The Eviction
In early morning twilight, raw and chill,
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Through miles of mire in steady grave array
Threescore well-arm'd police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings:
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride
Talks with the chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu
Pretends his needful duty much to rue.
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common freize,
Walk in the midst, the Sheriff's staunch allies;
Six crowbar men, from distant county brought, -
Orange, and glorying in their work, 'tis thought,
But wrongly,- churls of Catholics are they,
And merely hired at half a crown a day.
The hamlet clustering on its hill is seen,
A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean;
Poor always, not despairing until now;
Long used, as well as poverty knows how,
With life's oppressive trifles to contend.
This day will bring its history to an end.
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls
Lean a few silent men: but someone calls
Far off; and then a child 'without a stitch'
Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech,
And soon from house to house is heard the cry
Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high,
Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o'er fence and watery field beneath,
The little army moves through drizzling rain;
A 'Crowbar' leads the Sheriff's nag; the lane
Is enter'd, and their plashing tramp draws near,
One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear
'Halt! ' - at the doors they form in double line,
And ranks of polish'd rifles wetly shine.
The Sheriff's painful duty must be done;
He begs for quiet-and the work's begun.
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest,
Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast,
And Rosy's thin face on a pallet borne;
A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn.
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek,
Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak,
But, in defect of any word for this,
Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss,
Then passes out for ever. Through the crowd
The children run bewilder'd, wailing loud;
Where needed most, the men combine their aid;
And, last of all, is Oona forth convey'd,
Reclined in her accustom'd strawen chair,
Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair
Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill,
Looks round and murmurs, then again is still.
Now bring the remnants of each household fire;
On the wet ground the hissing coals expire;
And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face,
Receives the full possession of the place.
poem by William Allingham
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Sheriff's County Line
In a place called Sheriff's County
There's a story goin' round
And it echoes through the swamps of FLA
About the sheriff and his daughter
That he guarded with his life
With a shotgun just to keep those wolves at bay
But she was a fire beyond control
No chains could hold her captive soul
Now the legend grows as days unwind
About passions strong and justice blind
To the reckless deeds that hide behind
The Sheriff's County Line
Now the sheriff had a deputy that he treated like a son
But he warned Calhoun not to see Estelle
'Cause he knew that she was trouble
Had her mama's wild side
And if he slipped he'd make his life a living hell
But flesh is weak and passion's strong
There in the backwoods around dawn
They say it was a murder in the first degree
When the sheriff caught them in the heat
Just one shot killed the deputy
On the Sheriff's County Line
One step closer to midnight
Sittin' there just waitin' to die
The young preacher asks if he's ready
To make his peace and speak his mind
He said Blood is thicker than water
And my temper must've got out of hand
And just before they threw the switch on Old Sparky
He said I'd do it all over, Do it all over again
Now Estelle is softly crying at the foot of her daddy's grave
As the preacher reads the bible verse out loud
You could see her eyes a wanderin'
As he turns another page
And she pulls him ever gently from the crowd
She tells him,
Oh she feels so all alone
And begs him to walk her safely home
And the madness starts all over again
Calhoun's curse is the preacher's end
Cause the forbidden fruit is the sweetest sin
On the Sheriff's County Line
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Shot The Sheriff
By bob marley
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
All around in my home town
Theyre trying to track me down.
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,
For the life of a deputy.
But I say:
I shot the sheriff, but I swear it was in self-defense.
I shot the sheriff, and they say it is a capital offense.
Sheriff john brown always hated me;
For what I dont know.
Every time that I plant a seed
He said, kill it before it grows.
He said, kill it before it grows.
I say:
I shot the sheriff, but I swear it was in self-defense.
I shot the sheriff, but I swear it was in self-defense.
Freedom came my way one day
And I started out of town.
All of a sudden I see sheriff john brown
Aiming to shoot me down.
So I shot, I shot him down.
I say:
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.
Reflexes got the better of me
And what is to be must be.
Every day the bucket goes to the well,
But one day the bottom will drop out,
Yes, one day the bottom will drop out.
But I say:
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy, oh no.
