The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is -
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older.
'How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?'
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder -
'Monsieur is dead this many a day.'
'It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!'
'What will Monsieur require for dinner?'
'Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?'
'Oh, oui, Monsieur,' 's the waiter's answer;
'Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?'
Tell me a good one.' 'That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal.'
'So Terré's gone,' I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
'He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.'
My old accustom'd corner here is-
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty -
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place-but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
- There's no one now to share my cup.
. . . . . . . .
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Ballad of Buillabaisse
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is --
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is --
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder --
"Monsieur is dead this many a day."
"It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!"
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?"
Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is--
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty --
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
-- There's no one now to share my cup.
. . . . . . . .
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Acidic Sea
The Acidic Sea
All those nice villas along the coast are empty safe for stray cats
and those too poor to live inlands, because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out
too much acidity caused by industrial man, and now it is too late
to clean up the mess. Fish in tanks are guarded well and so dear
that only the very rich can afford to eat, say, bacalao; we have to
eat fishcakes that consists of ninety eight percent mashed potatoes,
the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure all medicine, it’s very
expensive and only the well off can afford to buy it, and they,
the rich live years longer than the poor. This has raised concern
and social unrest, politicians on the left, insist the poor too has
the right to be given a teaspoon full every morning; mind there is
synthetic cod liver oil on the market, but it tastes awful. Seagulls
and terns have adopted well have earth hued feathers, sit in carob
trees, sharp eyed keep and eye for scarps of food and scare tiny
tots with their inane pirate shrieks. From safe distant, when wind
is calm, and on romantic, moonlit nights, the sea looks as beautiful
as described by marine biologists in fairytale books.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Une Nuit A Paris
Part one: one night in paris
Bonjour monsieur
Paris really welcomes you
Its the best room in the house
Its forty francs a night, alright.
Its crazy, it isnt worth a centime
Ill take it!
Merci monsieur
Rouged lips in the gaslight
A great view of the hall
Thats the way the croissant crumbles after all
Paris is only one step away
Les girls are out on bail
Tres bien theres love for sale
Oh my cheri, wish you were mine
And Ill show you a wonderful time
For the price of a cheap champagne
Ill show it you once again
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face
One girl in paris
Is like loving every woman
One night in paris
One night in paris
One night in paris
May be your last!!!
Part two: the same night in paris
Is he gonna buy?
You wanna little culture?
Is he gonna pay?
Maybe monsieur is into photographs, non?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
I got a watch wiz a beautiful swiss movement
Is he gonna buy?
Forget the watch, Ill show you a good time!'
Is he gonna pay?
Le connoisseur, want something different?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
Oh you know you aint no casanova
You cant even do the bossa nova
Or the tango or the samba!
Though you are so very charming
No you aint no casanova
Is he gonna buy?
Is he gonna pay?
Or is he gonna fall in love
The all american way?
Sometimes I think he will
But then again........................
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place!
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face!
Try a girl in paris
But try one of mine
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
Each night in paris
May be your last!!!
Part three: later the same night in paris
Forty-two, quarante-deux
Rue de saint jacques
All our girls are how you say
Good in the sack
I was a stripper
On the champs elysees
He was a gendarme
In the gendarmerie
Going oh la la la
Oh la la la la
He was a pimp
In a black beret
But he was an artiste
In his own way
Oh la la la
Oh la la la la
When they raided my club that night
They ruined my act with the leather umbrella
The chief de police got a fright
He was up in my boudoir with some other fella
Its only routine
But I got this feeling
It aint good for business
Then the floor cleared
A woman screamed to herself
Henri...though youre not the toast of paris
I love you, although you bed and beat me
Henri, leave it alone,
For the gendarmes just doing his job
Paris is only one step away
Murder is only one step away
Notre dame is ringing her bells
Another gendarme has gone to hell
Notre dame is ringing her bells
Another gendarme has gone to hell
Gone to hell
Gone to hell
One night in paris
Is like a year in any other place
One night in paris
Will wipe the smile off your pretty face
One girl in paris
Is like loving every woman
This night in paris
This night in paris
This night in paris
This night in paris
May be your last!!!
song performed by by 10 Cc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Basic J
Jo the waiter spilling wine
Over some ex-friends of mine
In zero cafe number 9
What you gonna say this time
Basic j, say, are you new here
New ones walking down the stairs
Pretty young thing but no-one cares
Jo the waiter drops the tray
Do you always know your name
Jo the waiter smiled at me
Jo the waiters company
I keep him in a book by my fireside
A drama is my perfect bride
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lage Nom Ai
Nordstrom was a simple man
Who had some non-conformist plan
To save his ass
Every night he danced alone
And blotted out the monotone
That was his past
He packs his bag of mysteries
And leaves the lonely memories
Where they belong
They came and went so easily
This rising tide identity
Sings like a song
Lets sing
Lage nom ai nom ai
When you know that life is just a game
Lage nom ai nom ai (oh!)
