"miner" poems
611
I see thee better—in the Dark—
I do not need a Light—
The Love of Thee—a Prism be—
Excelling Violet—
I see thee better for the Years
That hunch themselves between—
The Miner’s Lamp—sufficient be—
To nullify the Mine—
And in the Grave—I see Thee best—
Its little Panels be
Aglow—All ruddy—with the Light
I held so high, for Thee—
What need of Day—
To Those whose Dark—hath so—surpassing Sun—
It deem it be—Continually—
At the Meridian?
12.6k
she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 3:59 PM UTC
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Horseshoe
Chips
Lift
Miner
Mustard
Bellows
Bellows
Horseshoe
Mustard
Chips
Miner
Lift
Lift
Bellows
Miner
Horseshoe
Chips
Mustard
Mustard
Lift
Chips
Bellows
Horseshoe
Miner
Miner
Mustard
Horseshoe
Lift
Bellows
Chips
Chips
Miner
Bellows
Mustard
Lift
Horseshoe
Horseshoe, chips
Lift, miner
Mustard, bellows
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
*i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!*i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!*i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!*i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!*i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*
verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!&#£
if you prefer political
sensitivity and a blanket
and a ***** and a nanny);
unlike germ- -any (+)-
where they love to **** on each
other in the shadow
of the crucifix procreating for films,
while in england they're
into children;
owning a use of a word,
venerating its usage:
where's the Schengen vocabulary?
i want to be there -
free flow of words like spotting
a kestrel in my garden one time,
while the traffic shovels hours
into comparison with sea waves
and a traffic-jam becomes a static tsunami
for the eyes.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.
The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.
Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."
But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.
I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.
Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
The Miner, Absolom
(a haibun)
green hill where sheep graze
white bones and coal, buried, held
seasons all the same
My grandfather worked in the mines from age thirteen to seventy. His life was closed in by mountains, the green one at the back, the dark looming one at the front and the pit head along the valley., winding the men in and out of the shaft, day after day, dawn until dusk when they came home singing
boots ring on the road
deep valley voices echo
backyard starlit smoke
.
They worked on their bellies or crouched, often in water for days, water that undermines rock. Shaft collapses where frequent. Life was cheap. He came home covered in coal dust to his wife and two sons, sons he was determined to keep out of the mines. Yet he loved that coal - coal that he always polished with care before lighting a fire, brushing dust off black diamond surfaces.
water breaks through rock
with wood and straining shoulders
man becomes the beam
He saved twenty lives that day, men he had known from boyhood. When his lungs were affected they laid him off, no pay, no pension, no life. He bought an insurance book with the money he had and every day he trudged over the mountains and valleys gathering pennies that would help to secure some livelihood to the widows who lost their men in the mines. He never told his wife that when a family couldn't pay he put the pennies in for them rather than leave them unprotected.
winter, summer, fall
the mountain hangs over all
tired to the backbone
When the mines were nationalised my grandfather went straight back to the coal face despite his age. He wasn't going to miss those days of glory. Safety was suddenly the watchword and changes were made very fast. Hot showers were installed at the pit head and the miners came home clean at last.
men stripped to the skin
hot water, steam, baptised
brothers singing hymns
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Outside the miner's shack Joshua trees stand silent vigil,
expecting his imminent return, or perhaps his ghost.
Horn silver, weathered by rainwater from volcanic rock,
no longer strews fallow ground to lure the miner back.
In lieu, small succulents feed tortoise and jackrabbit,
replace the metal which only men could value.
Nevada gains a confluence of life in the exchange,
dry-lake flora and fauna bartered for chlorargyrite.
Barren mountains surround this desolation,
where nothing more than fungi lie in vapid dissipation
before the relentless punishment of the sun,
a lattice-work of valleys dissecting their *****
I ventured here to purge my body of poisons,
exhale the vapors and biles of city living,
to rid the alien presence in my mitochondria,
and let it go the way of Silver State.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
Many a miner has gone
into the deep pit
to receive the dust of a kiss,
an ore-cell.
He has gone with his lamp
full of mole eyes
deep deep and has brought forth
Jesus at Gethsemane.
Body of moss, body of glass,
body of peat, how sharp
you lie, emerald as heavy
as a golf course, ruby as dark
as an afterbirth,
diamond as white as sun
on the sea, coal, dark mother,
brood mother, let the sea birds
bring you into our lives
as from a distant island,
heavy as death.
4.8k
Oh, I punched many trees
'til I was up to my knees
In wood blocks of spruce and elm.
I made a craft table
And then I was able
To start a new mine in this realm.