I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy, oh no.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kingsport Town
The winter wind is blowin strong
My hands've got no gloves
I wish to myself that I could see
The gal I'm thinkin of
Oh do you remember me babe
I remember you quite well
You caused me to leave old kingsport town
With the high sheriff on my trail
High sheriff on my trail boys
High sheriff on my trail
All because I'd fallen for
A curly headed dark-eyed gal
Who's a-gonna stroke your coal-black hair
An sing to your coloured skin
Who's a-gonna kiss your memphis lips
When I'm not in the wings
When I'm not in the wings babe
When I'm not in the wings
Who's a-gonna kiss your memphis mouth
When I'm not in the wings
Who's a-gonna walk you side-by-side
And tell you everythings alright
Who's a-gonna sing to you all day long
And not just in the night
Who's a-gonna walk you side-by-side
Who's a-gonna be your man
Who's a-gonna look you straight in the eye
And hold your bad-luck hand
Hold your bad-luck hand babe
Hold your bad-luck hand
Who's a-gonna hold your hard-luck hand
And who's a-gonna be your man
The winter wind is blowin strong
My hands've got no gloves
I wish to myself that I could see
The gal I'm thinkin of
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lake Someplace
Speak to me
thee wet and lonesome lapping waves
Outrun evaporation of your grave
along this chiseled limestone shore
where you have passed
through distant bygone doors
Across the lake,
where terra cotta porticos stand tall
and dark eyed maidens wait for men to call
with servant hearts,
and apron strings
expecting all the good things life might bring
Explain to me the mystery of this place
The air is still,
the sun upon my face
weathering whiskered old men
leathered and tanned
who sell fresh fish from a wooden stand
Pausing to smell the cedars high on the hill
that long for a breath of winters chill
Oh, to be liquid just like you
and stare at it forever
through the eyes of a molecule
poem by Sara Fielder
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Cross Roads
There was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way,
He sat him down beside a brook
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
He lent his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;
And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water's flowing
For he was hot and dry.
A soldier with his knapsack on
Came travelling o'er the down,
The sun was strong and he was tired,
And of the old man he enquired
How far to Bristol town.
Half an hour's walk for a young man
By lanes and fields and stiles.
But you the foot-path do not know,
And if along the road you go
Why then 'tis three good miles.
The soldier took his knapsack off
For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he took
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.
Old friend! in faith, the soldier says
I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest
And I should like to sit and rest,
My back against that post.
In such a sweltering day as this
A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sat
It would not only spoil our chat
But make me seem uncivil.
The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish
It were a great-arm'd chair!
But this may help a man at need;
And yet it was a cursed deed
That ever brought it there.
There's a poor girl lies buried here
Beneath this very place.
The earth upon her corpse is prest
This stake is driven into her breast
And a stone is on her face.
The soldier had but just lent back
And now he half rose up.
There's sure no harm in dining here,
My friend? and yet to be sincere
I should not like to sup.
God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath our feet!
The old man cried. No harm I trow
She ever did herself, tho' now
She lies where four roads meet.
I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave,
It did not make my heart to fail,
And I have heard the nightingale
Sing sweetly on her grave.
I have past by about that hour
When Ghosts their freedom have,
But there was nothing here to fright,
And I have seen the glow-worm's light
Shine on the poor girl's grave.
There's one who like a Christian lies
Beneath the church-tree's shade;
I'd rather go a long mile round
Than pass at evening thro' the ground
Wherein that man is laid.
There's one that in the church-yard lies
For whom the bell did toll;
He lies in consecrated ground,
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul!
Did'st see a house below the hill
That the winds and the rains destroy?
'Twas then a farm where he did dwell,
And I remember it full well
When I was a growing boy.
And she was a poor parish girl
That came up from the west,
From service hard she ran away
And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest.
The man he was a wicked man
And an evil life he led;
Rage made his cheek grow deadly white
And his grey eyes were large and light,
And in anger they grew red.
The man was bad, the mother worse,
Bad fruit of a bad stem,
'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end
If I should tell to you my friend
The things that were told of them!
Did'st see an out-house standing by?