Hes the man who gave up his own name
In the roll of the cosmic dice
You win one heart and lose it twice
Before you know
Love is fine until you taste
This melancholy bouillabaisse
Called letting go
Lage nom ai nom ai
When you know that life is just a game
Lage nom ai nom ai (hey!)
Hes the man who gave up his own name
He moved on up to old beantown
And summered on the vineyard sound
To pass the day (day ay ay oh)
Island hopping crab key bound
Tendin bar he thinks hes found
A better way (ay ay ay oh)
Now were back where we belong
Without a clue and still without
A master plan (ay ay ay oh)
Incident or accident
It all depends on if youre meant
To understand (ay ay ay oh)
Lage nom ai nom ai
When you know that life is just a game
Lage nom ai nom ai
Hes the man who gave up his own name
Hes the man who gave up his own name
Spoken:
Eah, ol nordstroms gone. checked out. readin
The wrong kind of books...listenin to that wild
Carribbean music. he wiped himself out of his own computer.
Hes the man who gave up his own name. hes gone.
[note: lage nom ai nom ai is island patois which loosely translates:
The man who gave up his own name.]
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jo The Waiter
Jo the waiter worked for me
Serving wine in basement bars
Only madmen ever stay, got no time
If youre mindless please take mine
Jo the waiter held me close
Behind the door marked 'gentlemen
Just for now thats all I need
Wont someone call me 'friend?
Long gone, I recall good times
I must confess, I cried
We burned out and the line went dead
At six oclock I felt so alone
I crawled inside, where else to go?
I could be dead for all you know
Everyday I died for you
Valium boys with painted eyes
Young men need love special
I dont think I want it at all
Long gone, I recall good times
I must confess, I cried
Me, Ive retired to a back street flat
Picture 'eyes in a cold steel frame
The freaks arrive, broken needles and blood
What you on, man, to get those eyes?
Its very touching, Im so close to me
False smiles Ive rehearsed for days
Come inside, you wont know Im wrong
Give me your heart, Im so quickly gone
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Careless Good Fellow
1 A pox of this fooling, and plotting of late,
2 What a pother, and stir has it kept in the state?
3 Let the rabble run mad with suspicions, and fears,
4 Let them scuffle, and jar, till they go by the ears:
5 Their grievances never shall trouble my pate,
6 So I can enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.
7 What coxcombs were those, who would barter their ease
8 And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer and mass?
9 At old Tyburn they never had needed to swing,
10 Had they been but true subjects to drink, and their king;
11 A friend, and a bottle is all my design;
12 He has no room for treason, that's top-full of wine.
13 I mind not the members and makers of laws,
14 Let them sit or prorogue, as his majesty please:
15 Let them damn us to woollen, I'll never repine
16 At my lodging, when dead, so alive I have wine:
17 Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear
18 To curse them for making my claret so dear.
19 I mind not grave asses, who idly debate
20 About right and succession, the trifles of state;
21 We've a good king already: and he deserves laughter
22 That will trouble his head with who shall come after:
23 Come, here's to his health, and I wish he may be
24 As free from all care, and all trouble, as we.
25 What care I how leagues with the Hollander go?
26 Or intrigues betwixt Sidney, and Monsieur D'Avaux?
27 What concerns it my drinking, if Cassel be sold,
28 If the conqueror take it by storming, or gold?
29 Good Bordeaux alone is the place that I mind,
30 And when the fleet's coming, I pray for a wind.
31 The bully of France, that aspires to renown
32 By dull cutting of throats, and vent'ring his own;
33 Let him fight and be damn'd, and make matches and treat,
34 To afford the news-mongers, and coffee-house chat:
35 He's but a brave wretch, while I am more free,
36 More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.
37 Come he, or the Pope, or the Devil to boot,
38 Or come faggot, and stake; I care not a groat;
39 Never think that in Smithfield I porters will heat:
40 No, I swear, Mr. Fox, pray excuse me for that.
41 I'll drink in defiance of gibbet, and halter,
42 This is the profession, that never will alter.
poem by John Oldham
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Taking coffee 'with' Jean-Paul Sartre.