I decorated my base
With a bust of my face
Which oversaw the landscape around.
Then I picked and I dug
Gave a surpised sheep a hug
And ended up far underground.
I delved very deep
And at times had to creep
To avoid all of the lava lakes.
How I longed for a farm
Where I'd be safe from harm
And could live quietly, just baking cakes.
But I had lost my way
Could not return today
And this ultimately led to my doom.
Even far from home
A good Minecraft poem
Always ends with hssssss KA-BOOM!
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
a television interview, Oct. 2018 with Sir Paul McCartney
~for all of us, forever~
<•>
**** you Paul, old man
you trying to make us all look bad?
guess you’re just another
‘miner for a thousand years’
or more,
cause we haven’t seen a reason why the vein should run dry,
for the stolid earth resupplies endless old metal and the liquid veins
supply the need, the urgency of a warm gun of composition,
a drug nonpareil
and the things that provoke,
still provoke once more and again,
love and need, even memories,
petri dish cell regrown,
breathing atmospheric nutrients in the hotheaded hothouse air
of the human farm
‘tis why I paean you at 4:25am understanding full well,
better than most, for once I wrote,
it’s always the next one, that will be,
the flawless poem,
that will permit the laying down of the pen, the guitar
but even flawless is not
“good enough yet”
for all of us, forever*
for “yet,”
even more than forever,
is the most unlimited word we share
~
5:02am 10/17/18
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric
Atoms that ******* drip
Into the terrible well,
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
3.3k
I haven’t got a heart of gold,
Gold is too soft and beautiful.
The world sinks its teeth into gold
And leaves a bite mark for every hungry mouth
And I haven’t enough surface area to accommodate them all.
I have a heart of silver.
Let the wolves bite into that,
Let it stick in their teeth.
They will not break the skin.
The don’t deserve to see my blood,
My silver dragon’s blood,
Running down my head and chest,
Dripping and pooling in the darkness,
Shining and reflective
Like a thousand little moons
And worlds made of moons.
No, let them trade in gold.
My heart is ugly enough to survive
And beautiful enough to live.
They will not steal my blood to spend,
The will let it pool and lie
As unattainable stars lay in the sky.
If any other silver bleeder comes to claim me,
Let me be his and he mine.
If any blue-veined miner puts away his pick
And loves me without claim,
Let him be mine, I will not hurt him.
But if, God forbid, there is yet a man
Who bleeds gold and loves me for my blood,
I will love him to the reaches of my sky -
I will spend myself on him to the last cent -
For that is a claim that cannot be paid,
It is a love that would destroy me.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
I am the **** in your pristine garden,
Hidden between the Hollyhocks and Petunias,
Unwanted, I lift my head high,
Invasive, pervasive, you hate me.
You spray me with emotional roundup.
You wish I would simply go away
Crushed under your foot yesterday,
I wilted under your hate.
Resurrected by the creators love,
In joy I dance to his music,
That floats on the wind.
I am a rose of Sharon,
Planted firmly in the dirt.
Hated by you for just being,
The one who made me loves me,
He loves me unconditionally.
Planted in the wilderness,
Where he walks in search
Of those who seek his name.
If you see me know that, he is near.
Yet you hate me for being the ****
Invasive that shows up in the cracks,
Of your frequent well-beaten paths of hatred.
You stomp on me, mangled I lie still.
Revived by my God who loves me.
Someday he will do justice,
Someday he will show them mercy,
Them that failed to love his creation.
He animates me an earthen vessel,
With emotions triggered by fluid actions,
His loving smile, His tender touch,
In his love and goodness, I find joy.
The joy that effuses and rises to my brain,
Like a flooding sea of contentment,
Knowing that in him I have rest, I am secure and calm.
From your bitterness, that floods my feet,
He produces exquisite flowers and sweetest fruits.
Freely I give the love I receive,
As fragrance it wafts on the breeze,
Used to the smell of death and dying,
The Tanner smelling the fragrance of Love and Life faints.
They revive him with curing leather from the tannery.
Someday the tanner will appreciate fragrance,
Someday the night shift miner appreciate the light,
Someday those that cry for war will love peace,
Someday those that hate others learn to love.
Someday those that clang pots and pans in raucous cacophony,
Will find peace and quiet in his sweet rhapsodies and quiet melodies.
And the promoters of the ugliest of ugliness,
Love the beauty of God's creation.
Some day will this enslaved and captive soul fly free?
