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by
Shel Silverstein
Anteater
"A genuine anteater,"
The pet man told me dad.
Turned out, it was an aunt eater,
And now my uncle's mad!
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by
Thomas Hardy
Epitaph On A Pessimist
I'm Smith of Stoke aged sixty odd
I've lived without a dame all my life
And wish to God
My dad had done the same.
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by
William Blake
To Nobodaddy
Why art thou silent & invisible
Father of jealousy
Why dost thou hide thyself in clouds
From every searching Eye
Why darkness & obscurity
In all thy words & laws
That none dare eat the fruit but from
The wily serpents jaws
Or is it because Secresy
gains females loud applause
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by
Federico Garcia Lorca
Paisaje
El campo
de olivos
se abre y se cierra
como un abanico.
Sobre el olivar
hay un cielo hundido
y una lluvia oscura
de luceros fr?os.
Tiembla junco y penumbra
a la orilla del r?o.
Se riza el aire gris.
Los olivos,
est?n cargados
de gritos.
Una bandada
de p?jaros cautivos,
que mueven sus largu?simas
colas en lo sombr?o.
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by
Robert Burns
151. Song—Bonie Dundee: A Fragment
MY blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie!
My blessin’s upon thy e’e-brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou’s aye the dearer, and dearer to me!
But I’ll big a bow’r on yon bonie banks,
Whare Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear;
An’ I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
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by
Robert Burns
Tibbie Dunbar
O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O, wilt thou go wi' me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse,
Or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie,
His lands and his money,
I care na thy kin
Sae high and sae lordly;
But say thou wilt ha'e me
For better for waur—
And come in thy coatie,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
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by
Robert Burns
269. Song—Sweet Tibbie Dunbar
O WILT thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money,
I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly;
But sae that thou’lt hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar.
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by
Nikki Giovanni
Knoxville Tennessee
I always like summer
Best
you can eat fresh corn
From daddy's garden
And okra
And greens
And cabbage
And lots of
Barbeque
And buttermilk
And homemade ice-cream
At the church picnic
And listen to
Gospel music
Outside
At the church
Homecoming
And go to the mountains with
Your grandmother
And go barefooted
And be warm
All the time
Not only when you go to bed
And sleep
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by
Jonathan Swift
Oysters
Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.
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by
Philip Larkin
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
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by
Robert Burns
244. The Henpecked Husband
Chorus.—Robin shure in hairst,
I shure wi’ him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I GAED up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o’ plaiden,
At his daddie’s yett,
Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.
Was na Robin bauld,
Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sic a trick,
An’ me the El’er’s dochter!
Robin shure, &c.
Robin promis’d me
A’ my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three
Guse-feathers and a whittle!
Robin shure, &c.
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by
Robert Burns
217. Song—The Lad they ca’ Jumpin John
HER daddie forbad, her minnie forbad
Forbidden she wadna be:
She wadna trow’t the browst she brew’d,
Wad taste sae bitterlie.
Chorus.—The lang lad they ca’Jumpin John
Beguil’d the bonie lassie,
The lang lad they ca’Jumpin John
Beguil’d the bonie lassie.
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf,
And thretty gude shillin’s and three;
A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man’s dochter,
The lass wi’ the bonie black e’e.
The lang lad, &c.
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by
Robert William Service
Pavement Poet
God's truth! these be the bitter times.
In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes,
And hold my battered hat for dimes.
And then a copper collars me,
Barking: "It's begging that you be;
Come on, dad; you're in custody."
And then the Beak looks down and says:
"Sheer doggerel I deem your lays:
I send you down for seven days."
So for the week I won't disturb
The peace by singing at the curb.
I don't mind that, but oh it's hell
To have my verse called doggerel.
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by
Charles Bukowski
Jane Icin (For Jane - In Turkish)
cimen altinda gecen 225 gunden sonra benden daha cok sey biliyor olmalisin.
kanini emip bitireli epey oldu, artik bir sepetteki kuru bir cubuksun.
bu isler boyle mi oluyor?
bu odada hala ask saatlerinin golgeleri var.
birakip gittiginde asagi yukari herseyi alip gittin.
geceleri beni ben olmaya koymayan kaplanlarin onunde diz cokuyorum.
senin sen olman asla bir daha olmayacak.
kaplanlar beni buldular ama artik umurumda bile degil.
translated by somebody
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by
Tristan Tzara
To Make A Dadist Poem
Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.
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