En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The song of a pathological liar

I am four foot three ....not really

I am a vegetarian pacifist

Not really

I am a capricorn

Not really

I don't believe in the 'stars'

I was born on a mars bar

I feel only with my hands

Not really, , , , very well

I am from a large cable tossing clan

Of Irish priests in open toe sandals

I have two bunions

And walk in front of traffic

I am a flatulent loner

Not really

When I am nervous I bite my toenails

I have an incurable fungus disease

I have a hat made of mushrooms

I walk out into on coming traffic

I never cross the road, unless

It is two drag an old lady against her will

I am a three foot swiss pensioner with a chest wig and halitosis

I used to be a ballroom dancer

I became a saloon bar arm wrestler to distract myself from drinking

I am a very small receding scots man

I don't eat cheese on sundays

I invented mushrooms

I can produce an egg from my back porch on a wednesday

My name is Colin Angus Still Waters lie deep

I am a thirty two year old mushroom impersonator

Called keith

My pathology came back with L plates

meaning I am patholigically a L

I can only tell the truth when I am standing

Using a japanese translator who is disguised as a coffee table

I lived off a crumb for thirty days and thirty nights

Until somebody opened the cake tin

When working part time as a cupboard

I often allow people who are very tiny to hide in me

For a small rental fee

I like my coffee with room for milk

So I can charge the milk rent

I hate starbuck coffee

but find my doppleganger drinking it to spite me

I lived with a fruit salad for fifty years

Til the smell made me vomit

lying is best done lying down

I have a very bard gramma

My grandma says she 'aint bad! '

When I was eleven and...I beat a boy to a pulp an made his nose bleed

I spend my holidays floating ob the riveira in a match box

Size is not an issue

I often go missing and can be found only with the aide of a magnifying

glass

I walk in circles due to having two left feet

I didn't invent the atomic kitten

Which was detonated by controlled explosion

A vet called 'a vet' was later arrested and charges with possessing

'KITTENS OF MASS DESTRUCTION'

poem by Yvette Smith
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A Miracle for Breakfast

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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My Next Thirty Years

(track 12 - time 3:37)
(phil vassar)
I think Ill take a moment, celebrate my age
The ending of an era and the turning of a page
Now its time to focus in on where I go from here
Lord have mercy on my next thirty years
Hey my next thirty years Im gonna have some fun
Try to forget about all the crazy things Ive done
Maybe now Ive conquered all my adolescent fears
And Ill do it better in my next thirty years
My next thirty years Im gonna settle all the scores
Cry a little less, laugh a little more
Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear
Figure out just what Im doing here
In my next thirty years
Oh my next thirty years, Im gonna watch my weight
Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late
Drink a little lemonade and not so many beers
Maybe Ill remember my next thirty years
My next thirty years will be the best years of my life
Raise a little family and hang out with my wife
Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear
Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years
In my next thirty years

song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bitter Coffee... A Sweet Coffee

The age is running and I am still drinking my bitter coffee,
To when the story of this coffee belongs? !
Coffee and chocolate are so deferent in their tastes
But in several times
It happens that they have the same color.
It seems that the similarity of them is the same of features of the fortune reader.
When she gazes the cup of the coffee
But I am not so familiar with chocolate
Even I am not familiar with the talisman countenances of the hex.
I remember that once I asked him to give me a bitter coffee
Yet he has made a permanent bitter one
Each time he brings me the same coffee in the same cup
A question c0mes to my mind and I ask it to myself:
If we do not like the coffee, why we do drink it?
Do you think it is our destiny as my birth story?
I was born without my desire
Thus with each sip of the coffee
The destiny stops me not to tear the chocolate cover
to sweeten my coffee.

poem by Chnar Namq
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Thirty three years