The walls alone remain;
It was a stable then, but now
Its mossy roof has fallen through
All rotted by the rain.
The poor girl she had serv'd with them
Some half-a-year, or more,
When she was found hung up one day
Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay
Behind that stable door!
It is a very lonesome place,
No hut or house is near;
Should one meet a murderer there alone
'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan
Would never reach mortal ear.
And there were strange reports about
That the coroner never guest.
So he decreed that she should lie
Where four roads meet in infamy,
With a stake drove in her breast.
Upon a board they carried her
To the place where four roads met,
And I was one among the throng
That hither followed them along,
I shall never the sight forget!
They carried her upon a board
In the cloaths in which she died;
I saw the cap blow off her head,
Her face was of a dark dark red
Her eyes were starting wide:
I think they could not have been closed
So widely did they strain.
I never saw so dreadful a sight,
And it often made me wake at night,
For I saw her face again.
They laid her here where four roads meet.
Beneath this very place,
The earth upon her corpse was prest,
This post is driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face.
poem by Robert Southey
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Uncle Lemon's Revenge
Most of the county had not a clue
With Uncle Lemon, just what to do?
This rascal most notorious
Over the sheriff always seemed to be victorious.
Selling the best illegal Prohibtion whiskey,
No matter how risky.
Chicago gangsters in the Great Depression
Had even failed to stop his competing 'liquid profession'.
With World War II raging,
Uncle Lemon's vaunted talents with local ladies grew more engaging.
With most younger men away at war,
Uncle Lemon's middle-aged charms took him too far.
His Saturday night dance hall fights
Reached new heights.
Then, the local draft board
Reached a convenient unanimous accord.
Even though Uncle Lemon was too old,
They would draft him into the army to be controlled.
He would be away till the war ended,
Which the local sheriff thought most splendid!
Or, luckily die in an attack,
And never come back!
Uncle Lemon was soon drafted
After this plan was crafted.
But to their dismay,
He was not sent far away.
Placed in charge of a nearby army post motor pool,
He was soon back every weekend with an army car and lots of 'fuel'!
The army tried to discharge him for being too old.
He rejected this plan as his new patriotic life he extolled.
For the rest of the war much of the county he continued to incense -
And all at government expense!
74462
poem by Hubert Wilson
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Dirge For A Soldier
In the east the morning comes,
Hear the rollin' of the drums
On the hill.
But the heart that beat as they beat
In the battle's raging day heat
Lieth still.
Unto him the night has come,
Though they roll the morning drum.
What is in the bugle's blast?
It is: 'Victory at last!
Now for rest.'
But, my comrades, come behold him,
Where our colors now enfold him,
And his breast
Bares no more to meet the blade,
But lies covered in the shade.
What a stir there is to-day!
They are laying him away
Where he fell.
There the flag goes draped before him;
Now they pile the grave sod o'er him
With a knell.
And he answers to his name
In the higher ranks of fame.
There's a woman left to mourn
For the child that she has borne
In travail.
But her heart beats high and higher,
With the patriot mother's fire,
At the tale.
She has borne and lost a son,
But her work and his are done.
Fling the flag out, let it wave;
They 're returning from the grave--
'Double quick!'
And the cymbals now are crashing,
Bright his comrades' eyes are flashing
From the thick
Battle-ranks which knew him brave,
No tears for a hero's grave.
In the east the morning comes,
Hear the rattle of the drums
Far away.
Now no time for grief's pursuing,
Other work is for the doing,
Here to-day.
He is sleeping, let him rest
With the flag across his breast.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Attempted Escape.
Each morning Tess waited nervously
for the nursing officer to arrive on
the locked ward, and spot on time
each morning he came with his small
black briefcase and went to his office
on the locked ward of the asylum, and
after a few minutes she was allowed
in for her daily requested interview.
She sat in the chair opposite him, he
fresh from the sane world, sat there
with his brushed teeth and groomed
hair, intent look behind his glasses.
When can I get out of his ward and
home? she asked him each morning;
when we consider you are ready and
safe to be let out, he replied each day
with the same calm voice, the same
deep tones. And off she'd go to begin
another day with those whom she
considered mad or seemingly dead.
