"austen" poems
Sparkling petals slice through feet of wanderers
Dashing hopes and slitting tendons
Each day she visits
Sprinkling books and soda-filled sponges among the wire vines.
The sizzles excited her
And she smiles in spite of her sizzling feet
Pleased in her harmless sabotage.
The suffocated earth shutters beneath
Layers of circuit boards, damp and rotting
Steam rises from the core
And crinkles the pages of
Jane Austen
Dr. Seuss
Kurt Vonnegut. Her mother’s journal from pregnancy.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë
Earnest as Hemmingway
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.
Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.
The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
I thought I knew what love was
I read Austen, Bronte, and Shakespeare, too.
I thought I knew what love was
and then I fell in love with you
I am no stranger to love's life and lore
and had been nearly married once before
his alone I swore to be, forever long
thinking it was love until I heard your song
with kindness, passion, and care
you showed me what love could be
with you, my defenses are bare
and it's only your love that I see
I'll give myself to you because
I've found a love both warm and true
I never knew what love was
before I had met you
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Tolstoy was a boy,
Ibsen was Henrik's son
Hardy had a father,
And see how well they've done.
Byron was a grandson,
And Wordsworth had a wet nurse,
Thoreau had a 2 to go,
Shakespeare a bad marriage,
Austen was a loner,
Poor Sylvia was a goner,
And see how well they've done.
Joyce had a ***** mind,
Fitzgerald liked to drink,
Richler liked to smoke,
And Wolfe enjoyed a ****
And see how well they've done.
Fielding was a misogynist,
Wilde was a jailbird;
Virginia a misandrist,
And Kerouac a simple ****
Yet see how well they've done.
Still with all their drawbacks,
Look how well they've done;
Like our old friend John,
We surely come un-done.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
I was never a simple person
but I craved simplicity like I craved my grandmother's strawberry jam
I loved school, whistling and everything taller than me
They reminded me of my father
I hated screen doors, cracks in pavement and goodbyes
When I was four he left me all those tainted things
but I loved him
Four years later
my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas
I told her I needed a baby brother
I used to spend every night while he slept
at his feet
When I was eleven, my mother moved us to a new city
There were a million games of cops and robbers
and my first boyfriend, Spencer
He had blond hair and eyes so blue they put my brother's to shame
He told me he loved me under an oak tree
kissed my cheek and got so red in the face
I thought he was going to burst
My mother was in University
and had the softest piano hands
Her eyes were glossy from all her tears
I collected them in my jewellery box heart
There were rust on my edges
and hers
I was a rusty by product of drunk unintentions
A mathematic, scientific accident
Not a young mother with high hopes and goodluck
On Sunday afternoons I played hopscotch
on my babysitters driveway, I was nine
On Sunday evenings he brought me to his secret lair
He'd secretly touch me in all my secret places
I hated him
I think he hated me too
When I was six, I wanted to be a teacher
Ten years later, a man with a medical degree
told me I couldn't have babies
I couldn't look at another child, so I figured teaching wasn't my best option
Plus, I've never been a fan of teaching children not to make a mess
I spent my whole life making sure it wasn't messy
When I was fourteen, I wanted to run away
I wanted to go to Europe
with my best friend Oskari
he cut his arm and told me he couldn't really bleed
he didn't feel anything
I wanted to bless him
I wanted to read him Jane Austen in an open field
Under a single sycamore tree
We never made it
When I was seventeen, I ran away
I moved in with my father's mother
He has her eyes, just like me
That same year I met a boy
Who rode a stolen steed to my grandma's couch
Made love to me all night
took on me on walks and sent my heart off to the races
He made my life a little simpler
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him
Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments
Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved
Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.
Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
Dear,
Parents. Siblings. Friends. Lovers:
Give you this.
Give you that.
You take ten
and I take that:
NOTHING!
My shoulder? Please!
And my home too?
Progress with ease
as I wish for you.
But a moment for ME,
oh but just one,
I’d like you to SEE
just what you have done;
Sorrow and pain,
my tongue will stutter,
but through my tears
my RAGE will flutter.
Though this may be the gist
of my anger in reign,
a WALL and my fist
returns...no gain.
When Austen, Kafka, Garcia-Marquez
instead hit the wall,
ALL ties are dead.
