Asinus Ad Lyram
isn't it awkward
that an asshole
is playing the lyre?
or the turtle again
into the rat race?
or the fish vendor
into poetry?
unless there is a miracle
then let the mute sing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Asshole Song
Well I was drivin' down I-95 the other night.
Somebody nearly cut me right off the road.
I decided it wasn't gonna do any good to get mad.
So I wrote a song about him instead.
It goes like this...
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an asshole tonight.
Yes you're an A S S H O L E...
And don't you try to blame it on me.
You deserve all the credit.
You're an asshole tonight.
You were an asshole yesterday.
You're an asshole tonight.
And I've got a feelin'
you'll be an asshole the rest of your life.
And I was talkin' to your mother
just the other night.
I told her I thought you were an asshole.
She said, "Yes. I think you're right."
And all your friends are assholes
'cause you've known them your whole life.
And somebody told me
you've got an asshole for a wife.
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an aaaass...hole tonight.
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Idiot Son Of An Asshole
He's not smart, a C student
And that's after buying his way into school
Beady eyes, and he's kinda dyslexic
Can he read? No one's really quite sure
He signs stuff and he executes people
Maybe that's why, he doesn't have any friends
Cocaine and a little drunk driving
Doesn't matter, when you're the Commander in Chief.
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Put on some make-up, turn on the 8-Track,
I'm putting a week back on the shelf,
Suddenly I'm the President, of the United States,
But then I woke up, and realized I'm still me.
He's too dumb, to eat pretzels, apparently smart enough to fix an election.
Moved boldly into the White House,
but most people voted against him.
He likes naps, He really likes naptime, A couple of naps and then a nap and then he's ready for bed,
He may be from Bush decent, but he's always gonna be the unpresident.
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
He's our president!
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Idiot Son Of An Asshole
NoFX - Idiot Son Of An Asshole lyrics
He's not smart, a C student
And that's after buying his way into school
Beady eyes, and he's kinda dyslexic
Can he read? No one's really quite sure
He signs stuff and he executes people
Maybe that's why, he doesn't have any friends
Cocaine and a little drunk driving
Doesn't matter, when you're the Commander in Chief.
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
(***not in the video version on The War On Errorism****
Put on some make-up, turn on the 8-Track,
I'm putting a week back on the shelf,
Suddenly I'm the President, of the United States,
But they I woke up, and realized I'm still me. )
He's too dumb, to eat pretzels, apparently smart enough to fix an election.
Moved boldly into the White House,
though most people voted against him.
He likes naps, He's good at naptime, A couple of naps and then a nap and then he's ready for
bed,
He may be from Bush decent, He's always gonna, gonna be the un-precedent
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
Idiot son of an asshole
He's the idiot son of an asshole
He's our president!
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Turtle Use to Rush!
You taught my turtle how to walk on a leash.
When you babysat my turtle.
But now my turtle's mood,
Has become distant and cranky.
My beloved turtle now gives me shifty looks.
And I know with me it's angry.
Since the babysitter I picked and booked.
When my turtle use to hear me turn the key,
At the front door.
My turtle use to rush to me.
But no more!
You've got my turtle trained to believe,
It needs a leash...
To eat with me Chinese.
And I use to love how my turtle ate Wonton.
But from within its shell...
All it does is just peek on.
When my turtle use to hear me turn the key,
At the front door.
My turtle use to rush to me.
But no more!
My turtle use to rush!
But!
No,
More!
My turtle use to rush!
But!
No,
More!
My turtle use to rush!
But!
No,
More to me.
My turtle use to rush!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Dying Race
My friend Kessa’ and I
Always loved writing
Poetry was our favorite
Everyday on the old yellow school bus
Number 6 or 149
She and I would read to each other
What we had come up with
The night before
I was always a little
Green with envy
Because her writing seemed much
More mature than mine
But one day we realized
That poetry was dying
Even though so many people
Write it all over the world
Poetry has lost it’s fame
Kessa had started a poetry club
But no one showed except me
We wondered why that was
For poetry was a wonderful
Thing
A great outlet
When things went wrong
Which they always did
To me it has become the dying race
Hanging on a thin thread
Of life
What miracle will happen to keep it float
Who will make difference
To relight poetry
In everyone’s mind?