Forever free in the plains of Eternity.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
I can’t remember.......making all these visions in my head
but they’re moving in this room........fighting together above my bed
shadows swirling hand in hand........making new faces in the wind
keep trying to help me forget my name, and I keep trying to leave them
our ghosts fill up these hollow walls, empty hands filled with silence
we are still alive from what I’ve seen, heads hanging in the balance
I’ll keep on in this sleep......I’m never gonna find that perfect cure
I’ll hold on to my name, because it’s the only thing I still know for sure
look at the sound of all these people on fire.
I want to be on fire, do you want to be on fire?
but we don’t love ourselves enough, we pack our hearts with medicine
choke our lungs with broke down tries of lesser men
I’d rather give you my name instead of just forget it
because I carry it, but I don’t want to carry it
and so I’ll follow you vision
and listen with my eyes every maze and twist and bend
try to go where you point, step where you recommend
oh lead what I should see great specter
you say: give up, give up, don’t give up
then I won’t give up, because I know I’m not alone
I know that all roads lead to home in some way
and I’m on my way, are you on your way?
show me your life, living, speaking in the night above us
we all survived, in this one place forever with our eyes closed
you are alive, you said it would never be this way, you promised
I am alive, and I said I would never go away, to believe me
but I’m awake now, and I still see you...do you see me.
I am alive............though I might be dead or sleeping
I have survived.........trying to find my way out of leaving
and I’m having trouble leaving........I keep breaking all these oars
I can’t mold what’s not mine.......that ship won’t sail anymore
the journey is the thing................and I’m barely following
like this mirage from inside the back of my head, from just outside my reach
you are survived, you are not alone, don’t give up
‘cause one day I’m gonna write my dad into my dreams
and tell him how his friends still remember him here
show him I became a man, because they all cared in his absence
and I know you held us, your wife held on tight enough for both of you
she still holds your hand every day........
and try to live out your last words............
you are survived, even though we’re still here sorting it all out
we all survived, and are amongst the living and the dead
this name is no longer mine, I can see who I am without it
but I can’t just go around dreaming about luck like that
but we all still bleed, we still need help to breathe
and that’s all mine to carry, help me remember when I wake up
I know that all roads lead to home in some way
and I’m on my way, are you on your way?
show me your life, walking, drifting in the air around us
we all survived, forever and always as we sleep
you are alive, you said it would never be this way, you promised
I am alive, and I said I would never go away, to believe me
but I’m awake now and I still see you...do you see me
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
Not all that glitters are really Diamond's or Rubies or Gold
Well that truth can be told by an undiscerning miner
who quickly had to learn the difference between what was real
and false and thought he struck it rich
only to discover he could not bank on his claim
He wanted to make a name for himself
instead he was a victim to the glittery deception
of Fool's Gold
Way too often people fall for something
that they mistook to be real
Infatuation gets confused for love
True love takes time to blossom and grow
carefully watered with selfless understanding
respect and caring, patience and acceptance
of each others faults
It can bloom with encouragement
and appreciation
and survive time apart
free from jealousy which try's
to corrupt the heart
If you have a true love
hold them close to your heart
Daily tell them what a treasure they are
If you don't, wait patiently
and take your time
remember what the miner learned that not all that glitters
is really gold
You don't want to fall too fast without clearly thinking
and discover that what you really had was
Fools Gold
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
My grandpa is in a rocking chair
in the living room
He slowly moves back and forth
His eyelids are closed
He listens to the talk around him
but he doesn't take part
Instead he dozes off
his head drooping to his chest
His swaying ceases
His breathing slows
The house he sits in has been his own
for the past fifty years
He raised seven children under its roof
He added an addition for each new child
first another bedroom
then the family room
out in back the garage
Until the house became a home
made of love and sweat
Around Pop
the conversation drifts
to a grandson who just got a job
working behind a desk
for an insurance company
making sixty-five thousand per year
Pop never made that much money
A coal miner's son
who earned his degree
taking classes whenever he could
A salesman by day
and a teacher by night
He had a hard life
but you won't hear that from him
His grandson may think
that he must have been dumb
to work so long and hard
for so little reward
But what he doesn't understand
is that my Pop
sitting in his rocker
in front of the brick fireplace
that he built one stone at a time
achieved more in his lifetime
through hard work
and sweat
than my cousin ever will
by wearing a suit to work
sitting behind a desk
and typing on a computer
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 2:12 PM UTC
there was a little mole is name was mickey finn
and inside a hole mickey he lived in
it was very dark there wasnt any light
mickey didnt know if it was day or night
so he bought a torch so he could get around
see where he was going while underneath the ground
like a little miner looking for his coal
he just kept on digging a busy little soul
then when he got tired time to say goodnight
he climbed into his bed and turned out his light
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Let’s take a silver train underground
to the back streets of Atlantis
thru the corrugated iron roots &
then to the peak itself, to the
saddle of the last ridge past strewn
boulders,
finally meandering thru cascading snow
wearing miner’s hats on the perpendicular
dark night &
going up to the edge of the Southern Cross
where we reach at last the pure white
glistening glaciers &
begin to chant over bones in rags
of Scorpio
Armless in the sticky substance how could
they ever have had a chance?
