"olio" poems - Hello Poetry

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin *** help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums. Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that *** staw a sow, Or fricassee *** mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro ****** flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis

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Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC

RosieDee

Address to a Haggis (By Rabbie Burns)

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye worthy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin *** help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums. Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that *** staw a sow, Or fricassee *** mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro ****** flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis

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We stopped in the whispy city, the hippy boy and me. We thought of the good times and bad, and encouraged our minds to be free. We came upon a drifter a ***** old man and his wife. We never felt the distance, though imagined their life without strife. But where can we be today alone in our world side by side. We thought about loving good times so great and yet we cried. Reenter the crispy- like city, snow covered, serene & oblique. We wandered around with no purpose, an oasis that just sprung a leak. And who never fought the war, the angular, meaningless scourge. We found all the cities amuck, and all we could sing was good luck. So who never sang the song, that glorious, soulful olio. Just me and that young hippy boy, while nobody else really cared.

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Oct 23, 2010

Oct 23, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC

allen-smuckler

The Hippy Boy

We stopped in the whispy city, the hippy boy and me. We thought of the good times and bad, and encouraged our minds to be free. We came upon a drifter a ***** old man and his wife. We never felt the distance, though imagined their life without strife. But where can we be today alone in our world side by side. We thought about loving good times so great and yet we cried. Reenter the crispy- like city, snow covered, serene & oblique. We wandered around with no purpose, an oasis that just sprung a leak. And who never fought the war, the angular, meaningless scourge. We found all the cities amuck, and all we could sing was good luck. So who never sang the song, that glorious, soulful olio. Just me and that young hippy boy, while nobody else really cared.

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Olio and so it goes Sing a song of gladness Olio and so it goes Give silence to your sadness. I went into my childhood; A journey back in time. I talked with a man of minutes And he spoke to me in rhyme. (singing) Olio and so it goes Sing a song of gladness Olio and so it goes Give silence to your sadness. I climbed to the top of the tower of hope And danced with a light fantastic. Spent the night with a harbored grudge Whose morals were elastic. (singing) Olio and so it goes Sing a song of gladness Olio and so it goes Give silence to your sadness. Found some strength and courage seeds Dropped on barren land. Got back yesterday full grown, My future in my hand. (singing) Olio and so it goes Sing a song of gladness Olio and so it goes Give silence to your sadness. (singing) Olio and so it goes Sing a song of gladness Olio and so it goes Give silence to your sadness.

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Feb 14, 2016

Feb 14, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC

This will land like focaccia, Like the careless 'forgot ya'! And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia. The ebullient cashier trainee remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders for coffee, Cars are lined up for the drive- through, their voices sound like didjeridoos, in the ears covered by single cyborg clip-ons headset taking orders. The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside, his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall, While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea, lagniappe of chocolate stashed, away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon, and she can't wait for her break so she can eat with Olio Nuovo olive oil, and Selection Artisan ged balsamic vinegar, she brought to dip, her focaccia bread in, which she forgot almost, on the counter at home.

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Apr 25, 2016

Apr 25, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

A fresh cup of Quixotic Poetry

This will land like focaccia, Like the careless 'forgot ya'! And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia. The ebullient cashier trainee remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders for coffee, Cars are lined up for the drive- through, their voices sound like didjeridoos, in the ears covered by single cyborg clip-ons headset taking orders. The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside, his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall, While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea, lagniappe of chocolate stashed, away in her voluptuous bag, the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon, and she can't wait for her break so she can eat with Olio Nuovo olive oil, and Selection Artisan ged balsamic vinegar, she brought to dip, her focaccia bread in, which she forgot almost, on the counter at home.

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