It was 1952. We had a limited travel currency.
In Paris, I went one morning to
the Dome Café. There
sat Jean-Paul Sartre, smoking
a large meerschaum pipe
such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche might have smoked;
he had his morning coffee in front of him.
Simone had not yet joined him.
A circle of young admirers sat at a
discreet distance; most wore black
but the young women could not avoid
a certain Parisian chic in their sombreness,
their existential frown and turned-down lips
around bright eyes.
It was the chance of what we call
a lifetime. Dare I speak to him?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained:
a human being must live his words,
act out his own chosen life in honesty
like Ché Guevara..
I moved to his table. The circle of admirers
were all attention. I saw two of them
surreptitiously take out small notebooks.
‘Is this seat free, Monsieur? ’ He knew me for
a stranger in that theatre of the absurd
we call life, where all are strangers.
His arm was a signifier. His hand
indicated an empty seat (not the closest,
which awaited Simone) : his shoulder
gave the slightest Gallic shrug. We make
our own decisions, live by them.
An awed waiter, affecting nonchalance,
brought my coffee. Should I speak to Sartre
of teenage mountaineering in Canada
and the discovery of philosophy?
No. We would then be
to each other, The Other.
We sat there silent: two beings without meaning
whose meeting was prefigured, whom
only a Creator could have put there;
a Creator whom we must deny.
I spoke through the dry lips of one
who had not yet attained an authentic
aloneness:
‘This coffee is good, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur? ’
Two students took up their pencils.
‘Ca, c’est.. vy I com heere.’
We sat, two human beings magnificent in the
heroism of their aloneness, enjoying,
if that’s the word, a shared appreciation of the coffee
carefully watched by the intellect..
The coffee drunk, I stood up, with a
slight bow – ‘Monsieur..’
He glanced up, but not at me;
Simone had appeared.
I walked away, glorying in
the heroism of those who know they have no heroes,
writing the words of their life,
living by them. The students, awed,
watched my body language for clues
to existence, which might then reveal
essence. Or not.
.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 2)
There was a wedding in Cana,
And Jesus’ mother had gone there;
Invited was Jesus also;
His disciples attended too.
When wine ran short, His mother told,
Jesus, “They have no wine to serve.”
But Jesus asked. back, ‘Why tell me? ’
“How does that concern me? ” He asked.
“My hour has not yet come.” He said.
His mother told the servers all,
“Do whatev’r He tells you to do.”
There were six water-jars of stone,
Meant for Jewish ceremonies.
Each could hold some thirty gallons.
When Jesus told, ‘Fill up the jars
With water up to brim, ’ they did.
Then Jesus told them, ‘Draw out some
And take it to the head-waiter.’
The Head-waiter tasted new wine.
He knew not wherefrom this wine came.
He called the bridegroom and told him,
“All serve the good wine initially.
When people have drunk one less good,
You’ve kept the good wine until now? ”
This was his first miracle done
In Cana town, in Galilee.
His disciples believed in Him.
Thus was revealed His glory first!
All went to Capernaum later.
They stayed there only for few days.
Then Jesus reached Jerusalem,
As Passover was nearing fast.
And in the temple area then,
He saw some selling animals;
Some money-changers were there too.
He made a whip out of some cords,
And drove them out of temple fast.
He spilled the money of changers,
And over-turned their tables too.
He told the dove-sellers to leave.
He warned them not to make the house
Of His Father, a market-place!
His disciples recalled scripture,
‘Zeal for your house will consume me! ’
The Jews then asked Jesus to show
The sign for doing thus, that day.
And Jesus answered them and said,
‘Destroy this temple; in three days,
I’ll raise it up! ’ He firmly said.
‘The Temple took forty-six years
For construction, ’ the Jews all said.
‘You’ll raise it in just three days time? ’
But He meant His body’s temple.
When Jesus was raised from the dead,
His disciples remembered this.
