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Thread: Poetry Corner

  1. #21
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

    W.H. Auden
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  2. #22
    your avatar gives me epiliptic fits Adouglasmhor's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2006

    Yes | No



    An International Guide-Book for the young of all ages;
    peculiarly adapted to the wants of first and second Childhood.



    Abroad is where we tourists spend,
    In divers unalluring ways,
    The brief occasional week-end,
    Or annual Easter holidays;
    And earn the (not ill-founded) charge
    Of being lunatics at large.

    Abroad, we lose our self-respect;
    Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude;
    Consider any garb correct,
    And no display of temper rude;
    Descending, when we cross the foam,
    To depths we dare not plumb at home.

    (Small wonder that the natives gaze,
    With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks,
    Who patronise their Passion-plays,
    In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks;
    An op'ra-glass about each neck,
    And on each head a cap of check.)

    Abroad, where needy younger sons,
    When void the parent's treasure-chest,
    Take refuge from insistent duns,
    At urgent relatives' request;
    To live upon their slender wits,
    Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.

    Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare)
    Regardless of nostalgic pains,
    The weary New York millionaire
    Retires with his oil-gotten gains,
    And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis
    To found our Public Libraries.

    For ours is the primeval clan,
    From which all lesser lights descend;
    Is Crockett not our countryman?
    And call we not Corelli friend?
    Our brotherhood has bred the brain
    Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine.

    Tho' nowadays we seldom hear
    Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord,
    Or Tennyson, the poet peer,
    Who came into the garden, Mord;
    Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread,
    We have a prophet still in Stead.

    And so we stare, with nose in air;
    And speak in condescending tone,
    Of foreigners whose climes compare
    So favourably with our own;
    And aliens we cannot applaud
    Who call themselves At Home Abroad!



    This is the Country of the Free,
    The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew;
    Where you're as good a man as me,
    And I'm a better man than you!
    (O Liberty, how free we make!
    Freedom, what liberties we take!)

    'Tis here the startled tourist meets,
    'Mid clanging of a thousand bells,
    The railways running through the streets,
    Skyscraping flats and vast hotels,
    Where rest, on the resplendent floors,
    The necessary cuspidors.

    And here you may encounter too
    The pauper immigrants in shoals,
    The Swede, the German, and the Jew,
    The Irishman, who rules the polls
    And is employed to keep the peace,
    A venal and corrupt police.

    They are so busy here, you know,
    They have no time at all for play;
    Each morning to their work they go
    And stay there all the livelong day;
    Their dreams of happiness depend
    On making more than they can spend.

    The ladies of this land are all
    Developed to a pitch sublime,
    Some inches over six foot tall,
    With perfect figures all the time.
    (For further notice of their looks
    See Mr. Dana Gibson's books.)

    And, if they happen to possess
    Sufficient balance at the bank,
    They have the chance of saying 'Yes!'
    To needy foreigners of rank;
    The future dukes of all the earth
    Are half American by birth.


    A 'dot' combining cash with charms
    Is worth a thousand coats-of-arms.



    The British are a chilly race.
    The Englishman is thin and tall;
    He screws an eyeglass in his face,
    And talks with a reluctant drawl.
    'Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!
    By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!'

    The English_woman_ ev'rywhere
    A meed of admiration wins;
    She has a crown of silken hair,
    And quite the loveliest of skins.
    (Go forth and seek an English maid,
    Your trouble will be well repaid.)

    Where Britain's banner is unfurled
    There's room for nothing else beside,
    She owns one-quarter of the world,
    And still she is not satisfied.
    The Briton thinks himself, by birth,
    To be the lord of all the earth.

    Some call his manners wanting, or
    His sense of humour poor, and yet
    Whatever he is striving for
    He as a rule contrives to get;
    His methods may be much to blame,
    But he arrives there just the same.


    If you can get your wish, you bet it
    Doesn't much matter _how_ you get it!



    In Scotland all the people wear
    Red hair and freckles, and one sees
    The men in women's dresses there,
    With stout, décolleté, low-necked knees.
    ('Eblins ye dinna ken, I doot,
    We're unco guid, so hoot, mon, hoot!')