Permission will not be required
only poems of blood offered to
the memory of TREE
It is not ice which is eternal
but the fury of the absolute
separating the void from the spirit
of man,
uplifting like life when it is used
against itself,
that is, Radical Love -- & again, we
are reduced to living beings
Caught by the instant
we are taken away
We live in the imprint of the flame
& we are helmeted within the internal
blackness
where the ray begins its passage
across the indignant sky
Vain clouds uncaring in a tangle of
crossbeams
culminate in the hermaphroditic mirror
of the epileptic dancer
asleep
And during sleep
the light is joined
to the light
It is all a matter of getting up
and then to abandon the pain
It is there that the journey beings
in the self generated flame of
Spontaneous Combustion
(Swayambhunath)
The main line running counter
to the triangle comprising the
MAELSTROM, the DOLDROMS & the
SARGASSO SEA where sleeping Atlanteans
dream forever,
this line, this battlefield of the ages,
crosses the divide of my most wandering
backdoor heart.
We will all have to go
if we want to reappear
in the rhythm of the ritual
It’s the wheel of fools spinning
over my bed
If I put my left foot first
they will find a way to call me
by that name
tracking tremors
like glyphs
on drunken walls
in the negative palace
just before taking eave
of my senses
the white powder dissolves
in the sunlight
& making noise like a peacock
he hops on one foot up the mountain.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
I'm spinning circles in my bedroom
And my hair is now a halo
I'm pretending I'm a dancer in my bedroom
And I am now
I'm singing songs inside my bedroom
And in my arms I hold a child
I'm pretending I'm a mother in my bedroom
Though I'm wild
I'm breaking bricks inside my bedroom
And on my face are beads of sweat
I'm pretending I'm a miner in my bedroom
And I fret
I'm writing poems in my bedroom
And in my heart there is a boy
I'm pretending I'm in love in my bedroom
And my heart is full of joy
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to **** anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.
2.3k
Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
With your 'c' sounding names and you both being edible,
Well I've got news for you boys,
I think you're absolutely terrible.
Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
Just because you both like soup and a little bit of season,
It doesn't mean you should be so close, it's not a good enough reason.
Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
You hang around in cardboard cartons, talking trash about other ingredients,
Well its just not acceptable boys, and I'm really not feelin' it.
Carrot and coriander, why are you so pally?
People think you're great, with your complementary flavours,
Well I'm sorry boys, think you're tasty? Do me a 'kin favour.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 5:41 AM UTC
He was a miner
Deep under the earth he sought
a gem he could not keep
worn and torn he went down
pickaxe in hand
little did he know
that it was his day
fate would greet him with a kiss
the last he heard was a hiss
His broken body was embedded in the earth
where tear drops fell
but tomorrow again
the earth will hear the miner's bell
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
There is an old story that my father
Told me and my brother when we were children.
It is of the windbag
Who now haunts the ancient diamond mines.
It goes like this:
"Boys, have I ever told you of the old windbag?
How about the diamond mines that poisoned it?
Well, this windbag was a miner
Who wore his diving suit and large pickaxe with pride.
Indeed his suit was pride,
But the golden diamond mines were lust
Lust that the old miner paid no mind.
For every strike with his large pickaxe
Was every moment his mind left sanity.
He wanted more wanted more wanted more
Always always always dreaming of glittering diamonds
That shrank his soul to stone.
He left this world no longer a miner
But a windbag lingering the mines possessed by diamonds
With its diving suit and large pickaxe.
One dark morning the windbag was mining,
It was mining mining mining,
Yet it could not hear the diamond mines shatter, crumble.
Its coworkers heard, but it only heard diamonds.
The windbag stayed in the old diamond mines,
Trapped in its diving suit
Trapped in its large pickaxe
Trapped in its diamond mines.
It continues to clink and clank
As it lurks amongst the silent diamonds,
Making only physical contact."
This story my father told me and my brother,
Haunts me more than the clink and clank
I hear while walking by
The ancient diamond mines
That swallowed the windbag.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 3:35 PM UTC