The Prince of the Road.
In some countries he is called a hobo with trousers baggy.
In my country he is a swaggie.
His hair is unkempt, trouser belt a tie.
His hat would make the self respecting person cry.
His ragged beard plunging the depth of his chest,
Under it a worn and stained suits vest.
He wakes in the morn to the Kookaburra laugh,
He makes Billy tea and watches paddle steam craft.
They say he came from outback town to the west,
Some say he was an English duke complete with crest.
If so, he had thrown away a life ease and pleasure,
He had now only one great treasure.
As the Maggie sang he takes a small bundle from his swag,
It is carefully wrapped in oilskin and a velvet rag.
Once unwrapped it is now plain to be seen,
Small book and crests of two houses, a duke and queen.
Once the damper was cooking, after the kneading,
He can be found every morn his scriptures reading.
He had learned many years gone by,
The swaggie's appearance did not make his gracious Lord sigh.
His treasure spoke of the Saviour with kind and gentle spirit,
Who turned his back on temptation, took man's sin and bore it.
Morning saw a swaggie became prince of the road sitting with a King,
Finding the crested book each morn, enriching and warming.
The recipient of Gods blessing is superior to those that receive only the worlds blessing.
R. K. Hart 22/09/2012
Related quotes
The Swagless Swaggie
This happened many years ago
Before the bush was cleared,
When every man was six foot high
And wore a flowing beard.
One very hot and windy day,
Along the old coach road,
Towards Joe Murphy’s halfway house
A bearded bushman strode.
He was a huge and heavy man,
Well over six foot high,
An old slouch hat was on his head,
And murder in his eye.
No billy can was in his hand,
No heavy swag he bore,
But deep and awful were the oaths
That swagless swaggie swore.
At last he reached the shanty door,
Into the bar he burst,
He dumped his hat upon the floor,
And cursed and cursed and cursed.
A neighboring shed had just cut out;
The bar was nearly full
Of shearers and of bullockies
Who’d come to cart the wool.
They were a rough and ready lot,
The bushmen gathered there,
But every man was stricken dumb,
To hear the stranger swear.
He cursed the bush, he cursed mankind,
The whole wide universe.
It froze their very blood to hear
That swagless swaggie curse.
Joe Murphy seized an empty pot
And filled it brimming full.
The stranger raised it to his lips
And took a mighty pull.
This seemed to cool him down a bit;
He finished off the ale,
And to the crowd around the bar
He told his awful tale.
“I met the Ben Hall gang,” he said,
“The blankards stuck me up!
They pinched me billy, pinched me swag,
And pinched me flamin’ pup!
They turned me pockets inside out,
And took me only quid!
I never thought they’d pinch me pipe,
But swelp me gawd they did!
I spoke to ’em as man to man,
I said I’d fight ’em all;
I would have broke O’Mealleys neck,
And tanned the hide of Hall.
They only laughed, and said good-bye,
And rode away to brag
Of how they stuck a swaggie up
And robbed him of his swag.
“I never done ’em any harm,
I thought ’em decent chaps.
But now I wouldn’t raise a hand
To save ’em from the traps.
I’m finished with the bush for good,
I’m off to Wagga town
Where they won’t stick a swaggie up
Or take a swaggie down.
The bushmen were a decent lot,
As bushmen mostly are.
They filled the stranger up with beer;
The hat went round the bar.
The shearers threw some blankets in
To make another swag,
The rousers gave a billy can
And brand new tucker bag.
Joe Murphy gave a meerschaum pipe
He hadn’t smoked for years.
The stranger was too full of words,
His eyes were dim with tears.
The ringer shouted drinks all round
And then, to top it up,
The babbling brook, the shearers cook,
Gave him a kelpie pup.
Next day, an hour before the dawn,
The stranger took the track
Complete with pup and billy can,
His swag upon his back.
Along the most forsaken roads,
Intent on dodging graft,
He headed for the Great North West,
And laughed, and laughed and laughed.
poem by Edward Harrington
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cry Baby Cry
Cry baby cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better.
The king of marigold was in the kitchen
Cooking breakfast for the queen
The queen was in the parlour
Playing piano for the children of the king.
Cry baby cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry.