They came to believe the scripture
And what was foretold by Jesus.
While Jesus in Jerusalem
And Feast of the Passover came,
So many believed in His name,
When they had seen the signs He did.
But Jesus didn’t trust anyone.
He knew the people all around.
He did not need one to tell Him.
He understood human nature!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-21-2007
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Well, isn't Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else - and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?
quote by Djuna Barnes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Old Days
Oh some times I think back to when I was younger
Life was so much simpler then
Dad would be up at dawn
Hed be watering the lawn
Or maybe going fishing again
Oh and mom would be fixing up something in the kitchen
Fresh biscuits or hot apple pie
And Id spend all day long in the basement
Torturing rats with a hack-saw
And pulling the wings off of flies
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
I can still remember good old mr. fender
Who ran the corner grocery store
Oh, hed strolled down the aisle with a big friendly smile
And hed say howdy when you walked in the door
Always treated me nice, gave me kindly advice
I dont know why I set fire to his place
Oh Ill never forget the day I bashed in his head
Well you shouldve seen the look on his face
Let me tell ya now
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
Do you remember sweet michelle
She was my high school romance
She was fun to talk to and nice to smell
So I took her to the homecoming dance
Then I tied her to a chair and I shaved off all her hair
And I left her in the desert all alone
Well sometimes in my dreams
I can still hear the screams
Oh I wonder if she ever made it home
I tell ya
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
Let me tell ya buddy
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good-Children Street
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street -
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.
For dear little children go romping about
With dollies and tin tops and drums,
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
Till bedtime too speedily comes!
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street.
See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet -
Nice make-believe soldiers - in Good-Children street.
And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about -
Poor dolly! I'm sure she is ill,
For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out
And her voice is asthmatic'ly shrill.
Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,
Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.
'T is so the dear children go romping about
With dollies and banners and drums,
And I venture to say they are sadly put out
When an end to their jubilee comes:
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street!
But when falleth night over river and town,
Those little folk vanish from sight,
And an angel all white from the sky cometh down
And guardeth the babes through the night,
And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet
To the dear little people in Good-Children Street.
Though elsewhere the world be o'erburdened with care,
Though poverty fall to my lot,
Though toil and vexation be always my share,
What care I - they trouble me not!
This thought maketh life ever joyous and Sweet:
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunlight on the Sea
[The Philosophy of a Feast]
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink
(The sunlight flickers on the sea),
The garlands gleam, the glasses clink,
The grape juice mantles fair and free,
The lamps are trimm'd, although the light
Of day still lingers on the sky ;
We sit between the day and night,
And push the wine-flask merrily
I see you feasting round me still,
All gay of heart and strong of limb ;
Make merry, friends, your glasses fill,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the voice of one I've heard
(The sunlight sinks upon the sea),
He sang as blythe as any bird,
And shook the rafters with his glee ;
But times have changed with him, I wot,
By fickle fortune cross'd and flung ;
Far stouter heart than mine he's got
If now he sings as then he sung.
Yet some must swim when others sink,
And some must sink when others swim ;
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the face of one I've loved—
(The sunlight settles on the sea ;)
Long since to distant climes he roved ;
He had his faults, and so have we ;
His name was mentioned here this day,
And it was coupled with a sneer ;
I heard, nor had I aught to say,
Though once I held his memory dear.
Who cares, 'mid wines and fruits and flowers,
Though death or danger compass him,
He had his faults, and we have ours,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the form of one I know—
(The sunlight wanes upon the sea)
'Tis not so very long ago ;
We drank his health with three-times-three,
And we were gay when he was here ;
And he is gone, and we are gay.
Where has he gone ? or far or near ?
Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say.
You glance aside, you doubtless think
My homily a foolish whim,
'Twill soon be ended, eat and drink,
The lights are growing dim.
The fruit is ripe, the wine is red ;
(The sunlight fades upon the sea.)
To us the absent are the dead,
The dead to us must absent be.
We, too, the absent ranks must joinn ;
And friends will censure and forget :
There's metal base in every coin ;
Men vanish, leaving traces yet
Of evil and of good behind,
Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn,
And dross still lurks in gold refined—
The lights are growing dim.
We eat and drink or ere we die,
(The sunlight flushes on the sea.)