    They love 'ta whuskey' and 'ta Kirk';
    I don't know which they like the most.
    They aren't the least afraid of work;
    No sense of humour can they boast;
    And you require an axe to coax
    The canny Scot to see your jokes.

    They play an instrument they call
    The bagpipes; and the sound of these
    Is reminiscent of the squall
    Of infant pigs attacked by bees;
    Music that might drive cats away
    Or make reluctant chickens lay.


    Wear kilts, and, tho' men look askance,
    Go out and give your knees a chance.



    The Irishman is never quite
    Contented with his little lot;
    He's ever thirsting for a fight,
    A grievance he has always got;
    And all his energy is bent
    On trying not to pay his rent.

    He lives upon a frugal fare
    (The few potatoes that he digs),
    And hospitably loves to share
    His bedroom with his wife and pigs;
    But cannot settle even here,
    And gets evicted once a year.

    In order to amuse himself,
    At any time when things are slack,
    He takes his gun down from the shelf
    And shoots a landlord in the back;
    If he is lucky in the chase,
    He may contrive to bag a brace.


    Procure a grievance and a gun
    And you can have no end of fun.



    The natives of the land of Wales
    Are not a very truthful lot,
    And the imagination fails
    To paint the language they have got;


    If you _must_ talk, then do it, pray,
    In an intelligible way.



    The Chinaman from early youth
    Is by his wise preceptors taught
    To have no dealings with the Truth,
    In fact, romancing is his 'forte.'
    In juggling words he takes the prize,
    By the sheer beauty of his lies.

    For laundrywork he has a knack;
    He takes in shirts and makes them blue;
    When he omits to send them back
    He takes his customers in too.
    He must be ranked in the 'élite'
    Of those whose hobby is deceit.

    For ladies 'tis the fashion here
    To pinch their feet and make them small,
    Which, to the civilised idea,
    Is not a proper thing at all.
    Our modern Western woman's taste
    In pinching leans towards the waist.

    The Chinese Empire is the field
    Where foreign missionaries go;
    A poor result their labours yield,
    And they have little fruit to show;
    For, if you would convert Wun Lung,
    You have to catch him very young.

    The Chinaman has got a creed
    And a religion of his own,
    And would be much obliged indeed
    If you could leave his soul alone;
    And he prefers, which may seem odd,
    His own to other people's god.

    Yet still the missionary tries
    To point him out his wickedness,
    Until the badgered natives rise,--
    And there's one missionary less!
    Then foreign Pow'rs step in, you see,
    And ask for an indemnity.


    Adhere to facts, avoid romance,
    And you a clergyman may be;
    To lie is wrong, except perchance
    In matters of Diplomacy.
    And, when you start out to convert,
    Make certain that you don't get hurt!



    The natives here remark 'Mon Dieu!'
    'Que voulez-vous?' 'Comment ça va?'
    'Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!'
    'Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?'
    They shave one portion of their dogs,
    And live exclusively on frogs.

    They get excited very quick,
    And crowds will gather before long
    If you should stand and wave your stick
    And shout, 'À bas le Presidong!'
    Still more amusing would it be
    To say, 'Conspuez la Patrie!'

    The French are so polite, you know,
    They take their hats off very well,
    And, should they tread upon your toe,
    Remark, 'Pardon, Mademoiselle!'
    And you would gladly bear the pain
    To see them make that bow again.

    Their ladies too have got a way
    Which even curates can't resist;
    'Twould make an Alderman feel gay
    Or soothe a yellow journalist;
    And then the things they say are so
    Extremely--well, in fact,--you know!


    The closest scrutiny can find
    No morals here of any kind.



    The German is a stolid soul,
    And finds best suited to his taste
    A pipe with an enormous bowl,
    A fraulein with an ample waist;
    He loves his beer, his Kaiser, and
    (Donner und blitz!) his Fatherland!

    He's perfectly contented if
    He listens in the Op'ra-house
    To Wagner's well-concealed 'motif,'
    Or waltzes of the nimble Strauss;
    And all discordant bands he sends
    Abroad, to soothe his foreign friends.

    When he is glad at anything
    He cheers like a dyspeptic goat,
    'Hoch! hoch!' You'd think him suffering
    From some affection of the throat.
    A disagreeable noise, 'tis true,
    But pleases him and don't hurt you!