The king was in the garden
Picking flowers for a friend who came to play
The queen was in the playroom
Painting pictures for the childrens holiday.
Cry baby cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry.
The duchess of kircaldy always smiling
And arriving late for tea
The duke was having problems
With a message at the local bird and bee.
Cry baby cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry.
At twelve o'clock a meeting round the table
For a seance in the dark
With voices out of nowhere
Put on specially by the children for a lark.
Cry baby cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry cry cry cry baby
Make your mother sigh.
She's old enough to know better
Cry baby cry
Cry cry cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Hat!
The hats of a man may be many
In the course of a varied career,
And some have been worth not a penny
And some have been devilish dear;
But there's one hat I always remember
When sitting alone by the fire.
In the depth of a Northern November,
Because it fulfilled my desire.
It was old, it was ragged and rotten
And many years out of mode,
Like a thing that a tramp had forgotten
And left at the side of a road.
The boughs of the mulga had torn it,
It's ribbon was naught but lace,
And old swaggie would not have worn it
Without a sad smile on his face.
When I took off the hat to the ladies
It was rather with sorrow than swank,
And often I wished it in Hades
When the gesture drew only a blank;
But for swatting a fly on the tucker
Or lifting a quart from the fire
Or belting the ribs of a bucker
It was all that a man could desire.
When it ought to have gone to the cleaner's
(And stayed there, as somebody said!)
It was handy for flogging the weaners
From the drafting-yard into the shed.
And oft it has served as a dish for
A kelpie in need of a drink;
It was all that a fellow could wish for
In many more ways than you'd think.
It was spotted and stained by the weather,
There was more than one hole in the crown,
And it made little difference whether
The rim was turned up or turned down.
It kept out the rain (in a fashion)
And kept off the sun (more or less),
Bt it merely comanded compassion
Considered as part of one's dress.
Though it wasn't a hat you would bolt with
Or be anxious to borrow or hire,
It was useful to blindfold a colt with
Or handle a bit of barbed wire.
Though the world may have thought it improper
To wear such old rubbish as that,
I'd have scorned the best London-made topper
In exchange for my old battered hat.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After Ascension
Those twelve years from Ascension
Until the day of meeting broke,
She was not so much all alone
As it might seem to common folk,
Because no day passed without bliss:
He gives Himself back to her kiss.
He comes no more in human guise,
Yet He is in their midst again.
His wounds are there in all men's eyes,
So doubting Thomas sees them plain;
They pour the Wine and break the Bread,
And the heart's hunger's comforted.
The Apostle takes the Cup of Wine,
The white Bread on the paten bright,
O Food of angels dear, divine!
The Lord of Life comes down in light,
And sweeter than the honeycomb
Rests in the heart that was His home.
Give place! His Mother's claim is first;
Her arms embrace her Son once more:
On the kind breast where He was nurst
He hath sweet ease as oft before.
Morn after morn, through the twelve years,
His love makes rapture of her tears.
She guards the youngling Church as once
She kept her small Son while He grew,
Safe sheltered from the winds and suns,
Comforted with soft rain and dew;
Till it's full-grown and she is free
For the long bliss that is to be.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Simple Pleasures
In our lives, there are many little pleasures;
Little moments which we love to treasure.
Things which, on your face, put a smile,
Even if only for the very briefest while.
Sleeping between freshly laundered cotton sheets.
Breakfast in bed is an experience, which can’t be beat.
Discovering that you’ve at last lost a few pounds in weight.
Going to the cinema to see the latest film with a good mate.
Browsing around a second hand bookshop.
Making the bubbles on bubble-wrap pop!
Sitting, browsing through your old photos.
Playing about in the freshly fallen snow.
Singing your heart out to your favourite song in your car.
Meeting up for a drink with your friends at a local bar.
Curling up on the sofa with a hot drink and a good book.
Someone paying you a compliment on the way you look.
Waking up, thinking it’s a workday, and then discovering it’s the weekend.
Having a relaxing, girly night in, with your all of your close girlfriends.
When you make someone’s face light up with a big smile.
Catching up with old friends, you haven’t seen for a while.
Discovering a tenner in you pocket, which you forgot was there.
