Hully Gully
Hully gully
(that, thats good.)
(one, I wanna sing along--you know why? youre missing part of it.)
(that pays off, ah, p.o.g.)
(well have greenwich village *snap* just like that.)
([...])
(play it like it is, carl!
Pick it up from the third!)
(ha!)
Well, theres a dance spreadin round like an awful disease
Hully, hully gully
You just shake your shoulders and you wiggle your knees
(play it like it is!)
Hully, hully gully
Well, theres a dance spreadin (*laugh*) round from coast to coast
Hully, hully gully
Well, when me and my baby do it, thats how we do it the most
Hully, hully gully
Mama hully gully
Papa hully gully
Baby hully gully, too
Well, I went to a party now and what did they do?
Hully, hully gully
Well now everybodys doing it son, so why aint you on their way too
Hully, hully gully
Everybodys lookin like they got the shakes
Hully, hully gully
You just wiggle your shoulders, man, thats all it takes
Hully, hully gully
Mama hully gully
Papa hully gully
Baby hully gully, too
(lets tear em down!)
Hully, hully gully
Do it with your left shoulder
Hully, hully gully
Do it with your other shoulder, now
Hully, hully gully
Switch your blades
Hully, hully gully
Mama hully gully
Papa hully gully
Baby hully gully too
(how about me and my girl? )
Mama hully gully
Papa hully gully
You can hully gully too
(*loud slap*)
(whoa!)
(thats all [...])
(what do you know? )
(before we bring on the star of our show this evening...)
(what else do you know? )
(uh, he knows...)
(what? )
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Attitude Dancing
(carly simon/jacob brackman)
Theres a new kind of dancing
Thats gonna be the rage
You just leave yourself behind
Like an actor on a stage
Cop a different pose
>from the pose youre in
Shine a different attitude
>from underneath your skin
Attitude dancing
Strut around the floor in a different attitide
Attitude dancing
Any attitude is the proper attitude
Attitude dancing
Dont be afraid to change your attitude
Attitude dancing
Free up your spirit with a new attitude
It dont even matter
If you stretch or shake
And it dont really matter
What moves your body makes
And it dont really matter
What steps you choose to do
Only one thing matters:
Thats your attitude
Your attitude, attitude dancing
Attitude dancing
Strut around the floor in a different attitide
Attitude dancing
Learn to move in another attitude
Attitude dancing
Find the groove in a new attitude
Attitude dancing
Dont be afraid of a new attitude
It dont really matter
What steps you choose to do
Only one thing matters:
Is your attitude
Your attitude, attitude dancing
Strut around the floor in a new attitude
Do the locomotion in a new attitude
Do the mashed potato in a new attitude
Do the hully gully in a new attitude
Find a role you like
Capture it and freeze
Then turn it around
A hundred and eighty degrees
Or if youre at a loss
Observe some natural dude
And turn into a mirror of his attitude
Attitude, attitude, attitude
Dancing
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alley Oop
Hey hey hey
Da da da
Thats what I say
Da da da
Theres a man in the funny papers we all know
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
He lived way back a long time ago
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Well he dont eat nothin but bearcat stew
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Oh well this cats name is a-alley oop
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Hes the toughest man there is alive
Alley oop
Wears clothes from a wildcats hide
Alley oop
Hes the king of the jungle jive
Look at that caveman go!
Hes got a chauffeur thats a genuine dinosaur
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
And he can knuckle your head before you count to four
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Hes got a big ugly club and a headful of hair
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Hes oohhhh eatin grizzly bear
(*laughter*)
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Forgot the words!
Hes the toughest man there is alive
Alley oop
Wears clothes from a wildcats hide
Alley oop
Hes the king of the jungle jive
Look at that caveman go!
(*scream*)
He rides through the jungle tearin limbs offa trees
(*scream*)
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
And knocking great big monsters dead on their knees
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Other cats dont bug him cos they know better
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
cos hes a mean motor scooter and a bad go-getter
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Well, uh, hes the toughest man there is alive
Alley oop
Wears clothes from a wildcats hide
Alley oop
Hes a hully gully king of jive
(*laugh*)
Well look at that caveman go!