Thirty three years
~
Soon I turn thirty three
And wonder what I have to show
I feel I have achieved very little
And have been going nowhere fast
I fear I am stuck in my ways
And this is my lot for life
I sit alone in writing this morning
With my usual coffee for one
I have loved, had my heart broken
Let opportunities slip away
Now I tend to do nothing
At least I wont feel hurt that way
I have spent time in solitary
And lost touch with the world
Please try and remember that
To excuse my lack of social grace
The pace of each year is picking up
While I am still young in some eyes
Still may yet have a lot to achieve
I look at the past thirty two years
And see myself an old man
Lonely and turning thirty three

poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Happiest Day

It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn't believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day--
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then...
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

poem by Linda Pastan
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Stories Of Hope Series #12 Forsaken

My heart was forsaken by the one I loved
She said my love wasn’t good enough.
If I truly loved her I would give her the material things
Necklaces, pearls, and diamond rings.
She said that love is in the giving
Without these things life is not worth living.

That’s when I decided to change my tune
I couldn’t get away too soon.
I took my heart and hid it deep in my chest
And to protect it I would do my best.
I became like a zombie- mindless and blank
And my heart I did forsake.

Surrounded by people that I did not see
Feeling hurt and angry as can be.
Friends and family started to pull away.
there was nothing left for them to say.

Then I was walking home from work one night
I glanced down the street, there was this
Woman rubbing her feet.
As I got closer I could see that her ankle
Was as swollen as can be.

Can I help you? Do you need a hand?
She answered: well! “If you could
Help me try to stand.”
Her foot so swollen she screamed in pain
Trying to walk would be in vain.

I asked her: where do you live?
She said: “up the block- the house on the corner
On the second floor.”
I knew that she could not walk no more.

I swooped her up in my arms, and started down the street
The smell of her perfume delicious and sweet.
I had never really looked at her face until then
She had light brown hair, and eyes as well
When I felt my heart begin to swell.
A smile from ear to ear, and of me she had no fear.

I carried her all the way home, and up the steps
To her door. (I felt as if I had been here before)
I asked: do you need a hand to get in?
She looked at me with a grin.
She said: you carried me this far, if you’d like
Some coffee, I’ll open the jar.”

I opened the door and carried her to a chair
The apartment looked small and comfortable
And quite fair.
I said: I’ll make the coffee! You just sit and rest
I’m not good at this, but I’ll do my best.
I made the coffee and we sat and talked
Time passed by quickly and we didn’t know
That the sun was coming up, and it was time to go.
The sun shone thru the blinds creating reflections
On the mirrored wall.
Prisms of light surrounded our faces
And we saw our faces all aglow
It was truly amazing and quite a show.
I asked her if I could see her again
And hopefully become more than a friend.
She said: I would really like that to.
So I told her I will call on you.
My heart had finally become free, and took me
Out of this misery.
For six months we dated and enjoyed each others company
The riches I gave her, she gave back to me.
Love has no price, but yet worth more than gold
And it is something that we can truly hold.
Not in our hands but in our hearts, and it becomes the biggest part.
We had become more than friends, and I guess you know the end.
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET OURSELVES FREE.

poem by Louis Rams
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Coffee!

Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Matthew & Son

Up at eight, you can't be late
For matthew & son, he won't wait.
Watch them run down to platform one
And the eight-thirty train to matthew & son.
Matthew & son, the work's never done, there's always something new.
The files in your head, you take them to bed, you're never ever through.
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!
There's a five minute break and that's all you take,
For a cup of cold coffee and a piece of cake.
Matthew & son, the work's never done, there's always something new.
The files in your head, you take them to bed, you're never ever through.
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!
He's got people who've been working for fifty years
No one asks for more money cuz nobody cares
Even though they're pretty low and their rent's in arrears
Matthew & son, matthew & son, matthew & son, matthew & son,
And they've been working all day, all day, all day!

song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Tuesdays

On Tuesdays Max visited
A dame a few blocks
Away with the mutt that
Seemed to bark all day.
He went because he liked
The way she made coffee
And always offered him
Toast or cake and because
She was blind and had the
Most useless mutt for the
Blind in the whole world.