The odour of freshly cut grass filling the summer air.
Finding yourself in the quickest supermarket queue.
Having a relaxing massage or getting a new hair-do.
Getting all dressed up for a great, fun night out.
Eating your Mum’s Sunday roast, without a doubt.
Reading a good book on holiday by the pool.
The side of the pillow, which is lovely and cool.
When a random person smiles at you in the street,
Or when a person on a bus or train, gives you their seat.
Excitedly watching the very first snowfall of the year.
After work, sitting relaxing, sipping a nice, ice-cold beer.
Seeing a small baby clap their hands and joyfully laugh.
Lying back and relaxing in a luxurious, warm bubble bath.
When, from a friend, you receive a colourful, news filled letter.
When something happens, which makes everything feel better.
Different things bring different people pleasure,
So it can be difficult to calculate the exact measure.
But I suspect that at least one of the above,
Describes something which you really love.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Duke Of Earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
As I walk through this world
Nothing can stop the duke of earl
And you, you are my girl
No one can hurt you, oh, no
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Come on let me hold you, darlin
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
And when I hold you
Youll be my duchess, duchess of earl
Well walk through my dukedom
And a paradise we will share
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Nothing can stop me now
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Come on let me hold you, darlin
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Duke (nothing can stop me now), duke of earl
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The King’s Beard
There lived a king with beard so long
And scalp with scarcely hair!
He used a comb and sang a song
And groomed it with great care.
The king was proud of his long beard
That made him look so wise!
The queen, his wife knew he looked weird
And cursed him for its size!
The queen was therefore always sad;
His lip got hid by hair!
But one day, she was rather glad;
She told him, she couldn’t bear!
One day, the king slept while he read
A book that was folklore!
He had a dream asleep in bed;
“His beard had grown some more! ”
A burning candle-stick fell down
And lit the curtain-blind;
His beard had caught the fire sown!
The king was off his mind!
His nose smelt smoke: he woke in fright;
His beard was all aflame!
He shaved the stubs of hair by night
And took on him all blame!
The next day when the people saw
The king, they couldn’t believe
Their eyes and gazed at him with awe!
“Could eyes of dawn deceive? ”
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Baggy Trousers
Naughty boys in nasty schools
Headmasters breaking all the rules
Having fun and playing fools
Smashing up the woodwork tools
All the teachers in the pub
Passing round the ready-rub
Trying not to think of when
The lunch-time bell will ring again.
Oh what fun we had
But, did it really turn out bad
All I learnt at school
Was how to bend not break the rules
Oh what fun we had
But at the time it seemed so bad
Trying different ways
To make a difference to the days.
Headmasters had enough to-day
All the kids have gone away
Gone to fight with next-doors school
Every term, that is the rule
Sits alone and bends his cane
Same old backsides again
All the small ones tell tall tales
Walking home and squashing snails.
Oh what fun we had
But, did it really turn out bad
All I learnt at school
Was how to bend not break the rules
Oh what fun we had
But at the time it seemed so bad
Trying different ways
To make a difference to the days.
Lots of girls and lots of boys
Lots of smells and lots of noise
Playing football in the park
Kicking pushbikes after dark
Baggy trousers, dirty shirt
Pulling hair and eating dirt
Teacher comes to break it up
Back of the ead with a plastic cup.
Oh what fun we had
But, did it really turn out bad
All I learnt at school
Was how to bend not break the rules
Oh what fun we had
But at the time it seemed so bad
Trying different ways
To make a difference to the days.
Baggy trousers, baggy trousers, baggy trousers
Baggy trousers, baggy trousers, baggy trousers
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just Be A Blessing
Be a blessing to others
Be kind with your words
Small it might be
It will make a big difference
Inner peace attracts blessings
And gives purpose and meaning
In our lives
Try not to be bitter but a better person each day
Just be a blessing....and be happy
poem by Meggie Gultiano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Christmas Carol
Welcome, sweet Christmas, blest be the morn
That Christ our Saviour was born!
Earth's Redeemer, to save us from all danger,
And, as the Holy Record tells, born in a manger.
Chorus --
Then ring, ring, Christmas bells,
Till your sweet music o'er the kingdom swells,
To warn the people to respect the morn
That Christ their Saviour was born.