“YOU here for me,
but not I for you.”
Is all you can see...
All you can do...
Your ear I implore,
a little sympathy too;
FRUSTRATION galore,
to hell with you!
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.
I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.
I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.
I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.
I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.
I want to tell you
simply that I love you--
though you are "dead"
& I am still "alive."
Suicides & spinsters--
all our kind!
Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .
But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.
Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:
for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .
Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.
2.4k
i love the fact that most people
rather enter the concept
of karma rather dialectics
to argue their point - makes
emily austen seem like a nutcracker
of ideas to come from
ikea as the self-assembled semi-detached
heights, otherwise known as wuthering, heights
or the disco-ball done in mahoganny eyed splinter
shine - sheens the spot!
it's just so ****** blocked nose rotten,
the opposite of polite society,
a bit like the middle-ages... reigning
paranoia imported from a lost colony,
library cards of blue indian peasants
turned into pheasants that did the cancan dance
all of a sudden... miracles christ couldn't even forsee!
i'm free every saturday if you're hashtag up-for-it...
never mind... i'll leave my quote and oil my phone-number
for a missing mobile telepathic nuance on
when differentiating blue indians with garam masala
and red indians with mohawks - easiest game of all:
snakes & ladders, noughts & crosses... garam masala & mohawks.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I have a little secret
It’s about the place I work
I’m supposed to be a teacher
But a school’s not where I lurk
I spend my weekdays cooking
Serving people tea
I’m not a chef though, in a classroom’s
Where I’m meant to be.
I think if I fry one more egg
Fill one more sugar ***
Spend one more minute worrying
If the ****** teapot’s hot
I might just lose the will to serve
At least the will to fry
I’m so tired of the ‘thanks so much’
The ‘have a good day’ lie
But please do not misunderstand
I’m not ungrateful for my job
It’s just not what I trained for
Being tied up to a hob
I expected to be in a class
Full of eager faces
Whose imaginations I could take
To so many different places
Instead I’m filling stomachs
Watching people eat and drink
I cook and serve, a faceless drone
So they don’t have to think
I know it’s not forever
This job I’ve grown to hate
One day I’ll take this apron off
Leave the café to its fate
The café will survive I’m sure
In fact I have no doubt
That’s why I don’t feel guilty
That I can’t wait to get out
The café will go on and on
Still serving up its tea
But next time that I see the place
What stranger will serve me?
Will I feel that they are in my place?
That their eggs are not quite right
That their service could be quicker
Their smile a bit more bright
Will I feel that I should tell them
How I once stood in their shoes?
How I thought if I fried one more egg
My sanity I’d lose
I think I’ll save those comments
Until she brings my tea
I won’t want to discourage her
While she’s still serving me
Besides she may enjoy her job
Who am I to wreck it?
Just because I missed the world
Of Austen, Keats and Beckett
She knows just where her future lays
I thought I knew the same
So why do I still keep a secret
Like it’s a source of shame?
I shouldn’t moan about my job
The wolf’s not at the door
It’s only bad days when I think
Just what did I train for?
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
following on with my current obsession with my tomato growing experiment, ive decided to look at books, and films, and any other related tomato themes, as follows:
The Tomatoes Of Wrath-Steinbeck
A Midsummer Night's Tomato-Shakespeare
Tomato And Juliet-Ditto
Frankentomato-Shelley
Alice in Tomatoland-Carrol
Night Of The Living Tomato-zombie horror!
E.T.- Extra Tomato!
Tomatoes And Prejudice-Austen
I Heard It On The Tomato Vine-Marvin Gaye
You're So Vine- Carly Simon
Summertime (and the living is tomato)-Ella Fitzgerald
LGBT-LGB+Tomato
BY Jemia de Tomatoville 😏🍅🍅🍅🦋💕🙄
any other suggested ideas welcome, as i may bring out a book on the subject (but thankfully, probably won't!) and will, or not, call it Tomato Wrong!
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 7:38 AM UTC
-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable. I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation
I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone
Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.
I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise
I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong
The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.
Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
what we need is more banjo,
more djembe, more thunder finger
bass guitar --
what we need is less boredom --
less fear of failure,
less fear of *******
less Jane Austen.
what we need is the electric charge
of neurons fire dancing like
the night sky of the fourth of
july,
what we need is to learn the lesson
of rivers and runners -- keep up
the momentum
what we need is more honey,
watermelon,
sweet potatoes,
peanut butter,
and coconut oil.
more weirdos, more hippies,
more punks, more rappers,
more poets, if you have something
to say we pretty much need you.
we need more gin and less gender roles
more sin and less slapstick
more trees and trampolines and ties
between you and I.
we don't even need to be human
we just need to be sustainable.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
I'm taking a lovely trip
to the historical Roman Baths
there's hot springs and Roman temples
I'll be following the Romans' path
A mystical work of the gods (they thought)
built between 60 - 70 AD
illuminated by torchlight
An evening tour maybe?!
I'll pop to the house of Jane Austen
she wrote of romance and love
And 18th century style gardens
where we'll take afternoon tea 'til we're stuffed
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
I have no idea why that first line came to mind while I was indeed cleaning. I've not read Austen in years, nor watched movies in months.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXLI)
Jane Austen's drawing rooms I'd feign avail
Me of, whose wainscot's polished oak is dense
With import as the papered walls from hence
Look smug; yes, take a turn in sheer betrayl
Across those gleaming floors, dressed ah, to scale
In empire-waist' floor-length is it pretense?
And for the *** of tea I'll sip for sense,
The dainty patterns on those walls' sweet bail.
Don't ask me why. In scrubbing bathrooms' tour,
I could not settle on just whither to
Until that note piqued languid thoughts as twere.
I've been there so oft for discussions through
Each novel, t'would be quite refreshing, poor
As fiction's vain suggestion, if'd could do.
11Oct18a
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
I’m the sort of girl who drinks tequila out of coffee cups
and wears really skimpy dresses
and goes out partying all night
and kisses random boys in the dark
But I’m also the kind of girl who wears her hair in a messy bun
and reads Jane Austen when it rains
and enjoys watching documentaries with my cat
But I’m also the kind of girl who likes slamming beers
and putting on team colors
and cussing at the top of my lungs at sporting events
But I'm also a *** who sleeps until noon
and eats cold pizza because I don't wanna cook
and contemplates what life would be like if I were dead
But I'm not fitting in your boxes
And you hate that
And it confuses you
And I like it
Girls aren't one thing
Or another.
We're not the sun
And the stars.
And we're not the **** of the earth.
I'm not Alpha and Omega
I'm not Fire and Ice
I'm not Beauty and Grace.
I'm me
And she's her.
And we're not the same.
I can chug a beer while reading Frost
Or contemplate the meaning of life at a hockey game
I can be
Party Girl
Sloppy Drunk
Thoughtful Bookworm
*Crazy ******
All of the above.
Or none.
I'm me.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
he won't write you poetry like neruda or bukowski. he won't ink your name underneath his skin nor will he cut his hair shorter for your mom. he won't stay up with you to read jane austen and hemingway. sometimes all you'll hear from his end of the line is snoring and you'll know he has fallen asleep. again. he won't take you to a romantic dinner every other night. he won't surprise you with a picnic basket on a tuesday afternoon to whisk you away to a spontaneous date on the beach. his hand will sweat sometimes. he will smell like cigarettes and the inside of a Starbucks. he will chew his food loudly and eat with his leg up. he will wake you up in the middle of the night just to tell you about a dream that woke him up. he will do this because he's afraid he'll forget in the morning. he will not get along with some of your friends, your dad will ask you "are you sure?" and your little brother will hate him. he will have acne and blackheads. he won't be around everytime you need him. he won't magically appear just in time to catch after you've tripped down the stairs.
he won't be the guy you keep reading in novels about. he won't be the mysterious, poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy you keep wishing you'd finally meet.
surprisingly, despite of all of this, you will fall for him anyway. because even though you wanted a love story similar to those you found printed in pages, you will realize that they end after a dramatic moment in the airport, or a long romantic make-out session under the pouring rain, or after the one major problem is resolved.
you will realize that nothing comes after for them. what happens after the romantic colors of sunset fade and the darkness takes over?
you will realize that your own story is way better. because even though he talks too loud in libraries and hogs the blanket, he stays. he is there beside you at 2am when you suddenly wake up from a nightmare. you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and his arm around your waist. you can hear him whisper "i love you" and it will be dripping with honesty. and that is more than any fictional poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy can ever do.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
January 21, 2014.