    A glass of lager underneath the bough,
    A long 'churchwarden' and an ample 'frau'
    Beside me sitting in a Biergarten,
    Ach! Biergarten were paradise enow!



    This country is extremely flat,
    Just like your father's head, and were
    It not for dykes and things like that
    There would not be much country there,
    For, if these banks should broken be,
    What now is land would soon be sea.

    So, any child who glory seeks,
    And in a dyke observes a hole,
    Must hold his finger there for weeks,
    And keep the water from its goal,
    Until the local plumbers come,
    Or other persons who can plumb.

    The Hollanders have somehow got
    The name of Dutch (why, goodness knows!),
    But Mrs. Hollander is not
    A 'duchess' as you might suppose;
    Mynheer Von Vanderpump is much
    More used to style her his 'Old Dutch.'

    Their cities' names are somewhat odd,
    But much in vogue with golfing men
    Who miss a 'put' or slice a sod,
    (Whose thoughts I would not dare to pen),
    'Oh, Rotterdam!' they can exclaim,
    And blamelessly resume the game.

    The Dutchman's dress is very neat;
    He minds his little flock of goats
    In cotton blouse, and on his feet
    He dons a pair of wooden boats.
    (He evidently does not trust
    Those dykes I mentioned not to bust).

    He has the reputation too
    Of being what is known as 'slim,'
    Which merely means he does to you
    What you had hoped to do to him;
    He has a business head, that's all,
    And takes some beating, does Oom Paul.


    Avoid a country where the sea
    May any day drop in to tea,
    Rememb'ring that, at golf, one touch
    Of bunker makes the whole world Dutch!



    The climate is intensely cold;
    Wild curates would not drag me there;
    Not tho' they brought great bags of gold,
    And piled them underneath my chair.
    If twenty bishops bade me go,
    I should decidedly say, 'No!'


    If ev'ry man has got his price,
    As generally is agreed,
    You will, by taking my advice,
    Let yours be very large indeed.
    Corruption is not nice at all,
    Unless the bribe be far from small.



    In Italy the sky is blue;
    The native loafs and lolls about,
    He's nothing in the world to do,
    And does it fairly well, no doubt;
    (Ital-i-ans are disinclined
    To honest work of any kind).

    A light Chianti wine he drinks,
    And fancies it extremely good;
    (It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks);--
    While macaroni is his food.
    (I think it must be rather hard
    To eat one's breakfast by the yard).

    And, when he leaves his country for
    Some northern climate, 'tis his dream
    To be an organ grinder, or
    Retail bacilli in ice-cream.
    (The French or German student terms
    These creatures '_Paris_ites' or '_Germs_.')

    Sometimes an anarchist is he,
    And wants to slay a king or queen;
    So with some dynamite, may be,
    Concocts a murderous machine;
    'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!'
    Then blows himself up by mistake.

    Naples and Florence both repay
    A visit, and, if fortune takes
    Your toddling little feet that way,
    Do stop a moment at The Lakes.
    While, should you go to Rome, I hope
    You'll leave your card upon the Pope.


    Don't work too hard, but use a wise discretion;
    Adopt the least laborious profession.
    Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must,
    Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust.



    Inhabitants of far Japan
    Are happy as the day is long
    To sit behind a paper fan
    And sing a kind of tuneless song,
    Desisting, ev'ry little while,
    To have a public bath, or smile.

    The members of the fairer sex
    Are clad in a becoming dress,
    One garment reaching from their necks
    Down to the ankles more or less;
    Behind each dainty ear they wear
    A cherry-blossom in their hair.

    If 'Imitation's flattery'
    (We learn it at our mother's lap),
    A flatterer by birth must be
    Our clever little friend the Jap,
    Who does whatever we can do,
    And does it rather better too.


    Be happy all the time, and plan
    To wash as often as you can.



    You are requested, if you please,
    To note that here a people lives
    Referred to as the Portuguese;
    A fact which naturally gives
    The funny man a good excuse
    To call his friend a Portugoose.


    Avoid the obvious, if you can,
    And _never_ be a funny man.



