FM 66.6
Lattam az rdgt enni krt
Hat adtak neki hordtak a vrt
A kezekben labak a fejekben tarak
Aranyat mrtek emberrt
Rohan tzek harcra sarcok
Fnytelen szemek beesett arcok
A jllakott mg krt - ez ra vall
A gonosz meg rhgtt teli pofaval
Nztem az embert egy virust lattam
A fld szivben dgvssz valtan
A jsaggal szurt az reg mohsag
Ders mosollyal a jvt kaszaltam
Mint Nostradamus ezt mindenki vagta
De csukott szemmel csak a remnyt hagta
A jllakott mg krt - ez ra vall
A gonosz meg rhgtt teli pofaval
Nzlek tged s magamat latom
Holdfny trmet a szivedbe martom
Majd magamba dfm a ltet ellkm
Aztan bamba fejjel megint a sorsot varom
Mieltt adnal, te ktszer is veszel
A pokol tzben is gyztes leszel
Ha eleged van mg krsz ez rad vall
A gonosz meg rhghet teli pofaval
Hall, itt a Horror radi Parahirek riad!
Baltaes bilincs pofon
A Satan maga hatezer lovon
Lassan az egsz langra lobban
Ostoba szived lustan dobban... Jaaj
song performed by by Quimby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
La Bamba
(traditional - arranged by dusty springfield)
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba, arriba
Ay arriba, arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Yo no soy marinera
Yo no soy marinera
Soy capitan
Soy capitan
Soy capitan
Im not a sailor
Im not a sailor
Im captain
Im captain
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, no, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, no, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Oh, una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Oh, una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba, no, no, no
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Andale !
Lets go!
Bamba, bamba
Bamba, oh, oh, oh
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Egnia
Krdeztem de nem vartam
Megnztem de nem lattam
Nekifutottam s elszalltam
Ramtalaltam s sztvaltam
Elvartam s eltrtem
Elzartam s megszntem
Megkerestem s eltntem
Visszamentem s elkldtem
Az n hazam az n pnzem
Az n vnam az n vrem
Az n az n az n az n kpem
Lehuzom magam a wc-ben
Az n sarlm az n kertem
Az n bolygm az n lelkem
Az n az n az n az n kpem
sszevarrom s szttpem
song performed by by Quimby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Spring
When wintry weather's all a-done,
An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee
Wi' sticks toward their elem tree;
When birds do zing, an' we can zee
Upon the boughs the buds o' spring, -
Then I'm as happy as a king,
A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.
Vor then the cowlsip's hangen flower
A-wetted in the zunny shower,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell;
Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
Do lie in mossy nest among
The thorns, while they do zing their zong
At evenen in the zunsheen.
An' God do meake his win' to blow
An' rain to vall vor high an' low,
An' bid his mornen zun to rise
Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies
Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes:
An' in our trials He is near,
To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear,
An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.
An' many times when I do vind
Things all goo wrong, an' v'ok unkind,
To zee the happy veeden herds,
An' hear the zingen o' the birds,
Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
Do meake woone's soul so dark 'ithin,
When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Woak Hill
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;
I packed up my goods all a sheenèn
Wi' long years o' handlèn,
On dousty red wheel ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.
The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
I then wer a-le{'a}vèn,
Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Me{'a}ry,
My bride at Woak Hill.
But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
Too soon vor my ja{'y} an' my childern,
She died at Woak Hill.
But still I do think that, in soul,
She do hover about us;
To ho vor her motherless childern,
Her pride at Woak Hill.
Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter
I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn,
To bide at Woak Hill--
I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns
All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' a{'i}r-reachèn hand,
To my zide at Woak Hill.
On the road I did look round, a-talkèn
To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the doorway,
Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.
An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
My mind wer a-wandrèn
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.
But no; that my Me{'a}ry mid never
Behold herzelf slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide vrom Woak Hill.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Woak Hill
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden
Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;
I packed up my goods, all a-sheenen
Wi' long years o' handlen,
On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.