poem by Sydne Morris
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Nothing To Tell, Begin With A Mermaid Story
Accept the fact
The fear that you have nothing to tell anymore
To amuse yourself
writers' block, shutting up, windows closing,
doors locked, mind shrinking,
like the fish vendor who sells rumors & rotten stories
To the streets
You go to the fish market today
Not buying any fish or selling any or even touching gills
so you can breathe
You’re looking for some
Salt
Taking notes of the fish scales discarded
Trashed
Some fish bones & broken fins
some fishermen catching
Broken hearts on their small eyed nets
You go back with fish fins
And fish tails, thicked lippes and round moving eyes
You will start with a mermaid story today.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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440
Accept the fact
The fear that you have nothing to tell anymore
To amuse yourself
writers' block, shutting up, windows closing,
doors locked, mind shrinking,
like the fish vendor who sells rumors & rotten stories
To the streets
You go to the fish market today
Not buying any fish or selling any or even touching gills
so you can breathe
You’re looking for some
Salt
Taking notes of the fish scales discarded
Trashed
Some fish bones & broken fins
some fishermen catching
Broken hearts on their small eyed nets
You go back with fish fins
And fish tails, thick lips and round moving eyes
You will start with a mermaid story today.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Miracle
Many roads Ive travelled
And faces Ive seen
Each tells a story
Of what might have been
A missed golden moment
But life still remains
A search for the innocence
Somehow we lost on the way
And we all need a miracle, that I truly believe
Yes we all need a miracle, and I believe my miracle is you
Now the silence that follows
The last curtain call
I dont know anyone
Who has come through it all
You gave me direction
A part in your cast
No longer make believe
Now that I know it will last
Cos we all need a miracle, that I truly believe
Yes we all need a miracle, and I believe my miracle
And I believe my miracle
I believe my miracle
Yes I believe my miracle is you
song performed by by Rick Astley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry is immortal
Poetry is immortal
yet so is the oracle
but poetry is no prophecy
it is energy from an inner sanctuary
one filled with creativity and imagery
yes poetry is immortal
it dives through any portal
whether it be mind, heart or soul
it slides through like a pole
poetry is everything and nothing
it is brilliant and disgusting
but it is still poetry
a magic that is everlasting
one that is never passing
it is a miracle
poetry is immortal
poem by Adens Kamwi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Hidden Poem With In Us
Poetry hinds behind the very tears we shed
It hides in the very pain we feel
It hides deep inside our locked emotions
When you feel confused there a poem hiding with all the answers
Poetry hides in the shadows that follow you around
It hides in the mumbling sound of our depressed voices
it hides in the locked up anger we all have
Poetry hides in the voices in our mind that is put on mute
Poetry hides behind the secrete window in our minds we painted black
But the thing about poetry is that it seems to be playing a game of hide-and-seek
But in reality it just waiting to be unleashed and told
It lies dormant locked up in chains we created our selves
We just got to let it free and let it tell its story
poem by Stephen Merced
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Poetry
My soul my catalyst to my rhythmic rhyme
My internal clarinet, oboe and lyre play
Throughout my mind lost in time
From its musical notes I draw my pain
To paint in color and vivid passion
Poetry for beauty and beauty for gain
My Allegro, Adagio, Rondo Allegio
Sewn in symphony coloring me
Playing colorfully in my poetic concerto
The supreme art tincturing tuning poetry
In harmony with my soul's song
Composing sweetly a new song in me
Poetry
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Awkward Age
I should have know that you were only just fifteen
You had a scowl like a Klingon beauty queen
Old enough to stand out but to young to stand with pride
So uncomfortable in your messed-up skin
And the cool parties never let you in
I can still relate to being so high and dry
Don't cry...
You're just at an awkward age
We'll all be fine
Disgraceful under pressure
Don't toe the line
You're just at an awkward age
Don't cry- just an awkward age
Don't cry
You're just at an awkward...
You look at me like i know what's going on
I'm looking back and i wonder what went wrong
I really thought by now a few things might clarify
I got a mind that goes out to lunch for days
And a body that sometimes disobeys
I get into the parties but i hate them 'cos i'm shy
Oh my...
I'm still at an awkward age
We'll all be fine
Disgraceful under pressure
Don't toe the line
You're just at an awkward age
Don't cry- just an awkward age
Don't cry
You're just at an awkward...