Every day at the same time they would
bring along the meals from the kitchen;
they would unlock the double doors,
bring in the trays of meals from a trolley,
leave the doors unattended for the time
it took to bring in the trays, and then
locked the doors again. Tess waited and
watched every time they came timing
by the clock on the wall how long it took
and how long the doors were unlocked.
This day she waited; time ticked slowly,
as she stood in her dressing gown by the
doorway to the bedrooms and watched
as they unlocked the thick double doors.
She waited until they unlocked the doors
and entered with the first of the trays,
then she ran like one possessed, out of
the doors and along the corridors and
heard the commotion behind her as she
ran, and the shouting and screaming and
calls, and the thundering footsteps behind
and then two burly male nurses tackled
her to the ground and held her there
beneath their mass and smelly breath,
seeing the lights on the ceiling flicker on
and off, not far away a woman screamed,
nearby she heard a man's rough cough.
poem by Terry Collett
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Cold Chill
Feelin young and full of fun
Hangin out with my crew
Hot to trot and about to pop
Tryin to find some girl to get into
There she was fine as can be
Hair braided down to her knees
She took me home, she turned me out
But before sunrise she said I must leave
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night
Far from meek, and feelin chic
Refusing to concede defeat
There I was same crew, same time
Same club we kicked it at the previous week
I asked her how could she have the nerve
To treat me with such disgrace
She blinked her eyes, smiled, apologized
Threw her drink right in my face
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night, on a summer night
On a summer night, on a summer night
A cold chill, a cold chill, a cold chill, cold chill
Weekends came and weekends passed
But not the yearning in my heart
And there she was to light the spark
Like she did right from the very start
I took no time, drove to her house
Got deep into a passion high
I heard a knock, the turn of a key
And the voice of another guy
It was a cold chill on a summer night
Never thought the girlie wouldnt treat me right
It was a cold chill on a summer day
Never thought the girl would dog me out that way
It was a cold chill on a summer morn
Never cried like a baby since the day I was born
It was a cold chill on a summer eve
Never had no chopper bring me to my knees
I was feeling so trusting
Gave it all right down to the bone
But she did me wrong
On a summer night, on a summer night
On a summer night, on a summer night
It was a cold chill
Like standing in the deep freeze
A cold chill
Like when snows above your knees
Cold chill
Like sitting at the north pole
A cold chill
Wearing not one stitch of clothes
Cold chill
Like a winter chicago night
A cold chill
Twenty ice cubes down your back for spite
Cold chill
Stranded in sub-zero degrees
A cold chill
Layed out on the arctic sea
Cold chill
When your fingers get frost bite
A cold chill
Buried beneath ten feet of ice
Cold chill
Baby, that aint so nice
A cold chill
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chill Wind
It's 5 O'Clock on a December morn
From out of the east the wind is borne
Dropping temperatures by 20 degrees
Bundle up or you will freeze
To some the cold's a thrill
Strapping on skis to race downhill
Myself, I'd rather be warm
Stay inside to weather the storm
Down streets and alleys it blows
The chill wind which never slows
Picking up debris along it's way
To leave blocks or miles away
But to work I have to go
Clad in layers from head to toe
Walk to the subway in this gale
Watching leaves and paper taking sail
Undergound, the wind's abated
But this line is an elevated
At stops the doors open wide
And the chill wind rushes inside
Back on the street, with my head bowed
'Damn it's cold' I say out loud
Wishing that I was thicker skinned
The better to stand this chill wind
poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Visitor
Down the hill, in the field of sweet alfalfa, they're
freezing each other, the children
playing tag and I'm up at the house, I'm
in the picture window, thin
and distant like the glimpse
of a surfacing fish. What dark waters
the house is, behind me, settling
into evening. Dusk
and there are, of course, fireflies. Tell me,
what was your name? When you visited once,
by the backroad where the stones glowed pale
in the moonlight, I was too young, I still thought
I belonged to the world. But now
quartered in this house, watching the neighbors' children
turn to dusk, I feel
I'm ready. Come back
and bring your finest wine, the oldest bottle.