    The Russian Empire, as you see,
    Is governed by an Autocrat,
    A sort of human target he
    For anarchists to practise at;
    And much relieved most people are
    Not to be lodging with the Czar.

    The Russian lets his whiskers grow,
    Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and
    Imbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut';
    A habit which (I understand)
    Enables him with ease to tell
    His name, which nobody could spell.

    The climate here is cold, with snow,
    And you go driving in a sleigh,
    With bells and all the rest, you know,
    Just like a Henry Irving play;
    While, all around you, glare the eyes
    Of secret officers and spies!

    The Russian prisons have no drains,
    No windows or such things as that;
    You have no playthings there but chains,
    And no companion but a rat;
    When once behind the dungeon door,
    Your friends don't see you any more.

    I further could enlarge, 'tis true,
    But fear my trembling pen confines;
    I have no wish to travel to
    Siberia and work the mines.
    (In Russia you must write with care,
    Or the police will take you there.)


    If you hold morbid views about
    A monarch's premature decease,
    You only need a--Hi! Look out!
    Here comes an agent of police!
    . . . . .
    (In future my address will be
    'Siberia, Cell 63.')



    'Tis here the Spanish onion grows,
    And they eat garlic all the day,
    So, if you have a tender nose,
    'Tis best to go the other way,
    Or else you may discern, at length,
    The fact that 'Onion is strength.'

    The chestnuts flourish in this land,
    Quite good to eat, as you will find,
    For they are not, you understand,
    The ancient after-dinner kind
    That Yankees are accustomed to
    From Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.

    The Spanish lady, by the bye,
    Is an alluring person who
    Has got a bright and flashing eye,
    And knows just how to use it too;
    It's quite a treat to see her meet
    The proud hidalgo on the street.

    He wears a sort of soft felt hat,
    A dagger, and a cloak, you know,
    Just like the wicked villains that
    We met in plays of long ago,
    Who sneaked about with aspect glum,
    Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'

    His blood, of blue cerulean hue,
    Runs in his veins like liquid fire,
    And he can be most rude if you
    Should rob him of his heart's desire;
    'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!
    His dagger perforates your back!

    If you should care to patronise
    A bull-fight, as you will no doubt,
    You'll see a horse with blinded eyes
    Be very badly mauled about;
    By such a scene a weak inside
    Is sometimes rather sorely tried.

    And, if the bull is full of fun,
    The horse is generally gored,
    So then they fetch another one,
    Or else the first one is encored;
    The humour of the sport, of course,
    Is not so patent to the horse.


    Be kind to ev'ry bull you meet,
    Remember how the creature feels;
    Don't wink at ladies in the street;
    And don't make speeches after meals;
    And lastly, I need not explain,
    If you're a horse, don't go to Spain.



    This atmosphere is pure ozone!
    To climb the hills you promptly start;
    Unless you happen to be prone
    To palpitations of the heart;
    In which case swarming up the Alps
    Brings on a bad attack of palps.

    The nicest method is to stay
    Quite comfortably down below,
    And, from the steps of your chalet,
    Watch other people upwards go.
    Then you can buy an alpenstock,
    And scratch your name upon a rock.


    Don't do fatiguing things which you
    Can pay another man to do.
    Let friends assume (they may be wrong),
    That you each year ascend Mong Blong.
    Some things you can _pretend_ you've done,
    And climbing up the Alps is one.



    The Sultan of the Purple East
    Is quite a cynic, in his way,
    And really doesn't mind the least
    His nickname of 'Abdul the ----' (Nay!
    I might perhaps come in for blame
    If I divulged this monarch's name.)

    The Turk is such a kindly man,
    But his ideas of sport are crude;
    He to the poor Armenian
    Is not intentionally rude,
    But still it is his heartless habit
    To treat him as _we_ treat the rabbit.

    If he wants bracing up a bit,
    His pleasing little custom is
    To take a hatchet and commit
    A series of atrocities.
    I should not fancy, after dark,
    To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.

    A deeply married man is he,
    'Early and often' is his rule;
    He practises polygamy
    Directly after leaving school,
    And so arranges that his wives
    Live happy but secluded lives.