The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen
I then wer a-leaven,
Had sheltered the sleek head o' Meary,
My bride at Woak Hill.
But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vlooren.
To soon vor my jay an' my childern
She died at Woak Hill.
But still I do think that, in soul,
She do hover about us;
To ho vor her motherless childern,
Her pride at Woak Hill.
Zoo—lest she should tell me hereafter
I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncalled at house-ridden,
To bide at Woak Hill—
I called her so fondly, wi' lippens
All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' air-reachen hand
To my zide at Woak Hill.
On the road I did look round, a-talken
To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the doorway,
Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.
An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
My mind wer a-wandren
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.
But no; that my Meary mid never
Behold herzelf slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide vrom Woak Hill.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vull a Man
No, I’m a man, I’m vull a man,
You beat my manhood, if you can.
You’ll be a man if you can teake
All steates that household life do meake.
The love-toss’d child, a-croodlen loud,
The bwoy a-screamen wild in play,
The tall grown youth a-steppen proud,
The father staid, the house’s stay.
No ; I can boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
A young-cheak’d mother’s tears mid vall,
When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play,
Do leave noo tool, but drop a tay,
An’ die avore he’s father-free
To sheape his life by his own plan;
An’ vull an angel he shall be,
But here on e’th not vull a man,
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
I woonce, a child, wer father-fed,
An’ I’ve a-vound my childern bread;
My earm, a sister’s trusty crook,
Is now a faithvul wife’s own hook;
An’ I’ve agone where vo’k did zend,
An’ gone upon my own free mind,
An’ of’en at my own wits’ end.
A-led o’ God while I were blind.
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
An’ still, ov all my tweil ha’ won,
My loven maid an’ merry son,
Though each in turn’s a jay an’ ceare,
‘Ve a-had, an’ still shall have, their sheare
An’ then, if God should bless their lives,
Why I mid zend vrom son to son
My life, right on drough men an’ wives,
As long, good now, as time do run.
No, I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Szell
Pislogsz hogy mi van most hatakkor
Tekerjnk nzzk meg bellrl
Csinaljunk blst a banatbl
Vagy inkabb vegyk at mg egyszer elrl
Ht pisztoly ht goly ht halal
A llek a husban mar alva jar
Latom, hogy odabenn all a bal
De milyen jl all neked ez is jl all
Indul az agy a sziv s a td
J veled mikor csuszik az id
Remeg a hus a csontban a vel
szrevtlenl szalad az id
Megynk de mgsem kzelednk
Tombol a trelem
Odakinn kutyak csaholnak vau
De minket elrejt a szerelem
A sztlan vagyak hegedjt
pengetve terelem
Az almos embert oda ahol
Semmi sem idegen
song performed by by Quimby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Me
Hat hogy is kezdjem, oh, hogy mondjam el?
Hisz aki megrthetn, az nem felel
Elragadta t a dlyfs jkiraly
Ki ezer ve mar a szerelemre var
Elragadta, megszerezte
Szerelemlanccal megktzte
De a szive csak az enym
Fnyes urak, ha nem tudnatok
Kt ember kell a boldogsaghoz
s mar csak az enym
A felkel nap fnye eltakar
A fltkenysg ugy a szivembe mar
Hisz oly hatalmas, fnyes a vlegny
Hat hogyan szallhatnk harcba vle n?
Elragadta, megszerezte
Szerelemlanccal megktzte
De a szive csak az enym
Fnyes urak, ha nem tudnatok
Kt ember kell a boldogsaghoz
s mar csak az enym
De azrt n nem adom fel
Trtnjen ugy, ahogyan kell...
Mert az n mesmben a hsk gyznek
A kt szerelmes egymas lesz
Ezrt n nem adom fel...
Mert az n mesmben a hsk gyznek
A kt szerelmes egymas lesz
Ezrt n nem adom fel...