(*scream*)
There he goes
(there he goes.)
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Look at that caveman go
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Ride, daddy, ride
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Heigh-ho, dinosaur
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Oh my goodness, what a big brute he is! hm!
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Oh, how would you like a dinosaur like that, for your own? mm!
(*laughter*)
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
Alley oop oop, oop oop oop
(g minor. d7.)
(what now? what now? )
(just give me a minute.)
(brian, I need a b flat [...]. you know I cant read.)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Junk and the Dhow
"An Unqualified Pilot"
Once a pair of savages found a stranded tree.
(One-piecee stick -pidgin -- two piecee man.
Straddle-um-paddle-um-push -um off to sea.
That way Foleign Debbil-boat began.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any shape of sailing-craft was known,
The Junk and Dhow had a stern and a bow,
And a mast and a sail of their own--ahoy! alone!
As they crashed across the Oceans on their own!
Once there was a pirate-ship, being blown ashore--
(Plitty soon pilum up, s'posee no can tack..
Seven-piecee stlong man pullum sta'boa'd oar.
That way bling her head alound and sail-o back.)
But before, and before, an ever so long before
Grand Commander Noah took the wheel,
The Junk and the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Had rudders reaching deep below their keel--ahoy! akeel!
As they laid the Eastern Seas beneath their keel!
Once there was galliot yawing in a tide.
(Too much foolee side-slip. How can stop?
Man catchee tea box lid--lasha longaside.
That way make her plenty glip and sail first-chop.)
But before and before, and ever so long before
And such contrivances were used,
The whole Confucian sea-board had standardized the lee-board.
And hauled it up or dropped it as they choosed--or chose--or
chused!
According to the weather, when they cruised!
Once there was a caravel in a beam-sea roll--
(Ca'qo shiftee--alla dliftee-no can livee long.
S'posum' nail-o boa'd acloss--makee ploper hol'?
That way ca'qo sittum still, an' ship mo' stlong.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any square-rigged vessel hove in sight,
The Canton deep-sea craft carried bulkheads fore and aft,
And took good care to keep 'em water-tight-atite-atite!
From Amboyna to the Great Australian Bight!
Once there was a sailor-man singing just this way--
(Too muchee yowl-o, sickum best flend!
Singee all-same pullee lope--haul and belay!
Hully up and coilum down an'-- bite off end!)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any sort of chanty crossed our lips,
The Junk and the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Were the Mother and the Father of all Ships--ahoy!--a'ships
And of half the new inventions in our Ships!
From Tarifa to Formosa in our Ships!
From Socotra to Selankhor of the windlass and the anchor,
And the Navigators Compass in our Ships--ahoy!--our Ships!
(O, hully up and coilum down and--bite--off--end!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Old Gunn's Gully Line
The ole train puffs in once a day
On the ole Gunn's Gully line;
In a lazy, leisurely kind o' way
She comes in, wet or fine.
Nobody wants her, nobody needs her,
Nobody likes her, nobody heeds; her
Usefulness is done.
But, wet or fine, or sun or shine,
That ole train's got to run.
A man an' a dog, they loaf about
To watch the train come in;
An' a man an' a boy an' a bag get out
With Bowyang's ole cream-tin.
An' all men say wot all men know:
That all things are as all things show,
An' the trip don't pay for grease.
But, come wot may, the Heads they say
Them trips must never cease.
Now, to an' from the market town,
On the new Gunn's Gully road,
The motor cars speed up an' down,
An' trucks with many a load,
For there's the road, an' there's the car,
An' there's the chance; so, there you are!
Let progress forge ahead!
But the Heads they say them cars must pay
Or the ole train might dropp dead.
The ole train puffs out once a day
On the ole Gunn's Gully spin;
With a man inside, some days, to ride
With Bowyang's old cream-tin.