    If they attend a public place,
    They have to do so in disguise,
    And so conceal one-half their face
    That nothing but a pair of eyes
    Suggests the hidden charm that lurks
    Beneath the veils of lady Turks.

    Then too in Turkey all the men
    Smoke water-pipes and cross their legs;
    They watch their harem as a hen
    That guards her first attempt at eggs.
    (If you don't know what harems are,
    Just run and ask your dear papa.)


    Wives of great men oft remind us
    We should make our wives sublime,
    But the years advancing find us
    Vainly working over-time.
    We could minimise our work
    By the methods of the Turk.



    Here you will see strange happenings
    With absolutely placid eyes;
    If all your uncles sprouted wings
    You would not feel the least surprise;
    The oddest things that you can do
    Don't seem a bit absurd to you.

    You go (in Dreamland) to a ball,
    And suddenly are shocked to find
    That you have nothing on at all,--
    But somehow no one seems to mind;
    And, naturally, _you_ don't care,
    If they can bear what you can bare!

    Then, in a moment, you're pursued
    By engines on a railway track!
    Your legs are tied, your feet are glued,
    The train comes snorting down your back!
    One last attempt at flight you make
    And so (in bed) perspiring wake.

    You feel so free from weight of cares
    That, if the staircase you should climb,
    You gaily mount, not single stairs,
    But whole battalions at a time;
    (My metaphor is mixed, may be,
    I quote from Shakespeare, as you see).

    If you should eat too much, you pay
    (In dreams) the penalty for this;
    A nightmare carries you away
    And drops you down a precipice!
    Down! down! until, with sudden smack,
    You strike the mattress with your back.


    At meals decline to be a beast;
    'Too much is better than a feast.'



    The customs of this land have all
    Been published in a bulky tome.
    The author is a man they call
    Jer_ome_ K. J_er_ome _K_. Jer_ome_.
    So, lest on his preserves I poach,
    This subject I refuse to broach.


    The moral here is plain to see.
    If true the hackneyed witticism
    Which stamps Originality
    As 'undetected plagiarism,'
    What a vocation I have miss'd
    As undetected plagiarist!



    This is the land where minor bards
    And other lunatics repair,
    To live in houses made of cards,
    Or build their castles in the air;
    To feed on hope, and idly dream
    That things are really what they seem.

    The natives are a motley lot,
    Of ev'ry age and creed and race,
    But each inhabitant has got
    The same expression on his face;
    They look, when this their features fills,
    Like angels with internal chills.

    The lover sits, the livelong day,
    Quite inarticulate of speech;
    He simply brims with things to say;
    Alas! the words he cannot reach,
    And, silent, lets occasion pass,
    Feeling a fulminating ass.

    It is the lady lover's wont
    To blush, and look demure or coy,
    To say, 'You mustn't!' and, 'Oh! don't!'
    Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!'
    (But this, of course, is just her way,
    She wouldn't wish you to obey.)

    The lover, in a trembling voice,
    Demands the hand of his lovee,
    And begs the lady of his choice
    To share some cottage-by-the-sea;
    With _her_ a prison would be nice,
    A coal-cellar a Paradise!

    'Love in a cottage' sounds so well;
    But oh, my too impatient bride,
    No drainage and a constant smell
    Of something being over-fried
    Is not the sort of atmosphere
    That makes for wedded bliss, my dear.

    And when the bills are rather high,
    And when the money's rather low,
    See poor Virginia sit and sigh,
    And ask why Paul _must_ grumble so!
    He slams the door and strides about,
    And, through the window, Love creeps out.

    'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sight
    With fire of passion from above,
    Nor ever bids us see aright
    The many faults in those we love;
    Ah no! I deem it otherwise,
    For lovers have the clearest eyes.

    They see the faults, the failures, and
    The great temptations, and they know,
    Although they cannot understand,
    That they would have the loved one so.
    Believe me, Love is never blind,
    His smiling eyes are wise and kind.

    Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween,
    'Tis but to make it up again;
    The sunshine seems the more serene
    That follows after April rain;
    And love should lead, if love be true,
    To perfect understanding too.

    If in our hearts this love beats strong,
    We shall not ever seek to earn
    Forgiveness for some fancied wrong,
    Nor need to pardon in return;
    But learn this lesson as we live,
    'To understand is to forgive.'

