Written by
Edgar Lee Masters |
When I died, the circulating library
Which I built up for Spoon River,
And managed for the good of inquiring minds,
Was sold at auction on the public square,
As if to destroy the last vestige
Of my memory and influence.
For those of you who could not see the virtue
Of knowing Volney's "Ruins" as well as Butler's "Analogy"
And "Faust" as well as "Evangeline,"
Were really the power in the village,
And often you asked me,
"What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?"
I am out of your way now, Spoon River,
Choose your own good and call it good.
For I could never make you see
That no one knows what is good
Who knows not what is evil;
And no one knows what is true
Who knows not what is false.
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Written by
Walt Whitman |
HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is it? Is it you?)
Outside fair costume—within ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice or springy step;
Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;
Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!
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Written by
Charles Bukowski |
you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
pissed and
shitted
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it's not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it's dark
and cold
out
here.
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Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
There's a dashin' sort of boy
Which they call his Party's Joy,
And his smile-that-won't-come-off would quite disarm ye;
And he played the leadin' hand
In the Helter-Skelter Band,
Known as Jimmy Dooley's Circulating Army.
When the rank and file they found,
They were marchin' round and round,
They one and all began to act unruly;
And the letter that he wrote,
Sure it got the Labor goat,
So we set ourselves to deal with Captain Dooley.
Chorus
Whill-il-loo.
High Ho!
We'll all be there you know,
The repartees and ructions they will charm ye;
And we'll see which we prefer,
Is it Dooley or McGirr,
To take command of Jimmy Dooley's Army.
When we're marchin' to the poll,
And we're under his control,
We sometimes feel a trifle unsalubrious;
For by one and all 'twas said
That if our objective's Red,
To call it claret-coloured makes us dubious.
Sure, the Fat Men one fine day
They chanced to come our way,
And we thought that we should bate them well and trooly;
But we let them pass us by
And not half a brick did fly,
'Twas then we tore our tickets up on Dooley.
Chorus
Whill-il-loo.
High Ho!
We'll all be there you know,
The repartees and ructions they will charm ye;
And we'll see which we prefer,
Is it Dooley or McGirr,
To take command of Jimmy Dooley's Army.
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