And men ask, Why? An' men ask who
The ole train serves like the morors do?
But the Heads must have their fun.
So they shoves a tax on the people's backs;
For that ole train's-got-to-run!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Ant Explorer
Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-
To fare away far away, far away from home.
He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent
To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went
Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone,
Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone,
Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high,
Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky,
Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss,
Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across.
'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread,
He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed.
His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent,
And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-
Back away from desert lands feet and feet across,
Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss,
Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky,
Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high,
Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone,
Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone.
A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam,
He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Sermon of the Birds
I was clearing thirty or forty acres once
Out in the western range near Nightcap Mountain.
And as I was working, I heard a gathering of the crows
Singing out in a jungle gully. Their clamorous cries
Drawed the attention of all the other birds.
Jackass and butcher-bird, soldier-bird, sparrow-bird,
Scrub-robin, magpie, and the black and white cockatoo,
They all flew down to the crows in the jungle-gully.
And I followed after their clamour, and in the midst
Of all the splendid excitement of the birds
I heard one feller was singing above them all.
It was the lyre-bird, the mimic of all the scrub,
And they held this beautiful sermon or half an hour.
The birds would stop and listen a while but still
That beautiful voice, the lyre-bird, would keep on singing
And draw then and join them all to a chorus again.
And as I stood there and listened, the Scriptures was
Hitting me all the time. The sermon seemed
Like the prophecy when Christ shall come and summon
The birds, the valleys, the hills, the mountains and the ocean
To sing in praise of the grace and the reckoning day,
And the beauty of earth in the splendour that He crated.
And I went back and told my people of what I had seen,
And the sermon of praise I heard in the mountain range.
poem by Roland Robinson
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The Legend of Cooee Gully
The night came down thro’ Deadman’s Gap,
Where the ghostly saplings bent
Before a wind that tore the fly
From many a digger’s tent.
Dark as pitch, and the rain rushed past
On a wind that howled again;
And we crowded into the only but
That stood on the hillside then.
The strong pine rafters creaked and strained,
’Til we thought that the roof would go;
And we felt the box-bark walls bend in
And bulge like calico.
A flood had come from the gorges round:
Thro’ the gully’s bed it poured.
Down many a deep, deserted shaft
The yellow waters roared.
The scene leapt out when the lightning flashed
And shone with a ghastly grey;
And the night sprang back to the distant range
’Neath a sky as bright as day.
Then the darkness closed like a trap that was sprung,
And the night grew black as coals,
And we heard the ceaseless thunder
Of the water down the holes.
And now and then like a cannon’s note
That sounds in the battle din,
We heard the louder thunder spring
From a shaft, when the sides fell in.
We had gathered close to the broad but fire
To yarn of the by-gone years,
When a coo-ee that came from the flooded grounds
Fell sharp on our startled ears.
We sprang to our feet, for well we knew
That in speed lay the only hope;
One caught and over his shoulder threw
A coil of yellow rope.
Then, blinded oft by the lightning’s flash,
Down the steep hillside we sped,
And at times we slipped on the sodden path
That ran to the gully’s bed.
And on past many a broken shaft
All reckless of risk we ran,
For the wind still brought in spiteful gusts
The cry of the drowning man.
But the cooeying ceased when we reached the place;
And then, ere a man could think,
We heard the treacherous earth give way
And fall from a shaft’s black brink.
And deep and wide the rotten side
Slipped into the hungry hole,
And the phosphorus leapt and vanished
Like the flight of the stranger’s soul.
And still in the sound of the rushing rain,
When the night comes dark and drear,
From the pitch-black side of that gully wide
The coo-ee you’ll hear and hear.
Coo-ee — coo-e-e-e, low and eerily,
It whispers afar and drear —
And then to the heart like an icy dart
It strikes thro’ the startled ear!
Dreader than wrung from the human tongue
It shrieks o’er the sound of the rain,
And back on the hill when the wind is still
It whispers and dies again.