Bring that strange dusty book you were reading.
poem by Kate Northrop
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If I Was The Priest
Part of the hammond demos.
(recorded by allan clarke on solo album in 1975) written by bruce
Well theres a light on yonder mountain
And its calling me to shine
Theres a girl over by the water fountain
And shes asking to be mine
And aint that jesus, hes standing in the doorway
With a buckskin jacket, boots and spurs, so really fine
He says we need you up in dodge city, son
cause theres oh so many bad boys (just too many outlaw)
Tryin to work the same line
Well now if jesus was the sheriff and I were the priest
If my lady was an heiress and my mama was a thief
Oh and papa rode shotgun for the fargo line
Theres still too many outlaws
Tryin to work the same line
Now old sweet virgin mary
She runs the holy grail saloon
Where for a nickel theyll give you whisky
And the personally blessed balloon
And the holy ghost, hes the host with the most
He runs the burlesque show
Where they let you in for free
But oh hit you for your soul when you go
And mary serves mass on sunday
And then she sells her body on monday
To the bootlegger who will pay the highest price
But he dont know he got stuck with a loser
Marys a stone junkie, whats more shes a boozer
And shes only been made once or twice
By some kind of magic
Well things aint been the same in heaven
Ever since big bad bobby came to town
Hes been known to down eleven
And then ask for another round
And me I got scabs on my knees
From kneeling way too long
I gotta take a stand, be the man, up where you belong
And forget about the old friends and the old times
Because theres just too many new boys
Tryin to work the same line
Well now if jesus was the sheriff and I were the priest
If my lady was an heiress and my mama was a thief
Oh and papa rode shotgun for the fargo line
Theres still too many bad boys
Tryin to work the same line
Now theres a light on yonder mountain
And its calling me to shine
Theres a girl by the water fountain
And shes asking to be mine
And jesus, hes standing in the doorway
With his six-guns drawn, and ready to fan
He says we need you son, up in dodge city
But Im already overdue in cheyenne
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Hung My Head
Early one morning with time to kill
I borrowed jebs rifle and sat on the hill
I saw a lone rider crossing the plain
I drew a bread on him to practice my aim
My brothers rifle went off in my hand
A shot rang out across the land
The horse he kept running, the rider was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
I set off running to wake from the dream
And my brothers rifle went into the stream
I kept on running into the salt lands
And thats where they found me, my head in my hands
The sheriff he asked me "why had I run"
Then it came to me just what I had done
And all for no reason, just one piece of lead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Here in the courthouse, the whole town is there
I see the judge high up in his chair
"explain to the courtroom what went through your mind
And well ask the jury what verdict they find"
I said "i felt the power of death over life
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife
I beg their forgiveness, I wish I was dead"
I hung my head, I hung my head
Early one morning with time to kill
I see the gallows up on the hill
And out in the distance a trick of the brain
I see a lone rider crossing the plain
Hes come to fetch me to see what they done
Well ride together til kingdom come
I pray for gods mercy for soon Ill be dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hung My Head
Early one morning with time to kill
I borrowed jebs rifle and sat on the hill
I saw a lone rider crossing the plain
I drew a bread on him to practice my aim
My brothers rifle went off in my hand
A shot rang out across the land
The horse he kept running, the rider was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
I set off running to wake from the dream
And my brothers rifle went into the stream
I kept on running into the salt lands
And thats where they found me, my head in my hands
The sheriff he asked me why had I run
Then it came to me just what I had done
And all for no reason, just one piece of lead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Here in the courthouse, the whole town is there
I see the judge high up in his chair
Explain to the courtroom what went through your mind
And well ask the jury what verdict they find
I said I felt the power of death over life
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife
I beg their forgiveness, I wish I was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
Early one morning with time to kill
I see the gallows up on the hill
And out in the distance a trick of the brain
I see a lone rider crossing the plain
Hes come to fetch me to see what they done
Well ride together til kingdom come
I pray for gods mercy for soon Ill be dead
I hung my head, I hung my head
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Molina
Chorus:
Moli-i-i-i-na, where you goin to ?