Elragadta, megszerezte
Szerelemlanccal megktzte
De a szive csak az enym
Fnyes urak, ha nem tudnatok
Kt ember kell a boldogsaghoz
s mar csak az enym
Elragadta, megszerezte
Szerelemlanccal megktzte
De a szive csak az enym
Fnyes urak, ha nem tudnatok
Kt ember kell a boldogsaghoz
s mar csak az enym
song performed by by Dido
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Castle Ruins
A HAPPY day at Whitsuntide,
As soon ’s the zun begun to vall,
We all stroll’d up the steep hill-zide
To Meldon, gret an’ small;
Out where the Castle wall stood high
A-mwoldren to the zunny sky.
An’ there wi’ Jenny took a stroll
Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay,
Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,
An’ mid her wedlock fay;
An’ at our zides did play an’ run
My little maid an’ smaller son.
Above the baten mwold upsprung
The driven doust, a-spreaden light,
An’ on the new-leav’d thorn, a-hung,
Wer wool a-quiv’ren white;
An’ corn, a-sheenen bright, did bow,
On slopen Meldon’s zunny brow.
There, down the roofless wall did glow
The zun upon the grassy vloor,
An’ weakly-wandren winds did blow,
Unhinder’d by a door;
An’ smokeless now avore the zun
Did stan’ the ivy-girded tun.
My bwoy did watch the daws’ bright wings
A-flappen vrom their ivy bow’rs;
My wife did watch my maid’s light springs,
Out here an’ there vor flow’rs;
And John did zee noo tow’rs, the place
Vor him had only Polly’s face.
An’ there, of all that pried about
The walls, I overlook’d em best,
An’ what o’ that? Why, I made out
Noo mwore than all the rest:
That there wer woonce the nest of zome
That wer a-gone avore we come.
When woonce above the tun the smoke
Did wreathy blue among the trees,
An’ down below, the liven vo’k
Did tweil as brisk as bees:
Or zit wi’ weary knees, the while
The sky wer lightless to their tweil
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Young That Died In Beauty
If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e'thly light,
An' nothen better wer the cease,
How comely still, in sheape an' feace,
Would many reach thik happy pleace, -
The hopevul souls that in their prime
Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time, -
The young that died in beauty.
But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth,
An' over cheaks a-growen wold
The slowly-weasten years ha' roll'd
The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo'ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi' a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha' laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An' yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes,
An' village greens, a-beat half beare
By dancers that do meet, an' wear
Such merry looks at feast an' feair,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaks an' sparklen eyes,
Though young ha' died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their early sleep;
Where comely looks shall never wear
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare.
The feair at death be always feair,
Still feair to livers' thought an' love,
An' feairer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Young that Died in Beauty
If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e’thly light,
An’ nothen better wer the cease,
How comely still, in sheape an’ feace,
Would many reach thik happy pleace, —
The hopevul souls that in their prime
Ha’ seem’d a—took avore their time, —
The young that died in beauty.
But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth
A—tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth,
An’ over cheaks a-growen wold
The slowly-weasten years ha’ roll’d
The deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo’ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi’ a child a—vled,
The husband when his bride ha’ laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,
An’ village greens, a—beat half beare
By dancers that do meet, an’ wear
Such merry looks at feast an’ feair,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaks an’ sparklen eyes,
Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their early sleep;
Where comely looks shall never wear
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare.
The feair at death be always feair,
Still feair to livers’ thought an’ love,
An’ feairer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hay-Carren
'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haulèn hay,
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do meäke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-backed weäles or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the frothèn hosses snort,
A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick.
The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan',
At head, an' back at taïl, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
An' at each zide o'm, sprack an' strong,
A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,
Avore the best two women now
A-call'd to reäky after plough.
When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide,
An' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach
So vur, an' teäke in sich a streech;
An' I don't shatter hay, an' meäke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke.