And on thro’ the night like the voice of a sprite
That tells of a dire mishap
It echoes around in the gully’s bound
And out thro’ Deadman’s Gap.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Wallabi Joe
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joe's a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
He'd barely do for a Sunday's ride.
O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
"I'm weary of galloping now," he cried,
"I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
And I feel that my legs won't stand much more."
Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
And off he rode with a whip in his hand
To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
He searched up and down every gully he knew,
But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
"Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe."
Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
It came into his head to go poking for gold;
So away he went with a spade in his fist,
To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
The hobbles being jammed in a root below
Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Heart of the Dove
Say, Bo, this little Yewropean war
It grieves our gloryus nation to the core
The vurry core of its great, strang, red heart,
We're tur-ble sore:
That's what.
We got
A reel sawft heart.
Naw, son! we air not takin' any part.
We figgered that ahl out, right from the start.
The great american nation stan's aside:
She keeps apart
An' jaws,
Becaws
We gat our pride.
But don't yew figger ahn no fancy paly
With Uncle Sam; he's ready for th efray.
An' wance that 'Murkan eagle's screech is heard
Watch out! An', say,
Geewhiz!
He is
Some bird!
He is some eagle, yew kin take my word.
If wance that great, fierce heart of his was sturred
Aw, shucks! that little Yewropean stunt
Would look ab-surd!
If he
Cast free
You'd see some hunt!
When wance that Bird o' Freedom hit the front
Why, Gee! them dinky ings would have to shunt!
Old Yewrope would be right clean off the map!
I put it blunt:
That lot
Would not
Put up a scrap.
Wance we cut loose - Aw, Hully Gee! the gap
In Yewrope's rank 'ud make tyhem howl for pap.
We'd wipe the airth out of the Kasmic Plan
An' on the map
This ball
They'd call
Amur-i-can.
The true Amur'kan, sir, he is a man
Who'd lick this un-i-verse, wance he began;
Say, it's a cinch; becaws we hold the dough
If we should plan
To crunch
The bunch,
None could say so.
Them Kings and Kaisers all would have to go.
He'd do 'em up right praper! Get me, Bo?
He'd eat hull crate-loads of their wan-harse ships!
He'd smash the show,
He'd swat
The lot
Wance come to grips!
Aw, shucks! This great, strang nation, sir, it whips
Creation! Wance the word has pas'd our lips
We'd just reach out, an' take the hull darn world!
We'd get the ships
An' men:
An' then
Things would get whirled!
Yep! Wance that starry banner was unfurled
We'd roast the Kaiser till his whiskers curled!
Say, do you get me? Wance we j'ined the fray
The hull darn world
Would scoot,
Per boot,
Out of our way.
Wance we were roused - what matter, anyway?
We air nat takin' war in ours to-day
Naw, Bo; we got no quar'l, we play the part
Of pained dismay,
To show,
You know,
Our great, sawft, strang, red heart.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mount Bukaroo
Only one old post is standing --
Solid yet, but only one --
Where the milking, and the branding,
And the slaughtering were done.
Later years have brought dejection,
Care, and sorrow; but we knew
Happy days on that selection
Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing
Found us at the gully's head,
Splitting timber for the fencing,
Stripping bark to roof the shed.
Hands and hearts the labour strengthened;
Weariness we never knew,
Even when the shadows lengthened
Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock
How the wilderness would yield
To the spade, and pick, and mattock,
While we toiled to win the field.
Bronzed hands we used to sully
Till they were of darkest hue,
`Burning off' down in the gully
At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother
Left in haste his broken toys,
Shouted to the busy mother:
`Here is dadda and the boys!'
Strange it seems that she was able
For the work that she would do;
How she'd bustle round the table
In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded,
And the calves were in the pen,
All the cares of day discarded,
Closed we round the hut-fire then.
Rang the roof with boyish laughter
While the flames o'er-topped the flue;
Happy days remembered after --
Far away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes,
And a sorrow found us there;
For our home amid the ranges
Was not safe from searching Care.
