the Elevated;
there’s too much
of the grandstanding in these
Grand Divine Themes
but the face of a bull, ah give me a sketch
of the face of a bull
just the bull, all marks of nature in it
and just itself
no symbolism, no conceit, no artifice
no High sounding theology, no Revelation
but just animal nature in its nudity
being a bull
just animal, its eyes and mouth and horns
just all coming together to form one creature
a portrait of a bull anytime for me
Sirs and most inimitable Ladies
none of the Holy Ones and the Great Prophets
and the Mighty and the Divine
and the Grand-Looking:
no bull for me, please;
just the plain head of a bull, as it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No Bulls-Hit
Pink rain fell on the matador's hat
As the bull she'd slain lay beneath her feet
Its mouth a gap its nostrils still flared
And its life and tearblood rushed from his splayed chest
No tears or words were used as slowly her blade was drawn from flesh
And when the spray of rain did cleanse the blood
The blade gleamed like cupid's cursed arrows
And the edges seemed sharper than its irony
She stood there with the bull's scarred heart lying out an offering
And slowly she turned claiming his death for her game
She is a matador and evasion is her game
The nearer came the bull the better fun for her
Till finally straight on he near caught her
Now he lays dead.
poem by Evan Histed
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Merry Christmas - triolet
A festival of brotherhood, love and joy,
Celebrating Christmas, everyone enjoy.
Angels come down, to inspect the fiesta,
A festival of brotherhood, love and joy.
Jesus sends blessings, on his birthday,
Santa brings gifts, coming all the way.
A festival of brotherhood, love and joy,
Celebrating Christmas, everyone enjoy.
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
San Fermin Festival - the police
scolds the errant runner
'Dont behave like a Bull.'
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Hypnosis Into Sleep....
the river of life
is taking me to nowhere
i have no complaint
i am using no feet of this earth
i am sailing on its waters
the river of life is raging
and raging like a bull with its long horns and smoke on its nose
i am sitting on a raft
sleepy, very very sleepy, and i hear no more the screams of mankind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Shrimp Festival Pocorn Shrimp
popcorn.a clowns horn.we, the forlorn love our adjourned.me to mourn the morn, when a trash man blows his horn.the torn banner and shrimp festival cantor, over for now, be back in the summer.what a bummer i need to bleed, summer rolls and summer feeds.look at me.did you succeed in daily winters? or are you a lover, a shrimp festival beginner?
poem by Chris Bowen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Vicissitude II: Spring
The picador sun retires
And pants gloriously in his throne
His sweat quenched the drought;
Ocher turns to green and yellow
Marauding with the superfluity
Of palettes soused in nubile flowers—
A chateau of jaunty heraldries
And in the subterfuge of its alleys
I trampled in a quaint boudoir;
A loquacious room for a witling orchid
In the labyrinthine contours of the heather
I strife, I stride, I earnestly bristle
The verdure of saccharine spring time
But the pristine panoramic scene
Diverges a tatterdemalion man
Lost in dainty blossoming days
So I sifted through the prairies,
Ran across turfs, knolls, and valleys,
And slumber with a wilting orchid
The maelstrom of iridescent petals
That dabs the flagellating thorns
Oscillates like the sun and moon
With soporific lulls and inebriated
Pangs of melancholia in gnarls
Chagrined by the superfluity
Foreboding the dawn of debauchery
In the bosom of a redolent spring
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE...by Talile Ali
IVE SEEN ALL KINDS OF UGLINESS PRACTICED BY FOLKS THESE DAYS
BECAUSE THEY'RE PRETTY THEY SEEM TO THINK IT'S OK
TO RUN AROUND WRECKLESSLY AND DESTROY ALL THEY MAY
FOR SOME REASON NO ONE WILL PUT THEM IN PLACE
THEY LET THEM RUN AROUND AND RUIN A SPACE
AS IF BEING PRETTY WAS A LICENCE TO DEFACE
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
FOR PERPETUATING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
WHEN AN ARGUEMENT COMES WALKIN THRU THAT FRONT DOOR
PRETTY WILL BE USED TO SHUT IT DOWN AND WHATS MORE
IT NEVER UNDERSTANDS WHAT THE HELL FOR
THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT HOW ALL OF US PLAY
AROUND WITH PRETTY HOPING TO BE RUBBED THE RIGHT WAY
PRETTY ALWAYS ONLY HAS IT ONE WAY-IT'S DAY!
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
FOR PERPETUATING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
SO IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF BEING DRAWN UPON SOME DAY
GY SOMEONE PRETTY, THEN IT'S BEST RUN AWAY
CAUSE IF YOU DON'T YOU WILL BE THOROUGHLY PLAYED
AS YOU WATCH YOUR WORLD SPIN OUT OF CONTROL
YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH OF A FOOL YOU'VE BEEN SHOWED
YOUR IMAGE CORRUPTED AS IT APPEARS WHEN IT SO NEAR
PRETTY PEOPLE
FOR PERPETUATING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
poem by Talile Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Need Red
He sees red. In a snap, He frees head
He flings it, away with all decorum.
A quorum, his mental faculty cannot form
His mind is at once deformed into the form,
Of a moon-pest, a lunatick.
He read red, spread through their blunders
So like a bull, in a china shop
He began to pull, the whole place assunder,
Breaking bones, taking home,
No prisoners; this irate wave, roars like thunder.