The snow was on the ground when Christ was born,
And the Virgin Mary His mother felt very forlorn
As she lay in a horse's stall at a roadside inn,
Till Christ our Saviour was born to free us from sin.
Oh! think of the Virgin Mary as she lay
In a lowly stable on a bed of hay,
And angels watching O'er her till Christ was born,
Therefore all the people should respect Christmas morn.
The way to respect Christmas time
Is not by drinking whisky or wine,
But to sing praises to God on Christmas morn,
The time that Jesus Christ His Son was born;
Whom He sent into the world to save sinners from hell
And by believing in Him in heaven we'll dwell;
Then blest be the morn that Christ was born,
Who can save us from hell, death, and scorn.
Then he warned, and respect the Saviour dear,
And treat with less respect the New Year,
And respect always the blessed morn
That Christ our Saviour was born.
For each new morn to the Christian is dear,
As well as the morn of the New Year,
And he thanks God for the light of each new morn.
Especially the morn that Christ was born.
Therefore, good people, be warned in time,
And on Christmas morn don't get drunk with wine
But praise God above on Christmas morn,
Who sent His Son to save us from hell and scorn.
There the heavenly babe He lay
In a stall among a lot of hay,
While the Angel Host by Bethlehem
Sang a beautiful and heavenly anthem.
Christmas time ought to be held most dear,
Much more so than the New Year,
Because that's the time that Christ was born,
Therefore respect Christmas morn.
And let the rich be kind to the poor,
And think of the hardships they do endure,
Who are neither clothed nor fed,
And Many without a blanket to their bed.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christmas Hymn
Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn
Whereon our Saviour-King is born;
Sing to all men,-the bond, the free,
The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The little child that sports in glee,
The aged folk that tottering go,-
Proclaim the morn
That Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that God has placed
Above the manger in the east;
Sing of the glories of the night,
The virgin's sweet humility,
The Babe with kingly robes bedight,
Sing to all men where'er they be
This Christmas morn;
For Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
God liveth, and we have a king!
The curse is gone, the bond are free,-
By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,
By all the heavenly signs that be,
We know that Israel is redeemed;
That on this morn
The Christ is born
That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn
Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love,
So let my deeds be charity,-
By the dear Lord that reigns above,
By Him that died upon the tree,
By this fair morn
Whereon is born
The Christ that saveth all and me!
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Treasured
A treasure that was given,
Was dismissed before declared.
The value of it was unknown...
So its purpose was not shared.
It sat amongst the midst of the people.
And they ignored its glow.
They ignored the power of it.
And for years its existence,
The people claimed not to know.
One day the treasure was spotted by a stranger.
Someone who had lived and been around.
Someone who knew what to value in life...
And stumbled accidently,
Upon this small town.
Instantly the treasure was recognized.
And the stranger could not believe what was seen.
The treasure was grateful a respect was shown.
And the people were surprised...
What had been announced by the stranger,
Had not been known!
But it was too late!
The treasure was only there,
To have someone appreciate it.
That appreciation was given!
And the stranger and the treasure...
Forever became enriched friends.
And left together feeling blessed,
They had found each other treasured!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lines On A Late Hospicious Ewent, By A Gebtleman Of The Footguards (Blue)
I paced upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:
Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.
While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!
The Ministers of State
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.
With anxious looks intent,
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President,
And there the Archbishopp.
Lord John he next elights;
And who comes here in haste?
'Tis the ero of one underd fights,
The caudle for to taste.
Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,
Towards them steps with joy;
Says the brave old Duke, 'Come tell to us,
Is it a gal or a boy?'
Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,
'Your Grace, it is A PRINCE.'
And at that nuss's bold rebuke,
He did both laugh and wince.
He vews with pleasant look
This pooty flower of May,
Then, says the wenarable Duke,
'Egad, it's my buthday.'
By memory backwards borne,
Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born,
Upon the first of May.
Perhaps he did recal
The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.
I phansy of him so
His good old thoughts employin';
Fourscore years and one ago
Beside the flowin' Boyne.
His father praps he sees,
Most Musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpsicords.
Jest phansy this old Ero
Upon his mother's knee!
