Rhyme crimes

[chestnut]

the oak is called the king of trees,

the aspen quivers in the breeze,

the poplar grows up straight and tall,

the peach tree spreads along the wall,

the sycamore gives pleasant shade,

the willow droops in watery glade,

the fir tree useful timber gives,

the beech amid the forest lives.

 

sara coleridge

[Tommy_B]

I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,

My friends forsake me like a memory lost;

I am the self-consumer of my woes,

They rise and vanish in oblivious host,

Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;

And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

 

 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--

Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

 

 

I long for scenes where man has never trod;

A place where woman never smil'd or wept;

There to abide with my creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;

The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

 

 

John Clare.

[penfold]

there was a young soldier called Edser,

when wanted was always in bed sir,

one morning at one they fired the gun,

and Edser in bed sir was dead sir.

 

Terence 'spike' Milligan

[Mike Hill]

Could you just?

It won't take long

I'm the customer

So never wrong

 

Got back up there

right to the top

start cutting till

I tell you to stop?

 

While you guys are

here it would seem

a good time to put his

in your chipping

machine?

 

My neighbour has

a job,its just over

the fence.Not far

and whats extra good

its a Pine and he will

let you keep the wood!

[David Humphries]

Inspired by having worked at the great mans abode today, here is something of seasonal relevance;

 

TO AUTUMN

 

by: John Keats (1795-1821)

 

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun:

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.

 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lipped by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

.

[David Humphries]

Something a tad further down the mordacious line..........

 

 

 

Tree-Kill

 

Chip chop

Chip chop

Down comes a tree

 

Chip chop

Wallop plop

Help, it's fallen on me!

 

Chip chop

Chip chop

Down comes another

 

Chip chop

Wheee! bop!

That one fell "oh bother"

 

Chip chop

Chip chop

Crush on "monkey's" head!

 

Chip chop

Please stop

Or else we'll all be dead!

 

 

Spike Milligan

 

Who else

 

 

 

 

 

.

[penfold]

on the note of spike, her's another of his written during the korean war:

 

The Young Soldiers

 

Why are they lying in some distant land

Why did they go, did they understand?

Young men they were

Young men they stay

But why did we send them away, away?

 

i'd like to dedicate this to all the lads and ladies who have fallen since the poem was written.

[PeteB]

There was a young girl from Coleorton

Who had one long leg and a shortun

Together with that and a big fancy

She could fart like a 750 Norton!

[Jason James Gairn]

on the note of spike, her's another of his written during the korean war:

 

The Young Soldiers

 

Why are they lying in some distant land

Why did they go, did they understand?

Young men they were

Young men they stay

But why did we send them away, away?

 

i'd like to dedicate this to all the lads and ladies who have fallen since the poem was written.

 

That'll be millions then. And kids, don't forget the kids.

[David Humphries]

Back at Keats House again today for a spot of 10% reduction (ended up a tad more:sneaky2:) on an Norway Maple, TO's spec

 

JK wrote the well known "Ode to a Nightingale" in this very garden.

 

 

 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

‘ Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,-

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

 

O, for a draught of vintage! That hath been

Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain –

To thy high requiem become a sod.

 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

 

John Keats, May 1819

 

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Edited November 24, 2008 by Monkey-D