Three hundred soldiers feasted high
An hour before Thermopylae ;
Leonidas pour'd out the wine,
And shouted ere he drain'd the cup,
'Ho ! comrades, let us gaily dine—
This night with Pluto we shall sup ;'
And if they leant upon a reed,
And if their reed was slight and slim,
There's something good in Spartan creed—
The lights are growing dim.
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink,
(The sunlight flashes on the sea ;)
My spirit is rejoiced to think
That even as they were so are we ;
For they, like us, were mortals vain,
The slaves to earthly passions wild,
Who slept with heaps of Persians slain
For winding-sheets around them piled.
The dead man's deeds are living still—
My Festive speech is somewhat grim—
Their good obliterates their ill—
The lights are growing dim.
We eat and drink, we come and go,
(The sunlight dies upon the open sea.)
I speak in riddles. Is it so ?
My riddles need not mar your glee ;
For I will neither bid you share
My thoughts, nor will I bid you shun,
Though I should see in yonder chair
Th' Egyptian's muffled skeleton.
One toast with me, your glasses fill,
Aye, fill them level with the brim,
De mortuis, nisi bonum, nil!
The lights are growing dim.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stories
She sits in the corner
Where its reasonably quiet
Drinking coffee with cream
Thinking stories of young love
She calls to the waiter
wont you lend me some time?
You can sit by my side
And Ill let you be friends with mine.
The cafe is old
But the candlelights new
She orders beaujolais wine
And says Ive thought of you too
She whispers isnt it odd
You remind me of songs
That Id rather forget
Like feelings I longed for
You haunt me inside
Sometimes I recall
Question mistakes
Who grew to nothing at all
I hear voices that cry
And one of thems mine
All the things I could say
Are the reasons I cant
She says Ive seen you before
In thoughts I call son
Like an old film with sound
When the link comes undone
The waiter is me
And the woman is you
And we are the story
Just like others I knew
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Set On Auto-Pilot
Not only have they been,
Floating along powered by denial.
Their minds have been set on auto-pilot,
For as long as the supplies held out.
Now no one can convince them,
They must swim to shore...
Aided by their own initiative.
For them what had existed,
Is no more!
Many have chosen to ignore this warning.
With a demand for a new menu.
And a replacement of a chef...
That has never existed to prepare a new dish.
They laugh and perceive this to be an absurdity.
'Excuse me? '
And the tides are rushing ever so close,
To toss them all over a cliff.
And this...
They protest with the loudest of voices.
And wish all of this nonsense,
Be stopped by the shutting of lips.
Excuse me?
Waiter?
Waiter?
Did you see him pass us?
As if he did not hear me.
WAITER?
That's it.
He gets from me no tip! '
That is why they pass petitions.
To avoid this 'foolishness'.
'Waiter?
And he's parading around here,
With a lifejacket on.
Waiter?
I'm demanding your presence immediately.
Oh no he didn't! !
Did you see him sush me? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fall In Love With Me
Pop/bowie/sales/sales
You look so good to me
Here in this old saloon
Way back in west berlin
A bottle of white wine
White wine and you
A table made of wood
And how I wish you would
Fall in love with me
You look so good to me
Standing out in the street
With your cheap fur on
Or maybe your plastic raincoat
And your plastic shoes
They look good too
Standing in the snow
Youre younger than you look
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
How I wish you would
A table made of wood
And a bottle of white wine
And you-and a bottle of
White wine and you
And when youre standing
In the street and its cold
And it snows on you
And you look younger
Than you really are
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
Yeah
The way your eyes are black
The way your hair is black
The way your heart is young
Theres just a few like you
Just the kind I need
To fall in love with me
Oh and you look so good
Yes you look so good
A bottle of white wine
A cigarette and you
Here in this saloon
White wine and you
I wish youd fall in love with me
I wish youd fall in love with me
cause theres
Just a few like you
So young and real
Theres just a few like you
So young and real
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
You look so good
When youre young at heart
Theres just a few like you
Youre young at heart
Wont you
Come to this old saloon
Come to my waiting arms
A table made of wood
And I will look at you
cause youre so young and pure
And youre young at heart
Youre young at heart
A bottle of white wine
And when youre tumbling down
You just look better
When youre tumbling down
You just look finer
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiter! Bring Me Water!