Did ever lady in this land
Ave greater sons than she?
And I shoudn be surprize
While this was in his mind,
If a drop there twinkled in his eyes
Of unfamiliar brind.
. . . . .
To Hapsly Ouse next day
Drives up a Broosh and for,
A gracious prince sits in that Shay
I mention him with Hor!)
They ring upon the bell,
The Porter shows his Ed,
(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,
And vears a Veskit red).
To see that carriage come,
The people round it press:
'And is the galliant Duke at ome?'
'Your Royal Ighness, yes.'
He stepps from out the Broosh
And in the gate is gone;
And X, although the people push,
Says wary kind, 'Move hon.'
The Royal Prince unto
The galliant Duke did say,
'Dear duke, my little son and you
Was born the self same day.
'The Lady of the land,
My wife and Sovring dear,
It is by her horgust command
I wait upon you here.
'That lady is as well
As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell
This gracious message free.
'That offspring of our race,
Whom yesterday you see,
To show our honor for your Grace,
Prince Arthur he shall be.
'That name it rhymes to fame;
All Europe knows the sound:
And I couldn't find a better name
If you'd give me twenty pound.
'King Arthur had his knights
That girt his table round,
But you have won a hundred fights,
Will match 'em I'll be bound.
'You fought with Bonypart,
And likewise Tippoo Saib;
I name you then with all my heart
The Godsire of this babe.'
That Prince his leave was took,
His hinterview was done.
So let us give the good old Duke
Good luck of his god-son.
And wish him years of joy
In this our time of Schism,
And hope he'll hear the royal boy
His little catechism.
And my pooty little Prince
That's come our arts to cheer,
Let me my loyal powers ewince
A welcomin of you ere.
And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,
I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found
For honest Pleaseman X.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Oh out near stonehenge, I lived alone
Oh out near gamehendge, I chafed a bone
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
Talk my duke a mountain, helping friendly book
Inasfar as fiefdom, I think you bad crook
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
I talked to mike christian, rog and pete the same
When we had that meeting, over down near game(henge)
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
You got me back thinkin that youre the worst one
I must inquire, wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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3. Riches
No silver spoon when I was born
Or riches in a treasure chest
Without the wealth to help me through
I quickly learned to do my best
By finding all the best in life
Costs nothing it comes free
Respect is something you can’t buy
You earn it there’s no fee
I did my best and earned respect
Gave back more than a measure
By giving others things I’d learned
Meant a poor man could have treasure
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Been There Done That
I've seen the devil,
Stared him straight in the eyes.
Danced in his fire on my darkest nights.
Laid in his garden an' I drank his wine.
Slept with temptation to laugh at salvation:
It almost saved me alive.
Oh, I've been there done that, had my thrill:
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road,
I ain't goin' back again.
I caused more damage than a hurricane.
I broke your heart an' didn't feel a thing. (I walked.)
Then walked away and cursed your name in vain. (Cursed your name.)
But with you as my witness,
You gave me forgiveness,
Now I've got a second chance.
Oh, I've been there done that, had my thrill:
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road.
He's knockin' at my door,
Ain't walkin' round here no more.
Been there, done that,
Ain't goin' back again, no!
Instrumental Break.
I was the baddest mother that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Been there, done that,
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road.
I ain't goin' back again,
Oh, no!
Been there, done that.
I was the life of the party, yeah.
(Been there, done that.)
To fade.
song performed by by Van Zant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boon Soul
Behold! I'm old; my hair is white;
My eighty years are in the offing,
And sitting by the fire to-night
I sip a grog to ease my coughing.
It's true I'm raucous as a rook,
But feeling bibulously "bardy,"
These lines I'm scribbling in a book:
The verse complete of Thomas Hardy.
Although to-day he's read by few,
Him have I loved beyond all measure;
So here to-night I riffle through
His pages with the oldtime pleasure;
And with this book upon my knee,
(To-day so woefully neglected)
I muse and think how soon I'll be
Myself among the Great Rejected.
Yet as these lines with zest I write,
Although the hour for me is tardy,
I think: "Of all the world to-night
'Tis I alone am reading Hardy";
And now to me he seems so nigh
I feel I commune with his spirit,
And as none love him more than I,
Thereby I gain a modest merit.
