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There was this guy, Samuel L Clemens,
Whom you may perhaps know as Mark Twain,
He suffered (I suppose) from delirium tremens,
For he gave up smoking time and time again.
When asked how he could do it so often,
He'd smile benignly, and cop a subtle feel,
His eyes would twinkle, his voice would soften,
He'd say, "Giving up ain't such a big deal!"
"When your throat burns, and your eyes hurt,
And your stomach feels disgustingly queasy,
And you heart feels as if it’s being ripped apart,
Then giving up becomes remarkably easy.”
“Of course, as the new day dawns
You feel refreshed, rejuvenated, without regret,
You stretch like a cat and stifle your yawns
And reach a lazy arm for another cigret.”
“You have to do it, you know, to start again,
So another chance to give up comes along.”
Thus spake Zarathustra … err … ummm … Mark Twain,
Or so I’m told, though I may have heard wrong.
ΜīήďSрŷ: Thanks MindSpy! I didn't think I was the only one who liked that poem! Wow... it is really dead on BK on Sunday nights... Inspiration for a new poem!
On Sunday nights
our site gets bored
This really bites
a licorice cord?
I am real tired
Maybe time to sleep
I could get wired
or just scream BLEEP!
LOL. That was a quickly written poem... time to work on some more homework and look at my main page for a game to play!
I really enjoyed The Usurper's short poems. And your's, rednaz23. This gives me the courage to post a short poem of my own which I wrote a few years back - I hope it doesn't offend anyone - I was only trying to express my tremendous liking for the poetry of Ogden Nash:
UPPERS & DOWNERS
Every time I have some booze,
The main-screw in my brain turns loose;
But when I have some pot or hashish
I feel distinctly Ogden Nashish.
I wondered madly as a clown
That turns cartwheels in crazy guise,
When all at once I saw a frown
On her forehead, above her eyes;
The more I try to primp and please,
The more we get like chalk and cheese.
Continuous as the tap that drips
Through sleepless night till rooster crows,
I keep trying to come to grips
With lyrical rhyme and candid prose;
Ten thousand words I bring to taste,
Yet my fervour goes to waste!
The others smile, but she, alas,
Looks uninterested, like Chappell Sir,
I fret, I worry, I beg and curse,
(I'll probably get peptic ulcer);
And there she sits like Buddha Jade,
Quite oblivious of my serenade.
Later, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
It flashes on my inward eye
That my chances are completely screwed;
And my heart goes roun' and roun';
I'll end my days a lonely clown.
Tuesday: I have written a poem about the last couple days... now I must write one about Tuesday! LOL I will get to that later tonight when I am bored and have nothing else to do! :-) Stay tuned for a Tuesday poem!
I saw this sweet poem in the bathroom today, on the wall... Here it is... Some of you may have seen this already... It is quite crude, but it is still really funny;
Here I sit
Broken hearted
Came to s___
but only f__ted
Hi! I've seen this long, long ago, but I must say, it is one of the most brilliant short poems I've ever read! How about having a competition :- Find a suitable title for the poem!
This morning, 2 minutes and 3 seconds after one,
I had some fun;
Without too many tocks and ticks,
My digital clock read 01:02:03:04:05:06!
What a strange, delightful sequence;
Doesn't occur with much frequence,
In truth, this will never again be seen
Until we are all dead and disappeared from the scene.
(With due apologies to Rudyard Kipling - and to Bill Shankly)
Oh, East is East, and West is West,
And never the twain shall meet,
Unless it is the World Cup time,
And men kick balls with feet.
There is neither East nor West,
Nor border, breed or birth,
When two teams kick-off face to face,
From different ends of earth.
Twenty-two men, all fit and strong,
And mostly slim and tall,
Go helter skelter o’er the field,
Chasing a single ball.
They push and strive and sweat and toil,
They collapse on the mat;
‘Tis not about just life or death,
But so much more than that.
India my homeland, my nation,
The haven of religious proliferation.
The land of many a God, many a teacher,
Many a saint, among whom feature
Krishna and Rama, Buddha and Mahavira;
Ramakrishna, Nanak and Kabir in times nearer.
And today, in this land of the Maharishis
The girl child is one of the endangered species.
India, my country, my motherland,
Where great men were born once, I understand;
Men like Gandhi, Raman and Tagore,
And Netaji, Panditji and so many more;
Sages, all, in some way or the other,
Sages, serving their Mother.
And today, in this land of the sages
Religion is the watchword of violent outrages.
(With due apologies to Rudyard Kipling - and to Bill Shankly)
Oh, East is East, and West is West,
And never the twain shall meet,
Unless it is the World Cup time,
And men kick balls with feet.
There is neither East nor West,
Nor border, breed or birth,
When two teams kick-off face to face,
From different ends of earth.
Twenty-two men, all fit and strong,
And mostly slim and tall,
Go helter skelter o’er the field,
Chasing a single ball.
They push and strive and sweat and toil,
They collapse on the mat;
‘Tis not about just life or death,
But so much more than that.
Does anyone remember a poem called "The Playground" by Liz Hurley? I'm sure I posted it somewhere on BK but its not on this board. If anyone happens to know the poem could they send me a copy please?
Rose: I'm not sure if its one and the same, I don't think so. The poem is about ADHD and the poet has a son with the disorder and wrote this poem. I don't think it is the actress.
Oh wow I just found it! I knew I had it on my PC, it wasn't a file that was immediately recognised - and my mistake, its Linda Hurley who wrote it. Hope you like it now!
***********
THE PLAYGROUND
I stand alone in the playground
No one talks to me
I see the looks, and hear their whispers:
She's the mother of the 'little beast'.
The boy who cant sit still in the classroom
The one that fools around
The child who torments the others
And throws himself to the ground.
She must be a useless parent
No control or restraint
We'll go and see the Headmistress
And make a formal complaint.
We want the 'looney' expelled
You know the one we mean
The boy who runs aorund the playground
As if driven by a machine.
Who sends the other children flying
Cuts and bruises everywhere
Get rid of the little menace
How you do it, we don't care.
The 'brat' whose been banned at lunchtime
The child who has no friends
The boy who's never invited to parties
And Christmas cards - not one was sent.
The child who cries because he is lonely
As no friend invites him to tea
The boy who believes he is useless
And not fit to be loved by me.
The lad who is a 'loner'
Through no choice of his own
Who struggles in the classroom
And is made to sit alone.
The boy who lags behind
As hard as he may try
Who at the age of seven
Can barely read and write.
And so I continue to stand alone
No one talks to me
The mother of a little boy
Whose been diagnosed with ADHD
harley: I am very glad you found it And yes, its a striking one.. and yes, you posted it somewhere here.. Ive seen this here before; but don't know where!
harley: It IS actually a very sad poem and tonight before bedtime, I will pray that all Mom's of children with ADHD, Aspergers, Autism will have the right support where it comes to these issues. I mean, its not good when child and Mom are being ignored like that.. There good be created a sort of understanding level, at least by the teachers towards the other Moms / children.. anyway.. my thoughts
(Cacher) Si vous voulez jouer une partie contre un adversaire d'un niveau équivalent au votre, vous pouvez définir un BKR compris dans un intervalle lors de la création d'une nouvelle partie. Dès lors, personne ayant un BKR en dehors de cet intervalle ne pourra y accéder. (Katechka) (Montrer toutes les astuces)