On he came, a silent creeper;
And another mountain threw
O'er our lives a shadow deeper
Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing;
For the home has vanished now,
Mountain scrub has choked the clearing,
Hid the furrows of the plough.
Nearer still the scrub is creeping
Where the little garden grew;
And the old folks now are sleeping
At the foot of Bukaroo.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Golden Gully
No one lives in Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully blucher-boots of diggers more,
For the diggers long have vanished — nought but broken shafts remain,
And the bush, by diggers banished, fast reclaims its own again.
Now, when dying Daylight slowly draws her fingers from the “Peak”,
The Weird Empress Melancholy rises from the reedy creek —
In the gap above the gully, while the dismal curlews scream
Loud to welcome her as ruler of the dreary night supreme —
Takes her throne, and by her presence fills the strange, uncertain air
With a ghostly phosphorescence of the horrors hidden there.
None would think, by camp-fire blazy, lighting fitfully the scene,
In the seasons that are hazy, how in seasons gone between,
Diggers yarned or joined in jolly ballads of the field and foam,
Or grew sad and melancholy over songs like “Home, Sweet Home” —
Songs of other times, demanding sullen tears that would not start,
Every digger understanding what was in his comrade’s heart.
It may seem to you a riddle how a poet’s fancies roam,
But methinks I hear a fiddle softly playing “Home, Sweet Home”
’Mid the trees, while meditative diggers round the camp-fire stand.
(Those were days before Australians learned to love their native land.)
Now the dismal curlew screeches round the shafts when night winds sough;
Startling murmurs, broken speeches, shake each twisted, tangled bough,
And whene’er the night comes dreary, darkened by the falling rain,
Voices, loud and dread and eerie, come again and come again —
Come like troubled souls forbidden rest until their tales are told —
Tales of deeds of darkness hidden in the whirl of days of gold —
Come like troubled spirits telling tales of dire and dread mishaps,
Kissing, falling, rising, swelling, dying in the dismal gaps.
When the coming daylight slowly lays her fingers on the “Peak”
Then the Empress Melancholy hurries off to swamps that reek.
But the scene is never cheery, be it sunshine, be it rain,
For the Gully keeps its dreary look till darkness comes again.
As you stand beside the broken shafts, where grass is growing thick,
You can almost hear a spoken word, or hear a thudding pick;
And your very soul seems sinking, foetid grows the morning air,
For you cannot help believing that there’s something buried there.
There’s a ring amid the saplings by a travelling circus worn,
That amused the noisy diggers e’er the rising race was born;
There’s a road where scrub encroaches that was once the main highway,
Over which two rival coaches dashed in glory twice a day;
Gone — all gone from Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully wheels of crowded coaches more.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Jessie
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,
And yields the golden keys,
Then is it as if God caress'd
Twin babes upon His knees--
Twin babes that, each to other press'd,
Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.
But when I think if we must part,
And all this personal dream be fled--
O then my heart! O then my useless heart!
Would God that thou wert dead--
A clod insensible to joys and ills--
A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Progress Report
My need has frayed with time; you said it would.
It has; I can walk again across the flood
Of gold sil popples on the straw-gold hills
Under a deep Californian sky that expels
All truant clouds; watch squads of cattle graze
By the radio-telescope; blue-battered jays
Flash raucous squaking by my swivelling head
While squirrels sine-wave past over the dead
Oak-leaves, and not miss you_although I may
Admit that near the telescope yesterday
By a small bushcovered gully I blundered on
Five golden fox-cubs playing in the sun
And wished you had been there to see them play;
But that I only mention by the way.
poem by Vikram Seth
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A Tusculan Question
One day as on an ass I rode,
By many a twisting gully,
To where once stood the famed abode
Of philosophic Tully,
A shepherd lad with hat aslouch
Was singing to his flock O;
I pulled my money from my pouch,
And chucked him a baiocco.
A moment gone, and with his psalm
The hills and woods were ringing;
But when the copper touched his palm,
Sudden he ceased his singing.
