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I Miss You
Where are you my darling
I tried calling out your name but I met no reponse
I tried reaching out to you but you are no where to be seen, honey
Where are you, I need you to set me free from these nightmares.
I never knew the joy of getting home,
I never knew how fast a heart could beat;
I never tasted joy,
Till the day my little boy
Edgar Albert Guest
THIS is Christ's birthday: long ago
He lay upon His Mother's knee,
Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low--
God's gift to her, as you to me.
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
The three stood listening to a fresh access
Of wind that caught against the house a moment,
Gulped snow, and then blew free again-the Coles
Dressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,
Hyperion: Book Ii
Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd.
The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
T. S. Eliot
Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes:
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.
THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE DANCED ON SHERE KHAN'S HIDE
The Song of Mowgli-I, Mowgli, am singing. Let
the jungle listen to the things I have done.
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ‘t is early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.
‘T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Woo-hoo Homer Simpson is thinking
designer polish makes shoes softly glow
especially a pair of Assassin cross trainers.
The day just feels better owning lots of things
S. K. Kelen
After working hard all day
In the office,
How much worse on homeward way
My old cough is!
From torrid heat to frigid cold
I've rovered land and sea;
And now, with halting heart I hold
My grandchild on my knee:
I bought my little grandchild Ann
A bright balloon,
And I was such a happy man
To hear her croon.
At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim,
When Bill Mc'Gee he says to me: “We've got to do it, Jim.
We've got to make Fort Liard quick. I know the river's bad,
But, oh! the little woman's sick . . . why! don't you savvy, lad?”
I never thought that Bill could say
A proper prayer;
'Twas more in his hard-bitten way
To cuss and swear;
I am a Day . . .
My sky is grey,
My wind is wild,
My sea high-piled:
The Elders of the Tribe were grouped
And squatted in the Council Cave;
They seemed to be extremely pooped,
And some were grim, but all were grave:
I never kill a fly because
I think that what we have of laws
To regulate and civilize
Our daily life-we owe to flies.
“I'll do the old dump in a day,”
He told me in his brittle way.
“Two more, I guess, I'll give to Rome
Before I hit the trail for home;
I sat her in her baby chair,
And set upon its tray
Her kewpie doll and teddy bear,
But no, she would not play.
All day he lay upon the sand
When summer sun was bright,
And let the grains sift through his hand
With infantile delight;
You've heard of Belching Billy, likewise known as Windy Bill,
As punk a chunk of Yukon scum as ever robbed a sluice;
A satellite of Soapy Smith, a capper and a shill,
A slimy tribute-taker from the Ladies on the Loose.
Mud is Beauty in the making,
Mud is melody awaking;
Laughter, leafy whisperings,
Butterflies with rainbow wings;
By parents I would not be pinned,
Nor in my home abide,
For I was wanton as the wind
And tameless as the tide;
When you come home I'll not be round
To welcome you.
They'll take you to a grassy mound
So neat and new;
The Spanish women don't wear slacks
Because their hips are too enormous.
'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks
No inspiration that should warm us;
My mother loved her horses and
Her hounds of pedigree;
She did not kiss the baby hand
I held to her in glee.
My daughter Susie, aged two,
Apes me in every way,
For as my household chores I do
With brooms she loves to play.
The Auction Sale
Her little head just topped the window-sill;
She even mounted on a stool, maybe;
She pressed against the pane, as children will,
And watched us playing, oh so wistfully!
The Baldness Of Chewed-ear
When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee,
His flowin' locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an' free;
But in old Hymen's jack-pot, it's a most amazin' thing,
Them flowin' locks jest disappeared like snow-balls in the Spring;
The Ballad Of Salvation Bill
'Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can,
Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
When I bumped into that Missionary Man.
As I sat by my baby's bed
That's open to the sky,
There fluttered round and round my head
A radiant butterfly.
In Pat Mahoney's booze bazaar the fun was fast and free,
And Ragtime Billy spanked the baby grand;
While caroling a saucy song was Montreal Maree,
With sozzled sourdoughs giving her a hand.
The Squaw Man
The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver's overbold,
The net is in the eddy of the stream;
The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold,
And in the velvet gloom the fire's a-gleam.
The Three Bares
Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine.
It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With all that bucket load of high explosive residue.
The Twins Of Lucky Strike
I've sung of Violet de Vere, that slinky, minky dame,
Of Gertie of the Diamond Tooth, and Touch-the-Button Nell,
And Maye Lamore,-at eighty-four I oughta blush wi' shame
That in my wild and wooly youth I knew them ladies well.
Give me your hand, oh little one!
Like children be we two;
Yet I am old, my day is done
That barely breaks for you.
Her baby was so full of glee,
And through the day
It laughed and babbled on her knee
In happy play.
The Iliad: Book 21
Now when they came to the ford of the full-flowing river Xanthus,
begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut their forces in two: one
half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that
the Achaeans had taken when flying panic-stricken on the preceding day
The Iliad: Book 09
Thus did the Trojans watch. But Panic, comrade of blood-stained
Rout, had taken fast hold of the Achaeans and their princes were all
of them in despair. As when the two winds that blow from Thrace-the
north and the northwest-spring up of a sudden and rouse the fury of
The Odyssey: Book 01
Tell me, o muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide
after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit,
and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was
acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save
The Odyssey: Book 04
They reached the low lying city of Lacedaemon them where they
drove straight to the of abode Menelaus [and found him in his own
house, feasting with his many clansmen in honour of the wedding of his
son, and also of his daughter, whom he was marrying to the son of that
The Mother Of A Poet
She is too kind, I think, for mortal things,
Too gentle for the gusty ways of earth;
God gave to her a shy and silver mirth,
And made her soul as clear
Rose, when I remember you,
Little lady, scarcely two,
I am suddenly aware
Of the angels in the air.