We're supposed to be happy
Supposed to be tough
Supposed to be flawless
Snd buy the right stuff
They want us all swimming
Don't care if we drown
Do don't let 'em take you down
It's a scary mountain to climb up without a guide
Besides...
We live in an awkward age
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Its A Miracle
It must have happened sometime in the night,
No one saw the stone be rolled away.
When the grave saw morning light,
The skeptics and friends all had to say,
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle happened today.
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
My soul is like a tomb in constant night;
Till one day the stone was rolled away.
Then my heart saw morning light,
And no one alive can explain it away.
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle happened today.
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
Now, now wont you see,
What Im trying to say?
If you believe, it could happen today!
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle,
Its a miracle happened today.
Its a miracle,
What a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
Its a miracle,
What a miracle,
Its a miracle happened today.
Its a miracle,
What a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
(its a miracle,) you know its really a miracle,
A miracle, a miracle,
(its a miracle,) you know its really a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
(its a miracle,) you know its really a miracle,
A miracle, a miracle,
(its a miracle,) you know its really a miracle,
He took the stone, and he rolled it away.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Miracle Man
Im looking for a miracle man
That tells me no lies
Im looking for a miracle man
Whos not in disguise
I dont know where hell come from
And I dont know where hes been
But its not our jimmy sinner
Because hes so obscene
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Today I saw a miracle man
On tv cryin
Such a hypocritical man
Born again, dying
He dont know where hes goin
But we know just where hes been
It was our little jimmy sinner
On the screen
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man
A devil with a crucifix
Brimstone and fire
He needs another carnal fix
To take him higher and higher
Now jimmy he got busted
With his pants down
Repent ye wretched sinner
Self righteous clown
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
Miracle man got busted
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pumpkin grows in Midwife's yard
Her mother is a midwife
and she is a nanny to her far relative.
He collects pumpkins hastily for the sunday fair.
Do you think a street vendor sees pleasant dreams?
Anyhow please do not get surprised
if a street vendor marries a nanny
and she delivers precious children safely
as her mother knows the job perfectly.
Still the pumpkins grow in the yard
and the vendor collects them without any bargaining.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Taho (english)
Tahooo! ! !
The loud voice
of the young Taho vendor
awokes the children
early in the morning
of Saturdays and Sundays.
The young Taho vendor
he always had the smile
and he always added more Taho
at the same price of two pesos
in every cup of every child.
Taho,
I like it too
it's not only delicious
but nutritious too.
But so sad,
several Saturdays
and Sundays passed by
and the voice
of the young Taho vendor
I heard no more.
Oh, yes...
the young Taho vendor,
he's now in Singapore.
How lucky he is
he could earn more
in Singapore.
Taho,
I'm afraid
I could no longer taste it
and the children....
oh, yes
now they wake up late
on Saturdays and Sundays.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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To Fitz-Greene Halleck
I see the sons of genius rise
The nobles of our land,
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet-band.
That priesthood of the Beautiful
To whom alone 't is given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
Back to their native heaven.
But there is one among the throng
Not passed his manhood's prime,
The laurel-wreath upon his brow
Has greener grown with time;
And in his eye yet glows the light
Of the celestial fire,
But cast beside him on the earth
Is his neglected lyre.
The lyre whose high heroic notes
A thousand hearts have stirred
Lies mute---the skilful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.
O poet, rouse thee from thy dreams!
Wake from the voiceless slumbers,
And once again give to the breeze
The music of thy numbers.
Sing! for our country claims her bards,
She listens for thy strains;
Sing! for upon our jarring earth
Too much of discord reigns.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To a silent poet
I see the sons of Genius rise
The nobles of our land;
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet band.
That Priesthood of the beautiful,
To whom alone 'tis given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
Back to their native heaven.
But there is one amid the throng,
Not past his manhood's prime;
The laurel wreath upon his brow,
Has greener grown with time.
And in his eye yet glows the light
Of the celestial fire;
But cast beside him, on the earth,
Is his neglected lyre.
The lyre, whose high, heroic notes
A thousand hearts have stirred,
Lies mute, -- the skillful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.
Oh poet! rouse thee from thy dreams!
Wake from thy voiceless slumbers!
And once again give to the breeze
The music of thy numbers.
Sing, for our country claims her bard,
She listens for thy strains;
Sing, for upon our jarring earth,
Too much of discord reigns.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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