    And all you little girls and boys
    Will find this out yourselves, some day,
    When you have done with childish toys
    And put your infant books away.
    Ah! then I pray that hand-in-hand
    You tread the paths of Loverland.


    Don't fall in love, but, when you do,
    Take care that he (or she) does too;
    And, lastly, to misquote the bard,
    If you _must_ love, don't love too hard.



    The tour is over! We must part!
    Our mutual journey at an end.
    O bid farewell, with aching heart,
    To guide, philosopher, and friend;
    And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'
    The kindly tear that dims his eye.

    The tour is ended! Sad but true!
    No more together may we roam!
    We turn our lonely footsteps to
    The spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.
    Nor time nor temper can afford
    A more protracted trip abroad.

    O Home! where we must always be
    So hopelessly misunderstood;
    Where waits a tactless family,
    To tell us things 'for our own good';
    Where relatives, with searchlight eyes,
    Can penetrate our choicest lies.

    Where all our kith and kin combine
    To prove that we are worse than rude,
    If we should criticise the wine
    Or make complaints about the food.
    Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome,
    Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'
    Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good wife” till she’s buried.
    Don’t say, “It’s a good sword” till you’ve tested it.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good girl” till she’s married off.
    Don’t say, “The ice is safe” till you’ve crossed it.
    Don’t say, “The beer is good” till you’ve drunk the last of it.

    From Hávamál, a Norse poem

  3. #23

    Yes | No


    I must go down to the sea again,
    to the lonely sea and the sky;
    I left my shoes and socks there -
    I wonder if they're dry?

    Spike Milligan
    Quote Originally Posted by Cullion View Post
    Trump can't actually win an election.. can he ?
    Quote Originally Posted by MerkinMuffly View Post
    Short answer is no.
    Quote Originally Posted by Cullion View Post
    I think you're right here.

  4. #24
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

    The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
    In a beautiful pea-green boat,
    They took some honey, and plenty of money,
    Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
    The Owl looked up to the stars above,
    And sang to a small guitar,
    "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
    You are,
    You are!
    What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

    Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
    How charmingly sweet you sing!
    O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
    But what shall we do for a ring?"
    They sailed away, for a year and a day,
    To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
    And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
    With a ring at the end of his nose,
    His nose,
    His nose,
    With a ring at the end of his nose.

    "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
    Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
    So they took it away, and were married next day
    By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
    They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
    Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
    And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
    They danced by the light of the moon,
    The moon,
    The moon,
    They danced by the light of the moon.

    Edward Lear
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  5. #25
    your avatar gives me epiliptic fits Adouglasmhor's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2006

    Yes | No


    Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good wife” till she’s buried.
    Don’t say, “It’s a good sword” till you’ve tested it.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good girl” till she’s married off.
    Don’t say, “The ice is safe” till you’ve crossed it.
    Don’t say, “The beer is good” till you’ve drunk the last of it.

    From Hávamál, a Norse poem

  6. #26
    your avatar gives me epiliptic fits Adouglasmhor's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2006

    Yes | No


    Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good wife” till she’s buried.
    Don’t say, “It’s a good sword” till you’ve tested it.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good girl” till she’s married off.
    Don’t say, “The ice is safe” till you’ve crossed it.
    Don’t say, “The beer is good” till you’ve drunk the last of it.

    From Hávamál, a Norse poem

  7. #27
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    Beans, beans,
    Good for youe heart,
    The more you eat
    The more you fart.

    The more you fart
    The better you feel,
    So eat your beans
    For every meal.
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  8. #28
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  9. #29
    Unintentional Rayp'ist Spade: The Real Snake's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2007

    Yes | No


    Drahmah Lahmah
    On Bullshido
    Slap Ur Momma
    Love Torpedo
    Who does Has
    Teh R34L BJJ?
    NoB's AZZ
    Is R34LGheyGhey
    Quote Originally Posted by Feryk
    What Snake Said
    Quote Originally Posted by Lily
    Snake is also correct about EVERYTHING.

  10. #30
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    There once was a poster named Snake
    Who liked to falate it is fake
    He thought it was fun
    To nibble his gun
    Though his sphincter is starting to ache
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

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