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Friday Poetry Corner

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    Friday Poetry Corner

    "There Is No Indispensable Man"
    by Saxon N. White Kessinger

    Sometime when you're feeling important;
    Sometime when your ego's in bloom
    Sometime when you take it for granted
    You're the best qualified in the room,

    Sometime when you feel that your going
    Would leave an unfillable hole,
    Just follow these simple instructions
    And see how they humble your soul;

    Take a bucket and fill it with water,
    Put your hand in it up to the wrist,
    Pull it out and the hole that's remaining
    Is a measure of how you will be missed.

    You can splash all you wish when you enter,
    You may stir up the water galore,
    But stop and you'll find that in no time
    It looks quite the same as before.

    The moral of this quaint example
    Is do just the best that you can,
    Be proud of yourself but remember,
    There's no indispensable man.
    The vegetarian option.

    #2
    Birdie, birdie in the sky,
    Drop a turdie in my eye.
    I don't fret and I don't cry,
    I'm just glad that cows don't fly!
    And what exactly is wrong with an "ad hominem" argument? Dodgy Agent, 16-5-2014

    Comment


      #3
      Isn't that the theme tune to Cheers?

      Comment


        #4
        I am a little molecule
        my name is CO2
        I get the blame for warming
        it makes me very blue
        they stick me in their models
        and try to make a case
        but whats really irrefutable
        is that I love the human race


        (\__/)
        (>'.'<)
        ("")("") Born to Drink. Forced to Work

        Comment


          #5
          Originally posted by Mich the Tester View Post
          Birdie, birdie in the sky,
          Drop a turdie in my eye.
          I don't fret and I don't cry,
          I'm just glad that cows don't fly!
          Ib dib dog shit:,
          now Mich you're it!
          What happens in General, stays in General.
          You know what they say about assumptions!

          Comment


            #6
            An amazing bird is the pelican.
            Its beak can hold more than its belly can.
            He can hold in his beak
            enough food for a week.
            But I'm damned if I know how the Hell he can.
            Work in the public sector? Read the IR35 FAQ here

            Comment


              #7
              There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu,
              There's a little marble cross below the town;
              There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
              And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

              He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
              He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
              But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
              And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

              He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
              The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
              She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
              To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

              He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
              They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
              And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
              But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

              On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
              And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
              But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
              Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

              He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
              And a gash across his temple dripping red;
              He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
              And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

              He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
              She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
              He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
              And she found the little green eye of the god.

              She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
              Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
              But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
              With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

              When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
              She thought of him and hurried to his room;
              As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
              Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

              His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
              The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
              An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
              'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

              There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu,
              There's a little marble cross below the town;
              There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
              And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
              “The period of the disintegration of the European Union has begun. And the first vessel to have departed is Britain”

              Comment


                #8
                The Soldiers at Lauro



                Young are our dead
                Like babies they lie
                The wombs they blest once
                Not healed dry
                And yet - too soon
                Into each space
                A cold earth falls
                On colder face.
                Quite still they lie
                These fresh-cut reeds
                Clutched in earth
                Like winter seeds
                But they will not bloom
                When called by spring
                To burst with leaf
                And blossoming
                They sleep on
                In silent dust
                As crosses rot
                And helmets rust.

                Courtesy Spike Milligan
                "Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what's for lunch." - Orson Welles

                Norrahe's blog

                Comment


                  #9
                  Originally posted by norrahe View Post
                  The Soldiers at Lauro



                  Young are our dead
                  Like babies they lie
                  The wombs they blest once
                  Not healed dry
                  And yet - too soon
                  Into each space
                  A cold earth falls
                  On colder face.
                  Quite still they lie
                  These fresh-cut reeds
                  Clutched in earth
                  Like winter seeds
                  But they will not bloom
                  When called by spring
                  To burst with leaf
                  And blossoming
                  They sleep on
                  In silent dust
                  As crosses rot
                  And helmets rust.

                  Courtesy Spike Milligan


                  Not heard that before.

                  Very good.
                  The vegetarian option.

                  Comment


                    #10
                    Originally posted by shaunbhoy View Post
                    There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu,
                    There's a little marble cross below the town;
                    There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
                    And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

                    He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
                    He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
                    But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
                    And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

                    He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
                    The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
                    She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
                    To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

                    He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
                    They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
                    And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
                    But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

                    On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
                    And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
                    But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
                    Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

                    He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
                    And a gash across his temple dripping red;
                    He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
                    And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

                    He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
                    She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
                    He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
                    And she found the little green eye of the god.

                    She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
                    Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
                    But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
                    With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

                    When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
                    She thought of him and hurried to his room;
                    As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
                    Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

                    His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
                    The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
                    An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
                    'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

                    There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu,
                    There's a little marble cross below the town;
                    There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
                    And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

                    .... KATMANDU - EH ??? sb - EH ???

                    Comment

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