Moli-i-i-i-na, where you goin to ?
Shes daughter to the mayor,
Messin with the sheriff,
Drivin in a blue car,
She dont see no red light.
Chorus
Shes comin in the mornin
Lookin a disaster,
Drivin in the prowl car,
Spent the night in jail.
Chorus
Oh!
Sheriff gonna go far
Drivin to the state house,
If she makes a million,
Papa can retire.
Chorus
Chorus
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Book of Van den Braak
I stared at the book on the table
Where it lay on the weathered oak,
The cover so black and tarnished,
Tanned in leather through coils of smoke,
Its ancient layers had long been carved
As petals of some grim flower,
Where an evil mildew spread its mould
From the walls of that ancient tower.
The book was set like an altar piece
In that ancient, flagstoned hall,
Catching the feeble rays of light
Through cracks in the old stone wall,
I hastened to look away, but yet
It gripped me in its glare,
Like some old German Grimoire...
Though no title page was there!
I reached for the cover and opened it,
The leather creaked with age,
As it formed with its rotting petals
Into a rose around the page,
The smell of the mildew wafted up
And the chill was damp and stark,
There was nothing but evil in that tower,
In the book of Van den Braak.
I leant right over the book and saw
A woodcut of a lane,
The trees were grim in their winter coats
As the snow gave way to rain,
The mud was thick on the barren leaves
That were mulched from the Autumn's fall,
And I felt it squelch right under my feet
As the wind howled round the hall!
The tower was gone, I stood outside
In the rain and the brooding dark,
Walking along a windswept lane
In the book of Van den Braak,
I saw the light of a cottage there,
Set back in among the trees,
And a woman wailed on the painted step,
My own, my dear Louise!
I ran towards her, through a stream
That babbled beside the lane,
Louise was crying and wailing there,
She muttered: 'I'm not to blame! '
I must have seemed like a phantom there,
I waved, but she couldn't see,
She said, 'you shouldn't have killed him,
I just asked you to set me free! '
A man ran out from the cottage door,
His coat was covered in blood,
He ran his hands through his tangled hair
And fell, to kneel in the mud.
He took her into his arms and cried,
She clung, and called him Mark,
And then when he turned, I saw his face,
I knew him - Van den Braak!
I must have been quite invisible
In the pages of that book,
Or they were a couple of phantoms
Making love as I stood and shook,
I walked around to the cottage door
And peered in out of the rain,
I lay stone dead on the hearthstone there,
A bullet lodged in my brain.
In shock I turned, I saw the tower,
I ran with all my might,
Back to the Norman Keep and Moat,
Back through the surly night,
The eyes of demons had followed me
From high in the trees of the park,
But I was ready for come-what-may
At the hands of Van den Braak!
Then suddenly, I was in the tower,
Leaning over the book,
When Van den Braak called out that he
Was ready to take a look,
I'd brought the book with the tenants' rents
Of those that lived in the park,
But I stabbed him high in the rib cage there,
And cut his throat in the dark!
I went to his German Grimoire
Fell once more through the open page,
Went looking for my Louise, by now
In the white hot throes of rage,
She sat and wailed on the painted step
And muttered there in the dark...
'I didn't ask you to kill the man,
Just free me from Van den Braak! '
1 April 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad of Jock Dean.
I watched the daylight trickle o'er
the hills behind oor hoose
A sight I'd often seen before
but never through a noose
These shoddy thrown up gallows
where I waited for the crow.
Forget the debt my pal owes,
he'll no help me, this I know.
(Chorus.)
Why have you betrayed yer ain
and left me without hope?
Condemned by my ain twisted wean
tay dance upon the Sheriff's rope.
I swore I would avenge the loss
of all the Laird had stole
The sheriff couldnay gi a toss,
my neck-stretch was his goal.
"A few last words, afore ye go? "
The sarky basturt's shout.
I said nay mer, fur as ye know
he'd had ma tongue ripped out.
(Chorus.)
Why have you betrayed yer ain
and left me without hope?