Ah! like to bees that cease to hum,
When pressing on for honey,
So doth the singing soul grow dumb,
Intent on clogging money.
Kind Heaven! forbid that ever I
Should sink in golden torpor!
If, living, I may sing, I'll die
Contentedly a pauper.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Every Woman II... For William O Everson
every woman
I make no judgement
large small fat thin
old, young
though not too young
(I am an old man)
I accept as a beautiful landscape
a work of art to reach
to touch
to be gazed upon
every woman
a rosary I wish to pray
a set of beads I wish to tell
with aching fingers...
a sacred set of mysteries
every woman
a beautiful field I wish to roll in
a field of flowers
of mown hay
a harvest to be taken in for winter
every woman
a warm summer pond to lie into
to be held caressed
every gully every turn
a new sense of wonder
still
every woman a rosary
sacred silent deep
an offering from God
to God a whisper
of a promise
poem by R. James Sterzinger
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Now I've been three days
Now I've been three days
In the place where I am staying,
I've taken up new ways—
Land-owning and flute playing.
There's an orchard ground
Seen, that set me sighing.
Should I give ten pounds,
It is mine for the buying.
With the door set wide,
I could sit there playing,
Send the magic notes
Through the gully straying.
Since the roof is sound
And the trees are growing,
I will give ten pounds,
All my gold bestowing.
Now I've been three days
In the place where I am staying,
I've taken up new ways—
Land-owning and flute playing.
poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Disco Inferno
[Hook x2]
Little mama show me how you move it
better yet put ya back into it
Do ya thang like there aint nothin to it
Shake..
sh..sh..shake that ass girl.
[Verse 1]
Go Go Go
Fifty in the house- bounce, y'all already know what I'm about.
The flow sounds sick over Dre' drums n*gga, I ain't
stupid- I see Doc and my dope come quicker.
Whoa! Shorty' hips is hypnotic, she moves is so erotic, but watch
I'ma watch her bounce that assss girl.
I get it crunk in here, I make it jump in here, front in here, we'll thump in here. Oooohh.
I'm so gutter, so ghetto, so hood. So gully, so grimy, what's good?
Outside, the Benz on dubs
I'm in the club wit da snub - don't start nothin', it won't be nothin'. Uuuhhh.
[Hook x2]
Little mama show me how you move it
better yet put ya back into it
Do ya thang like there aint nothin to it
Shake..
sh..sh.. shake that ass girl.
[Verse 2]
Let's party, everybody stand up.
Everybody put ya hands up.
Let's party, everybody bounce wit me.
Some Champagne and burn ailtte greenary.
This hot. Disco Inferno, let's go. You are now rockin wit a pro.
I get dough to flip dough to get more, fo sho'.
Get my drank on then get on da dance floor.
Look homie I don't dance all i do is this.
It's the same 2-step wit a lil' twist.
Listen pimpin' I ain't new to this, I'm true to this.
Pay attention boy, I teach how to do this.
You mix a lil' Cris with a lil' Don Perrion.
And a lil' Hennessy, you know we fittin' to carry on.
Hollerin' at these snakes in da club tryin' to get right,
we gonna be up in this bitch 'til we break daylight.
[Hook x2]
Little mama show me how you move it
better yet put ya back into it
Do ya thang like there aint nothin to it
Shake..
sh..sh..shake that ass girl.
[Verse 3]
You see me shinin' and lit up with diamonds as I stay grindin'. uh-huh.
Homie you can catch me swoopin Bentley coupin',
switchin lanes. u see me rollin, you know I'm holdin,
I'm about my paper, yeah.
N*gga I'm serious, I ain't playin',
I'llInbed it in your brain, I'm off the chain.
G-Unit! Next level now, turn it up a notch.
Em and Dre sent me to tear up the spot.
Front on me, oh no, you know I'm loco.
Hands up on the dance floor, ok let's go!