He took me to--our favorite spot
A place we go to hang a lot
Something seemed to catch his eye
Oh--oo--oh over my shoulder
Oh--oo--oh over my shoulder
I turned around--to see whats up
A pretty young thing sure enough
She was new--he wanted to
Kno--oo--oh--oh--oo--ow her
Kno--oo--oh--oh--oo--ow her
Oh--yeah--
Then she flicked her hair (yeah!)
Oh--yeah--he began to stare
[chorus:]
Waiter! (waiter) bring me water!
I gotta make him keep his cool
(waiter) bring me water!
Hes acting like a fool
(waiter) bring me water!
Uh, oh, I did my best--to block his view
But it was like he could see through me
I just knew--he wanted to
Ho--oo--oh--oh--oo--oh--old her
Ho--oo--oh--oh--oo--oh--old her
Oh--yeah--i aint gettin nowhere (yeah!)
Oh--yeah--shes still standing there
[repeat chorus]
Theres gotta be a way to cool this clown--
Hes starting to embarrass me
I may even have to hose him down--
Bring me water
I dont know what he finds so distracting--
Whats so hot about her
I really dont like the way hes acting
Bring me water!
Uh, bring it on!
Uhhhh
Oh
Whats so hot about her
Uh, uh, uh,
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
(waiter, bring me water)
Gotta make him keep his cool
(waiter, bring me water)
Send him back to school
(waiter, bring me water)
Hes acting like a fool
(waiter, bring me water)
Waiter, bring me water
song performed by by Shania Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Man Medley
Spoken:
I just wanna say this
This is something I thing most of you ladies will identify with
And maybe some of you men too
(the man I love)
Someday hell come along
The man I love
And hell be rich and strong
The man I love
And when he comes my way
Ill do my best to make him stay
Hell look at me and smile
Ill understand
And maybe for awhile
Hell take my hand
And though it seems absurd
I know we both wont say a word
Spoken:
You know Im the kind of lady
That always seems to find the wrong man
At the wrong place at the wrong time
Its not that I go out looking for him
But somehow he always seems to find me
You see what Im looking for is the kind of man
That comes home with candy
And flowers sayin come on put on your dancing shoes
Cause were gonna wine and dine, wine and dine
But what I always seem to find is the kind of man
That comes home fussing
And fighting, breaking my best dishes
And beat my head outside the wall
Shows no love no respect and nothing at all
(I got it bad and that aint good)
Never treats me sweet and gentle
The way he should
I got it bad and that aint good!
(no, it aint good at all, you know)
Spoken:
Listen, have you been treating your lady nice lately, you have?
And how about you?
Great, well Ive been gettin rocked completely!
My poor heart is sentimental its not made of wood
I got it bad and that aint good
Spoken:
So you see on monday nights
I just go out and drink and drink
But when the weekends over on monday rolls aroun
I end up like I start out just cryin my heart out
Cryin my heart out
Lord above me (come on) make him love me
Then he should
I got it bad baby
I got it bad baby
I got it bad and that aint good!
No it aint good at all you know
Spoken:
But listen mister big shot Ive got your number
And Ill take care of you
And you too and you and you and you
(some of these days)
Some of these days
Youre gonna miss your donna
Some of these days
Youre gonna feel so lonely
Youll miss my huggin
Youll miss my kissin
Youll miss me honey
When youre far away
Youre gonna be so lonely
For me only
Cause you know daddy
You had you way
And if I leave you
You know its gonna grieve you
Youre gonna miss your sweet lovin donna
Some of these days
And if I leave you
You know its gonna grieve you
Youre gonna miss your sweet little donna
Some of these days
Hey honey call me when you got time
Know what I mean...
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Keep Goin Back To Joes
(fisher/segal)
I keep goin back to joes
To that table in the corner,
Sippin wine and staring at the door.
Our old waiter knows were through,
Still he sets a place for you
Everything the way it was before.
I keep goin back to joes,
But the man who plays piano
Never plays your favorite melody.
Joe keeps busy at the bar,
Never asks me where you are.
He was there when you walked out on me.
Now I pray youll walk back in,
And youll say what fools weve been,
And well celebrate a happy new beginning.
Chances are youll never show,
But youll know just where to find me
Every night until its time to close.
Just in case you miss me, too,
Ill be there to welcome you.
Thats why I keep going back...
Thats why I keep goin back...
To joes.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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