Oh Brother Thomas, glad I'll be,
Though all the world may pass unheeding,
If some greybeard con over me,
As I to-night your rhymes are reading;
Saying: "Old Bastard, you and I
By sin are knit in mind and body. . . ."
So ere to hit the hay I hie
Your ghost I'll toast in midnight toddy.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whom the World Calls Idle
He is brother-born to the wind. Its song, in his heart implanted,
Stirs and wakes when the morning breaks and the wide horizon burns;
He is brother-born to the sea, and visions of isles enchanted
Slowly rise to his dreaming eyes from the furrow his labor turns.
Child of fate, be it soon or late that his heart he learns to know,
Not his to say if he roam or stay when the summons bids him go:
Brother-born to the wind of morn, he must share its endless quest
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!
The stretch of the open road, the challenge of heights unmounted,
The distant cry of the beasts that lie at the mouth of some latent lair,
The sweep of the pathless plain and the speeding of miles uncounted,
When the rangers ride, with a star for guide, in the face of the battling air—
These are his whose fortune is, like the tireless tide’s, to roam,
Brother-born to the wind of morn, with the whole wide world for home:
Child of the soil, he must turn from toil to the dim and dreamt-of West,
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!
Song of the stately pines to the winds of northward high lands,
Song of the palms across the calms that sleep on the long lagoon,
Glamour of breathless dawns on the shores of southward islands,
And the mystical light that tells the night of the birth of the tardy moon:
These—at the gate of his future fate, where the earthly questings end
And the shadows fall—he hath learned to call by the sacred name of friend;
These, in the strife of his hapless life, he hath learned to love the best
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!
Then shall it be for us, who have dreamed no dream Elysian,
To cry the ban of our fellow-man who brings no grist to mill?
’T is the verve of his viking sires that awakes the plough-boy’s vision,
And the rover roil in the child of toil is the roil of the rover still!
What is it all, this thrill and thrall, that hath mapped his earthly plan,
Unless some gain we may not explain in the onward march of man?
Brother-born to the wind of morn, may his lot be not the best
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest?
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1899)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Southern Kind Of Life
I grew up along way from here
I slept with the lights on for fifteen years
And Sabbath kept me home on Friday nights
and Daddy sang me Rodgers
just to make everything alright
My town wasn't even on the map
You could pass right through it in twenty seconds flat
But the south was like the whole world to me
it wasn't easy to stay but it was harder to leave
Yeah I was a south bound child
Yeah I had a small town life
But I turned out alright in the north
Livin' that southern kind of life
Old friends and bibles filled the house
no room for money and no money anyhow
deprived was something we always heard
but to me and my brother it was just another word
I use to think the north was the end
Cause people go there and they don't come back again
but my father's father was a man of the sea
He lived a southern life two blocks away from me
Yeah I was a south bound child
Yeah I had a small town life
But I turned out alright in the north
Livin' that southern kind of life
Yeah I was a south bound child
Yeah I had a small town life
But I turned out alright in the north
Livin' that southern kind of life
song performed by by Kasey Chambers from The Captain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scared Money
Come to my window
I'll leave it open
Sometimes a girl just needs fresh air
I have a garden
Do you like flowers
Just through the gates it is my world
Lets take a ride
You'll drive my car
We'll put the top down and name stars
I have this candy
My mother gave me
I'll share if you don't tell no one
I know you're afraid to come with me
But tonight I'm gonna present you with pleasure, with pleasure
See scared money don't make none
So role with me and I will be your treasure, your treasure
I know you're afraid to come with me
But tonight I'm gonna present you with pleasure, with pleasure
See scared money don't make none
So role with me and I will be your treasure, your treasure
It's rainng now
I'm soaking wet but I think I like it baby
It's hot in here
I'll make it clear that I really want you baby
I'm fighting porn and it's still morning
You make me leave my conscience baby
I'm not scared of truth or dare
But nothing is just nonsense baby
I know you're afraid to come with me
But tonight I'm gonna present you with pleasure, with pleasure
See scared money don't make none
So role with me and I will be your treasure, your treasure
song performed by by Kelis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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