Condemned by my ain twisted wean
tay dance upon the Sheriff's rope.
The weighted sack tied tay ma feet
drapped sharp before I fell
Ma four weans aw began tay greet
at this, their Da's death knell.
The bag should help tay snap the neck
an quell ma final song
bit no fur me, an instant brek,
the rope was joost too long.
(Chorus.)
Why have you betrayed yer ain
and left me without hope?
Condemned by my ain twisted wean
tay dance upon the Sheriff's rope.
So there I danced the mid-air jig
above the sacred ground
beside the hole they made me dig
my piss sprayed all around.
Twas then I saw my only son
gaze up from my spilt bile
twas then I knew he was the one…
twas written in his smile.
(Chorus.)
Why have you betrayed yer ain
and left me without hope?
Condemned by my ain twisted wean
tay dance upon the Sheriff's rope.
I'll dance forever on his rope.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Air Is Tense, The Air Is Dense
It was a silent evening, this silent
evening,
When a land whose air was tense,
Heard the cries of its children,
As a plane whose air was dense,
Hit the ground and broke its wings.
It was a teary morning, this teary
morning,
When friends had lost friends,
And parents, children,
And children, parents,
And all, something.
It is a painful thing, this painful moment,
If while reading this out loud,
Your voice begins to fade,
As your heart carries pain to your chord.
It is a thin line, oh thin children,
We are here and we are 'is',
And in one step,
We are there, and now 'was'.
It is a marvelment, to my marveled
mind,
When a man wakes and brushes his
teeth,
Holds a bag and hits the streets,
Stands in the middle of an oblivious
crowd,
And offers them transportation to the
world beyond.
It is an ache, in an aching heart,
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
I write that peace and love be born,
And wisdom and hope not be put to bed.
In this age, in an aging world,
Live each day as thy last,
And in no time you will be right,
Hurt no more and hurt no one,
For the air is tense and the air is dense,
And though time like man has come and
gone,
Time will be here and man no more.
poem by Jenim Dibie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Way Of The Bush
A night of storm and wind and rain,
Tall trees bowing beneath the blast
That shakes and rattles the window-pane,
And a thunderous roar as the creek goes past.
Inside there a pictures and flowers and books,
And a slim girl-wife with shingled hair;
The lamplight glimmers on cosy nooks,
And Desmond Keene in his easy chair
Thanks God for home and the days toil o’er;
When on the verandah a tramp of feet,
A frenzied knock on the kitchen door
Wondering he goes a neighbour to greet.
“The missus is dyin’ ” poor Simpson says,
‘Down in the ‘orspital-sent for me,
I gathered the kids, and brought ‘’em ‘ere,
I thought your missus might mind ‘em – see!”
“Mind them, of course, and I’ll go with you,
You’ll need a mate on a night like this.”
And soon the neighbours are ‘battling through’
Young Desmond cheered by his wife’s last kiss.
For this is the way of the bush my friends
Neighbourly service prompt at need
Freely given and freely sought,
For the bush recks nothing of caste or creed.
And the young wife’s hands are steady and firm
Though here soft lips tremble in voiceless prayer
As she smooths the wet and tangled curls
Of the young ones left in her gentle care.
There’s a solemn hush in the hospital ward
Where a grey-haired bushman bends in woe
Over the toil-worn face of one
Who has come to the journey we all must go.
But ‘Mother’ still has a smile for him,
And the kind grey eyes show a soul at rest,
While the poor thin hands that have toiled so long
Lie idly now on her quiet breast.
For this is the way of the bush my friends,
To struggle and strive year out year in,
And often to die and leave it all
When the lean years end and the good begin.
They brought her back to the home she loved,
And the neighbours came for miles around,
There were cars and buggies and horses ranged
Round the rough rail fence of the burying ground.
They smothered the children with gifts and tears
In the way of the bush that is dear to God,
And their homely kindness was pure and sweet
As the flowers they placed on the new-turned sod.
Courage and patience and sturdy toil
And kindness unstinted in others’ needs—
How the God that made them must love them all!
For the ‘way of the bush’ is His way indeed.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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