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I do not swear because I am
A sweet and sober guy;
I cannot vent a single ****
However hard I try.
And in viruperative way,
Though I recall it well,
I never, never, never say
A naughty word like hell.

To rouse my wrath you need not try,
I'm milder than a lamb;
However you may rile me I
Refuse to say: ******!
In circumstances fury-fraught
My tongue is always civil,
And though you goad me I will not
Consign you to the divvle.

An no, I never, never swear;
Profanity don't pay;
To cuss won't get you anywhere,
(And neither will to pray.)
And so all blasphemy I stem.
When milk of kindness curds:
But though I never utter them -
Gosh! how I know the words.
 May 2017 Don Bouchard
Jim Davis
Corner a badger
Face hell's beast in blind fury
Like love done a wrong

©  2017 Jim Davis
To read more about the nature of badgers read - John Clare's "Badger" on HP

From Wikipedis
John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, the son of a farm labourer, who became known for his celebrations of the English countryside and sorrows at its disruption.[1] His poetry underwent major re-evaluation in the late 20th century: he is now often seen as one of the major 19th-century poets.[2] His biographer Jonathan Bate states that Clare was "the greatest labouring-class poet that England has ever produced. No one has ever written more powerfully of nature, of a rural childhood, and of the alienated and unstable self."[3]
 May 2017 Don Bouchard
John Clare
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels

The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!



SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015
~~♥~~
you are among
the very few
who withstood the
test of time
today your
marriage turned
sixty two
your love
becomes

SUBLIME

a man wed to a woman
one dark, the other fair
you met at a party
dad just standing there
he watched his
soon-to-be-wife dancing
amused, so it appeared
when the music
had died down said,
"let's go have a beer"

and so it was
their love began
the lady became wife
they had three kids together
together made a life

so now we're
celebrating
the number
sixty two
may you have more
years together
ever constant

ever

TRUE


from your loving daughter
Catherine
It's my parent's 62nd
wedding anniversary tomorrow!

I would have written this
longer, but it has to fit on a card.

Thanks for reading
and wishing my mom and dad
a happy anniversary!
Radical poetry from the STREET
ain't worth a white SHEET.
**** reaction in a BLACK HOOD
won't do nobody no good.
Triple negatives and ghetto slang
deliver a BIGGER and BETTER BANG !
πολύς λέγειν
I'm just like... whatever.
Gnome sain?
Cartoon bunnies up our kiesters;

yellow chicks lay chocolate eggs.

Antichrist confection: Easter's

pastel poison. Drain the dregs.

Sweet untruths with trinkets given

lying in the plastic grass.

Dull consumers, market-driven.

Christ is risen... kiss my ***.
Our English word Passover, happily, in sound and sense, almost corresponds to the Hebrew [pesach], of which is a translation. Exod. Xii. 27. The Greek pascha, formed from the Hebrew, is the name of the Jewish festival, applied invariably in the primitive church to designate the festival of the Lord’s resurrection, which took place at the time of the passover. Our word Easter is of Saxon origin, and of precisely the same import with its German cognate Ostern. The latter is derived from the old Teutonic form of auferstehn, Auferstehung, i. e. resurrection. The name Easter is undoubtedly preferable to pascha or passover, but the latter was the primitive name.

[SOURCE: Ecclesiastical History to the Twentieth Year of the Reign of Constantine, 4th ed., trans. Christian F. Cruse (London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1847), 221.]
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