I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Jeäne a-beät an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead,
Than let the pitchers get a-head.
'Tis merry at the rick to zee
How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee.
While woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke
The pitches in; an' zome do meäke
The lofty rick upright an' roun',
An' tread en hard, an' reäke en down,
An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
An' zoo 'tis merry any day
Where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bad Words
Rachael Harris, Jason Bateman, Kathryn Hahn, Allison Janney, Rohan Chand, Ben Falcone, Judith Hoag, Philip Baker Hall, Beth Grant
by Andrew Dodge from Bad Words (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bad Words [trailer 2]
Rachael Harris, Jason Bateman, Kathryn Hahn, Allison Janney, Rohan Chand, Ben Falcone, Judith Hoag, Philip Baker Hall, Beth Grant
by Andrew Dodge from Bad Words (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Csillagblcsi
Most elfelejtnk mindent
Viccet csinal a rszeg
Valami csillagkzi prrin kzben
Langol egy darazsfszek
Utana nzek hogy mi van
Voltal mar igazan fenn
Dltl nyugodtan hatra
Az giek bngszse kzben
Hanytal papir poharba
Most nalad az id
S mint patak felett a para
Szallnal szerte szjjel
Ha egy szell kapna vallra
Tavaszi faradtsag nyari punnyadas
szi levertsg tli allom
Abrakadabra csiribu-csiriba
Hkuszpkusz akombakom
Kerestem mindent nzem a semmit
Talaltam mindent latom a semmit
Eldobtam mindent rzem a semmit
Belattam mindent rzm a semmi
song performed by by Quimby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swami (Plus Strings)
Tovbb nem tudok vrni
Mostmr megteszi brmi
Az lesz a veszted
Hogy rvnylik a tested
Az alkalom itt van
Ht hdolj be halkan
Szzezer ve
Mindig ez a vge
Mindegy a sznhely
Nem kell, hogy sznlelj
Szeress vagy vess meg
n birtokba veszlek
Olvadni kezd most a Hold
Az arcod a prnn
Csak egy furcsa-furcsa folt
cska kis kzhely
Gynyr trvny
Hogy a szerelem rvny
Tovbb nem tudok vrni
Mostmr megteszi brmi
Az lesz a veszted
Hogy rvnylik a tested
Ltod, nlam a fegyver
de reszketned nem kell
Mert ez csak gynyrt fakaszt
Ht hzd meg a ravaszt
Ugye rzed a tavaszt?
Olvadni kezd most a Hold
Az arcod a prnn
Csak egy furcsa-furcsa folt
cska kis kzhely
Gynyr trvny
Hogy a szerelem rvny
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Satan’s role
But for Satan, can we seek God?
Fear of Satan drives us to God.
Satan removed, why is God?
God has reason to make Satan.
23.12.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What the abbot of Bamba cannot eat he gives away for the good of his soul.
A poet has many names
they say god has many names
but for this website users
a poet has many different names
and plays with you honesty games
poem by Lord Labak Das
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing (Nafaka)
In which the fullness of being stands
I settle illusions withing
For the sake of evil omens
Not to bloom in spring
Nothing in which I push the questions
In which I settle the answers
For the sake of sense
Not to die out by autumn
Nothing
In which I pour the whiteness
In which I settle the freezing
For the waiting not to melt down at winter
Nothing
In which the sunshine bathes
In which I settle the light
Not to burn myself in summer heat
NISTA u koje staje punoca bica
u njoj nastanjujem privid
uroka radi da se ne prozli
proljecem
nista u koje sazimam pitanja
u njima nastanjujem odgovor
smisla radi da s jeseni
ne uvene
nista u koje sipam bjelinu
u njoj nastanjujem promrzlost
u zimama cekanja da se ne istopi
pahulja
nista u kojem se preliva sunce
u njemu nastanjujem svjetlost
vrelinom ljeta da se ne sprzim
JA
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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