On Tuesdays she opened
Her door to him; let him
In to her world and made
Him coffee and offered him
Toast or cake and listened as
He spoke and told her jokes
And related the latest gossip.

On Tuesdays he listened as
She spoke of her youth, of her
Days of being a beauty, of the
Day she lost her sight, how she
Coped in her world of darkness.

On Tuesdays he took her for a
Walk to a local restaurant and
They dined and ate and drank
And she listened to the people
Talking around her and to Max
Who recited a new poem he’d
Written or she just sat listening
To the traffic pass by wondering
If there were white puffy clouds
Above and what the colour the sky.

On Tuesdays Max walked her home
After lunch and they undressed and
Had sex and smoked and lay on the
Bed, he gazing at her beauty and she
Glad to be living and stroking his head.

poem by Terry Collett
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Young Lovers

I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.

After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.

With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.

I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Retirement Blues

After thirty years of working -
I thought I had it made -
I said to myself-
I'll lie in the shade-
I'll read half the day-
And sleep the rest-
My wife had the notion-
That she alone knew best-
She said mow the lawn-
And go and walk the dog-
You're lying around here-
Getting far as a hog-
My dreams of relaxation-
Went right up in smoke-
I found that retirement-
Was only a joke-
I'm really still working-
For the rest of my life-
The only difference now-
The boss is my wife.

poem by Joy Thacker
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Mailbox!

frost on the hawk's wings,
small face against the glass;
or perhaps just a memory,

black coffee and cigarette smoke.
bare limbed trees walk beside me,
down the path to the road....

mailbox hanging open,
only cobwebs in the damp.
the porch light still on,

like a ghostly lighthouse,
calling back things you've forgotten,
that i go through every day!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Unburdened.

It's not the sort of house
You'd want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn't leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water's skin. Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn't, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they'd suffocated.

That's where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn't. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD'd days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he'd bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn't tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They'd had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.

poem by Terry Collett
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To Mrs. Thrale on Her Completing Her Thirty-fifth Year

Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O'er the bounds of thirty-five
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five.
Ladies, stop and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five:
He that ever hopes to thrive
Must begin by thirty-five:
And all who wisely wish to wive
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.

poem by Samuel Johnson
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Here I Go Again

(coverdale/marsden)
I dont know where Im going
But, I sure know where Ive been
Hanging on the promises
In songs of yesterday
An Ive made up my mind,
I aint wasting no more time
But, here I go again
Here I go again
Tho I keep searching for an answer,
I never seem to find what Im looking for
Oh lord, I pray
You give me strength to carry on,
cos I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
An here I go again on my own
Goin down the only road Ive ever known,
Like a hobo* I was born to walk alone
An Ive made up my mind
I aint wasting no more time
Im just another heart in need of rescue,
Waiting on loves sweet charity
An Im gonna hold on
For the rest of my days,
cos I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
An here I go again on my own
Goin down the only road Ive ever known,
Like a hobo* I was born to walk alone
An Ive made up my mind
I aint wasting no more time
But, here I go again,
Here I go again,
Here I go again,
Here I go...
An Ive made up my mind,
I aint wasting no more time
An here I go again on my own
Goin down the only road Ive ever known,
Like a hobo I was born to walk alone
cos I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
An here I go again on my own
Goin down the only road Ive ever known,
Like a hobo I was born to walk alone
An Ive made up my mind
I aint wasting no more time...
But, here I go again,
Here I go again,
Here I go again,
Here I go,
Here I go again...
* in the 1987 version this word is changed to drifter.
Davids management thought that hobo could be confused with homo! :)

song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twenty

This is my world, small as it is,
It is a planet by itself with very
Small moons, and tiny stars,
And so tiny, you cannot just
See me there, I am hiding,
But I still live here just the same,
Breathing atomic air, and drinking
Molecular waters, so you see,
How tiny I could be, how tiny
I could get, but this is my
Small happy world, my smile
My laughter so tiny, that you
Cannot hear, you cannot feel,