One day this will just be another date.
And 2014 will just be another year on a long timeline.
And the music we thought was cool; will be old.
And the music before today's generation; will be ancient.
And the generations before that; will be unheard of.
All the movies we thought were amazing, will be nothing but "classics" to them.
All the books that Hemingway and Jane Austen wrote will cause them to have to think about where they've heard those names before.
Time is not manipulative.
You can not pause it.
You can not rewind it, nor fast forward it.
Yet, you can live in it.
So, live for now, not then.
c.r.k.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
we are not safe
all the markets could come crashing down
it could happen any day now
a blue origin rocket ship
never making it to its final destination
no man knows the hour or the day
no man knoweth that
bridget jones had her cigarettes
with wine and mr darcy
but i only have **** and a plastic
one liter bottle of coke zero
and no mr darcy to know the hour or the day
helen fielding, enabler of the delusional,
recycled happy endings
but the plastic coke bottle
isn't a jane austen novel
and the chinese don't want our garbage anymore
there is enough garbage in china already
"there are 8.3 billion tons of plastic in the world"
8.8 million metric tons are chinese trash
for the yangtze river to carry to the sea
sometimes i feel just like garbage previously shipped to china
trash and blue origin debris
comeuppance for the yangtze river to carry to the sea
endless oceans end
same place plastic rocketship garbage begins
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
My virginity
a security blanket,
I keep at the foot of my bed.
It doesn’t shield me from loneliness,
It’s purely for show.
I imagine limbs tangled in that blanket.
Our breathes mingling to create dream clouds.
Legs combining like tree roots.
A tentative hand and trembling lips,
The tangible reality of my nerves.
Sooth me with my favorite line from Jane Austen,
Darling I just might love you.
Hips grind against hips
We’re two halves of a love poem.
You, the undying love
Me, the inevitable disappointment.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
i told you, the most volatile substance,
auto-combustion:
let's see:
the (ν / v'eh point) - touch on elocution,
almost δ'eh point -
but then the oddity: thievery -
hence coupling θ and φ,
well s and z (hardly an ß)
might also make a hush sh sh sound
for the eyes to spot with a şiş kebab being served
(kebaab if you're talking africān - prolonged
on dentistry's dire inspection) -
no diacritics and many eccentricities -
many accents, and a bowler hat at the
royal Ascot - peacock feathers to a flutter
ooh! firewood for the comedy scene -
the / d or v? veering point or the deepened
point? thyme - now that's a solitary τ (tau),
well, many more examples! ha!
thighs and thievery - theta cheese -
thrombosis - that - now that's definitely armed
with δ - thermometer - thick -
in-between scotch fudge - thinking -
throw - viably also famished - invariably
also alphabetically accounted for as: thrice -
and phosphorescent - pucker up now dear,
no point calling jane austen right now,
it's too late: better watch the jane austen book club,
now that's a great romance movie -
serious though, ah, there you have it,
though rather thought - another eccentricity
to curse periodic examples to rule:
vogue in that though - feta cheese in that latter -
no one dared to say: i vote, deer fur i am -
imagine that said in Chelsea or Camden -
you'd never get rid of those crack ******* junkies
following you to Waterloo shouting:
'we've found Napoleon! we've found Napoleon!
Napoleon! Napoleon!'
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
When the saints...go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Of all the saints, I want to know
The ones who write, I'd love to meet
Oh how I'd love to meet all the authors
When the saints go down the street
E.A. Poe...even Thoreau
Hemmingway would be ok
Mailer and Andrew Taylor
I'd learn to drink like a sailor
when these saints come strolling in
The Writers Guild...I'd be fulfilled
Meeting writers long since dead
Just think of what I'm learning
All that knowledge in their heads
I'd love to know, I'd love to know
Is Bill Shakespeare who we think?
Christie, Austen and Dickens
This is where the whole plot thickens
When the saints go marching in
Is it the best, of all the books
Is the bible just a tale
Can you think of someone better
When Melville speaks about a whale
Capote sits, while Chaucer reads
Bronte knits while Stoker bleeds
Oh how I want to be in that number
When these saints go marching in
The list goes on, oh on and on
There's just so many who've passed on
It's a list that leads by example
When these saints go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
How I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC