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Friday Poetry Corner

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    Friday Poetry Corner

    Plan For Life

    People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centred.
    Forgive them anyway.
    If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
    Be kind anyway.
    If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies.
    Succeed anyway.
    If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you.
    Be honest and frank anyway.
    What you spend years building, someone may destroy overnight.
    Build anyway.
    If you find serenity and happiness, people may be jealous.
    Be happy anyway.
    The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow.
    Do good anyway
    Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough.
    But give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
    You see, in the final analysis, it is all between you and God;
    It was never between you and them anyway.

    - Mother Teresa
    Sola gratia

    Sola fide

    Soli Deo gloria

    #2
    EVIDENTLY
    CHICKEN TOWN




    the ******* cops are ******* keen

    to ******* keep it ******* clean

    the ******* chief's a ******* swine

    who ******* draws a ******* line

    at ******* fun and ******* games

    the ******* kids he ******* blames

    are nowehere to be ******* found

    anywhere in chicken town





    the ******* scene is ******* sad

    the ******* news is ******* bad

    the ******* weed is ******* turf

    the ******* speed is ******* surf

    the ******* folks are ******* daft

    don't make me ******* laugh

    it ******* hurts to look around

    everywhere in chicken town





    the ******* train is ******* late

    you ******* wait you ******* wait

    you're ******* lost and ******* found

    stuck in ******* chicken town





    the ******* view is ******* vile

    for ******* miles and ******* miles

    the ******* babies ******* cry

    the ******* flowers ******* die

    the ******* food is ******* muck

    the ******* drains are ******* ****ed

    the colour scheme is ******* brown

    everywhere in chicken town





    the ******* pubs are ******* dull

    the ******* clubs are ******* full

    of ******* girls and ******* guys

    with ******* murder in their eyes

    a ******* bloke is ******* stabbed

    waiting for a ******* cab

    you ******* stay at ******* home

    the ******* neighbors ******* moan

    keep the ******* racket down

    this is ******* chicken town





    the ******* train is ******* late

    you ******* wait you ******* wait

    you're ******* lost and ******* found

    stuck in ******* chicken town





    the ******* pies are ******* old

    the ******* chips are ******* cold

    the ******* beer is ******* flat

    the ******* flats have ******* rats

    the ******* clocks are ******* wrong

    the ******* days are ******* long

    it ******* gets you ******* down

    evidently chicken town


    LYRICS © JOHN COOPER CLARKE

    I am not qualified to give the above advice!

    The original point and click interface by
    Smith and Wesson.

    Step back, have a think and adjust my own own attitude from time to time

    Comment


      #3
      The day the river freezes
      Is the day it won´t seem fair
      ´Cause they´ll come to get the River Lady
      And I don´t think they´ll care

      I know they´ll scrape her paint off
      In their same old foolish ways
      Now the people see the river
      But the old ships gone away

      Water turns cold and gets ta freezin´
      Before you even know it
      The old girl´s easin´
      Away from her berth
      Round by the point
      And out of our view

      Off in the mist
      Her engine´s woundin´
      Like on the banks
      That old horn´s soundin´
      A little goodbye
      A little I´ll do what I must do

      A little goodbye
      A little I´ll do what I must do

      A da da dum, dum, dum, da da da dum dum

      I know I will remember
      When I cannot hear that horn
      That would roll up by the mountains
      As she took us through the storm

      I know they´ve got to take her
      But I can´t say I approve
      ´Cause she´s won so many battles
      That I hate to see her lose

      Water turns cold and gets ta freezin´
      Before you even know it
      The old girl´s easin´
      Away from her berth
      Round by the point
      And out of our view

      A little goodbye
      A little I´ll do, what I must do

      The water turns cold
      And gets to freezin´
      Before you even know it
      The old girl´s easin´
      Away from her berth
      ´Round by the point
      And out of our view

      Off in the mist
      Her engine´s boundin´
      Like on the banks
      That old horn´s soundin´
      A little goodbye
      A little I´ll do
      What I must do

      A little goodbye
      A little I´ll do
      What I must do
      Not quite a poem, but it'll do!
      Oh Jesus - Disaster Management Ltd.
      You know you'll need us!

      Comment


        #4
        0x0d2c

        May all your signals trap
        May your references be bounded
        All memory aligned
        Floats to ints be rounded
        Remember.... Nonzero is TRUE
        ++ adds one
        Arrays start with [0]
        NULL points to none

        For octal use zero
        0x means in hex
        use = to set
        and == for a test

        Use -> for a pointer
        a dot if it's not
        ?: is confusing
        use this a lot

        a.out is your program
        there's no 'u' in foobar
        and char (*(*x())[])() is
        a function returning a pointer
        to an array of pointers
        to functions returning a char
        Insanity: repeating the same actions, but expecting different results.
        threadeds website, and here's my blog.

        Comment


          #5
          Like City's rain, my heart...

          Like city's rain, my heart
          Rains teardrops too. What now,
          This languorous ache, this smart
          That pierces, wounds my heart?


          Gentle, the sound of rain
          Pattering roof and ground!
          Ah, for the heart in pain,
          Sweet is the sound of rain!


          Tears rain-but who knows why?-
          And fill my heartsick heart.
          No faithless lover's lie? . . .
          It mourns, and who knows why?


          And nothing pains me so--
          With neither love nor hate--
          A simply not to know
          Why my heart suffers so.

          -Verlaine
          Autom...Sprow...Canna...Tik banna...Sandwol...But no sera smee

          Comment


            #6
            Sea-Fever

            I MUST down to the seas again,
            to the lonely sea and the sky

            And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
            And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking

            And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

            I must down to the seas again
            for the call of the running tide

            Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

            And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
            And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

            I must down to the seas again
            to the vagrant gypsy life.

            To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

            And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover

            And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

            John Masefield.
            Last edited by AlfredJPruffock; 9 September 2005, 09:08.

            Comment


              #7
              Under Milk Wood

              It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the
              cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courter's-and-rabbits' wood limping
              invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing
              sea. The houses are are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the
              snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

              Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and
              pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yard; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

              You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.

              Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow,
              asleep.

              And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before-dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.

              Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

              Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees;
              going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.

              Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

              Come closer now.

              Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wished and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.

              From where you are, you can hear their dreams...
              Last edited by Jabberwocky; 9 September 2005, 09:17.

              Comment


                #8
                Nice one Jabber. I'd forgotten how good that is.

                Here's another gem from the great one . . .

                Do not go gentle into that good night,
                Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
                Because their words had forked no lightning they
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
                Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
                And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
                Do not go gentle into that good night.

                Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
                Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                And you, my father, there on the sad height,
                Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
                Do not go gentle into that good night.
                Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
                The vegetarian option.

                Comment


                  #9
                  Ther's mony a badge that's unco braw;
                  Wi' ribbon, lace and tape on;
                  Let kings an' princes wear them a' -
                  Gie me the Master's apron!

                  The honest craftsman's apron,
                  The jolly Freemason's apron,
                  Be he at hame, or roam afar,
                  Before his touch fa's bolt and bar,
                  The gates of fortune fly ajar,
                  `Gin he but wears the apron!

                  For wealth and honor, pride and power
                  Are crumbling stanes to base on;
                  Eternity suld rule the hour,
                  And ilka worthy Mason!
                  Each Free Accepted Mason,
                  Each Ancient Crafted Mason.

                  Then, brithers, let a halesome sang
                  Arise your friendly ranks alang!
                  Guidwives and bairnies blithely sing
                  To the ancient badge wi' the apron string
                  That is worn by the Master Mason!

                  - Robert Burns
                  Oh Jesus - Disaster Management Ltd.
                  You know you'll need us!

                  Comment


                    #10
                    JC, do you have to change your sandals at the Lodge?
                    Autom...Sprow...Canna...Tik banna...Sandwol...But no sera smee

                    Comment

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