[Hook x2]
Little mama show me how you move it
better yet put ya back into it
Do ya thang like there aint nothin to it
Shake..
sh..sh..shake that ass girl.
song performed by by 50 Cent
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In My Every Walk In Nature
In my walks in Nature great beauty I've seen
Like bluebells in bloom on the ditch of bohreen
When hawthorns were in their white blooms of the May
And nesting birds sung in the woods far away.
In my walks in Nature strange voices I hear
Like the song of the whipbird so whip like and clear
In the wooded gully hidden in the brake
A voice from once heard one can never mistake.
In my every walk in Nature and I've had more than a few
To my great surprise I do learn something new
From Nature we learn something new every day
We do never stop learning as some like to say.
I have loved Mother Nature since I was a boy
And my walks in her quiet places I thoroughly enjoy
Her wildbirds chirp and whistle on every bush and tree
And her beauty is everywhere all around me.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of What The Wind Said
Eternity may well
Be only a river
Be a forgotten horse
And the cooing
Of a lost dove.
As for the man who distances
Himself from men, the wind comes
Telling him other things now
Opening his ears
And eyes to other things.
Today, I distanced myself from men,
And alone, in this gully,
I began to gaze at the river,
And saw a horse all alone,
And listened all lonely
To the cooing
Of a lost dove.
And the wind came close,
Like someone passing by,
And told me:
Eternity may well
Be only a river
Be a forgotten horse
And the cooing
Of a lost dove.
poem by Rafael Alberti from Ballads and Songs of the Paraná (1953)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Tale Of Steven
’TIS the tale of Simon Steven, braceman at the Odd-and-Even,
At The Nations, in the gully. They were sinking in the rock.
Sim was small and wiry rather, and a husband and a father,
But he’s gone and left his family as a consequence of shock.
Shock was Sim’s disease, we reckoned, for it took him in a second,
And no doctor born could dognose what the symptoms were, I think,
But we’re missin’ Sim completely—he could play the whistle sweetly,
And was always very sociable and brotherly in drink.
That was how poor Steven drifted into trouble—being gifted,
He was hungry for an audience, and it led him up to Coy’s;
But his wife made no deductions for the artist, and the ructions
What she raised around that public were just fireworks for the boys.
When she caught him on the liquor, being stronger like and quicker,
She would hammer him in company, which, I take it, wasn’t right;
Yet he bore it like a martyr while his wife played up the tartar,
And she gave her straight opinion of each mother’s son in sight.
Sim had marks of her corrections scattered round in all directions
On his features and his figure, but he didn’t seem to care—
For he thought his missus clearly did her duty by him merely
When she pommelled him for boosing with a poker or a chair.
’Twas a Wednesday, boss, I’m thinking. There’d been much promiscuous drinking
Up the gully, where some city chaps were christening Spooner’s mill;
Sim was dayshift at The Nations, and he missed the grand orations,
But, with help from men and brothers, he contrived to get his fill.
They’d been shooting holes, an’ Steven, when he left the Odd-and-Even,
Carried with him in his pocket here a plug of dynamite.
Sim had put it there to soften—which is done by miners often,
But it’s not the sort of practice that I’d recommend as right.
Well, the braceman didn’t worry after tea that day, nor hurry
To the bosom of his family, but took drink for drink with Mack;
When they aimed him homewards kindly, Steven went the distance blindly,
And his feet performed the lockstitch all the way along the track.
Mrs. Sim was primed and ready, and she met him with a neddy,
And she passed no vain remarks, but aimed an awful blow at him;
Came a sound of roaring thunder—Mrs. Sim was blown from under,
And the universe was ruined, and the sun went out for Sim.
After search in all directions, we found very few selections
Of the widow’s dear departed, but we did the best we could.
For, you see, by passion goaded, and not knowing Sim was loaded,
She’d concussed that plug of dynamite, and blown him up for good.
There was room for no reproaches ’bout the hearse and mourning coaches;
Though we only buried samples, yet we ’lowed for style and tone—
Man’s-size coffin, grave, and preacher for a broken fellow creature,
And we wrote ‘In Death Divided’ at the bottom of the stone.
poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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