Red, the unspoken language of violence,
The color of bloodshed,
The emblem of the hot-head.
Red, a madman, shouting in ire
Aflame with rage, eyes ablaze like hell-fire.
But now I see red, and instead of dread,
I see bread, and see wine,
I see the blood at the lamposts.
I see the angel of death pass over,
I see freedom, and I see strength.
I see red, and I see passion
A hue never out of fashion,
For red is blood, and blood is life
And as life is always is vogue,
So is rouge always in vogue.
Still I see red, the fire of desire
I see red, and begin to inquire,
'This red, how is it bred? '
And they say, 'red is primary,
It's never second, ask at the Infirmary.'
Yes, I see red, the cord that bonds kindred,
I see red, the blood that burns incense,
Before the Great Throne, offering sacrifices
For my sins, though unseen.
I see red, and see, that I need red.
poem by Joba Akinola
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
1. Cogida and death
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.
The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.
A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
2. The Spilled Blood
I will not see it!
Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it!
The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.
I will not see it!
Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!
I will not see it!
The cow of the ancient world
passed har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!
Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!
3. The Laid Out Body
Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.
All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.
What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.
Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.
Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.
I want them to show me a lament like a river
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!
4. Absent Soul
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever
The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.
Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.
Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
poem by Federico García Lorca
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Picasso's Skull Caps Occupied Horses Falling
events blasts centre stages frog marches
occupied horses falling in countless agonies
run through spear javelin bayonet thrusts
large gaping torn wounds realities cruelties
horse's sides life bleeds potent swift years
devoured bull dictators devour ripe bellies
view human skull death brews demon changes
overlays victim horse's body escape crushed kneels
gore fleet horse freedom underneath deceptions
bull's horns gore tossed rent sacrifices flesh forms blood rivers
break escape equestrian front facing legs sanctuary sought shelters
seeks knee blood ground knee in groin leg's knee wobble forms
skull caps counting coup taken head's nose concussion bleeds
horn appears within horse's breast to savage despair steal souls
bull's tail forms images flame worship incendiary burning bombs
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
PRETTY'S NO EXCUSE...by Talile Ali
SEEN ALL KINDS OF UGLINESS DONE BY FOLKS THESE DAYS
JUST CAUSE THEY'RE PRETTY THEY SEEM TO THINK IT'S OK
TO RUN AROUND WRECKLESSLY AND DESTROY WHAT THEY MAY
FOR SOME REASON NO ONE WILL PUT THEM IN THEIR PLACE
THEY LET THEM RUN AROUND AND RUIN THE SPACE
BEING PRETTY IS THEIR LICENCE TO DEFACE
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
FOR PERPETUATING SELF-SERVING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
WHEN AN ARGUEMENT COMES WALKIN THRU THAT FRONT DOOR
PRETTY WILL BE USED TO SHUT IT DOWN AND WHATS MORE
IT NEVER GIVES A DAMN OR WHAT THE HELL FOR
SAD TRUTH ABOUT IT IS THAT WE ALL PLAY
AROUND WITH PRETTY HOPING TO BE RUBBED RIGHT THAT DAY
BUT PRETTY ALWAYS HAS IT DONE JUST ONE WAY-ITS WAY
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
FOR PERPETUATING SELF-SERVING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
SO IF YOU FIND YOUR SELF BEING DRAWN UPON SOME DAY
BY SOMEONE PRETTY, THEN IT'S BEST YOU RUN AWAY
CAUSE IF YOU DON'T YOU WILL BE CHEWED UP AND THROWN AWAY
AS YOU WATCH YOUR WORLD SPIN OUT OF CONTROL
YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH A FOOL YOU'VE BEEN SHOWED
YOUR IMAGE CORRUPTED AS IT APPEARS WHEN IT SO WITH
PRETTY PEOPLE
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
FOR PERPETUATING SELF-SERVING ABUSE
RAGING BULL ON THE LOOSE
PRETTY IS NO
PRETTY IS NO EXCUSE
poem by Talile Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Harvest Festival
See the flowers round the altar
See the peaches in tins neath the headmasters chair
Harvest festival
See the two whove been chosen
See them walk hand in hand to the front of the hall
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
See the children with baskets
See their hair cut like corn neatly combed in their rows
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
Across the hymnbooks and the canvas chairs
The longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
What a year when the exams and crops all failed
Of course you passed but you were never seen again
We all grew and we got screwed and cut and nailed
Then out of nowhere invitation in gold pen
See the flowers round the altar
See that you too got married and I wish you well
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
Across the hymnbooks and the canvas chairs
The longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
Harvest festival
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Harvest Festival
See the flowers round the altar
See the peaches in tins neath the headmasters chair
Harvest festival
See the two whove been chosen
See them walk hand in hand to the front of the hall
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
See the children with baskets
See their hair cut like corn neatly combed in their rows
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
Across the hymnbooks and the canvas chairs
The longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
What a year when the exams and crops all failed
Of course you passed but you were never seen again
We all grew and we got screwed and cut and nailed
Then out of nowhere invitation in gold pen
See the flowers round the altar
See that you too got married and I wish you well
Harvest festival
Harvest festival
What was best of all was the
Longing look you gave me
That longing look
Across the hymnbooks and the canvas chairs
The longing look you gave me
That longing look
More than enough to keep me fed all year
Harvest festival
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!