And that is your world as big
As the sun, with comets and
Meteors, and so big and so
Wide, with oceans and rivers,
And continents, and gigantic
Arctics, and snowy lands, and
We are then so different, and
With me, there is no problem,
I, in my small world, can fit
In yours, but you, you cannot
Fit in mine, that we must
Accept, I am a small world,
And you are a space still expanding,
Now, do you understand,
why I hide?
why I shy away from you?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is My World That Is Your World

This is my world, small as it is,
It is a planet by itself with very
Small moons, and tiny stars,
And so tiny, you cannot just
See me there, I am hiding,
But I still live here just the same,
Breathing atomic air, and drinking
Molecular waters, so you see,
How tiny I could be, how tiny
I could get, but this is my
Small happy world, my smile
My laughter so tiny, that you
Cannot hear, you cannot feel,

And that is your world as big
As the sun, with comets and
Meteors, and so big and so
Wide, with oceans and rivers,
And continents, and gigantic
Arctics, and snowy lands, and
We are then so different, and
With me, there is no problem,
I, in my small world, can fit
In yours, but you, you cannot
Fit in mine, that we must
Accept, I am a small world,
And you are a space still expanding,
Now, do you understand,
why I hide?
why I shy away from you?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Logical Vegetarian

You will find me drinking rum,
Like a sailor in a slum,
You will find me drinking beer like a Bavarian.
You will find me drinking gin
In the lowest kind of inn,
Because I am a rigid Vegetarian.

So I cleared the inn of wine,
And I tried to climb the sign,
And I tried to hail the constable as “Marion.”
But he said I couldn’t speak,
And he bowled me to the Beak
Because I was a Happy Vegetarian.

Oh, I knew a Doctor Gluck,
And his nose it had a hook,
And his attitudes were anything but Aryan;
So I gave him all the pork
That I had, upon a fork;
Because I am myself a Vegetarian.

I am silent in the Club,
I am silent in the pub,
I am silent on a bally peak in Darien;
For I stuff away for life
Shoving peas in with a knife,
Because I am at heart a Vegetarian.

No more the milk of cows
Shall pollute my private house
Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian;
I will stick to port and sherry,
For they are so very, very
So very, very, very Vegetarian.

poem by G.K. Chesterton (1915)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Third Rate Romance

Announcer: Hello my friends, J.D, and we're back to more Alan Jackson live from Nashville.
Alan: We're going to put a little more flovor on this one.
Sitting at a tiny table in a ritzy restaurant
She was staring at her coffee cup
He was trying to keep his courage up by buying booze
The talk was small when they talked at all
They both knew what they wanted
There was no need to talk about it
They were old enough to know about it, to keep it loose.
I never really did this kinda thing before, have you?
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous.
--- Instrumental with ad libs. ---
They left the bar, and got in his car, and they drove away
He went to the Family Inn
She didn't even have to pretend she didn't know what for
He went to the desk, and made his request while she waited outside
He came back with the key
She said "Give it to me and I'll unlock the door."
She kept sayin', "I've never really done this kind of thing before, have you?"
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous.
And he said, "Yes I have, but only a time or two."
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous.
Third rate romance, low rent rendezvous.
Yeah, talk about a third rate romance, low rent rendezvous...

song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Government Owned!

she bought a bag
of cheap coffee,
a quart of milk,
and a box of pads...
bundled up in her Goodwill coat,
walked back across the parking lot,
and up the street with
tears in her eyes.

she knew the baby was crying,
and her old man sitting
there staring blankly
out the window at the world...
wondering where in the hell
he could scuff a few bucks.
just coffee and milk, and
trying to heat the apartment

with the kitchen stove...
too young to have lived,
to live on the memories
of a childhood long gone!
two more weeks till her check,
and nothing in her pockets.
the food stamps long gone,
and nothing on her table!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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