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"shandy" poems
There once lived a boy young of age, Candy he loved so much his teeth had caves. Not one or two could satisfy his urge, Tonnes could go down his tiny throat. This one time to the market he went, His mother holding him firm in the grasp of her hand. Seeing him sad she saw him standing then, "Go get some candy" she said putting two pennies in his arm band. Off he ran to in search of candy prime, His eyes moving vigorously from left to right in search of the candy store. Then he saw it, that glorious gleaming colourful shop, His one and final destination, his stop. It was small yet filled with people from all over the city, Every one, young and old wanted a piece of candy. The little kid pushed and pulled with all his might, A piece of candy he craved like the elders craved shandy. The din and crowd couldn't lower his spirit, His eyes set on this sugary treat, his favourite. But till the time he could get to the counter, The last treat the man in front bought for his little daughter. The kid got all teary eyed and walked out of the store, Standing outside he watched all the other kids happily walk out of the door, Drops started falling to the ground, The girl from inside watched him all along as he cried and frowned. The little kid's world had fallen apart for a minute, Till this cute brown eyed girl decided to do something about it, She went up to him and asked him if he wanted some? All she wanted was for him not to be so sore. The teary eyed kid looked up with a smile, He nodded in cheer as he wiped his tears. A huge bit of candy he took as he reached for his arm band. Searching for the two pennies to repay the little girl. To his dismay only to realize, The money had fallen down somewhere in the struggle. Gulping down saliva he dared to let her know the truth, "I have no money to give you", he said. "Its ok", said she with a beaming smile, The boy nevertheless decided to give her his favourite arm band. That day those little kids exchanged more than just candy and a piece of cloth, They exchanged smiles, kindness and pieces of their heart.
0
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
shelster
Kid in a Candy Store
There once lived a boy young of age, Candy he loved so much his teeth had caves. Not one or two could satisfy his urge, Tonnes could go down his tiny throat. This one time to the market he went, His mother holding him firm in the grasp of her hand. Seeing him sad she saw him standing then, "Go get some candy" she said putting two pennies in his arm band. Off he ran to in search of candy prime, His eyes moving vigorously from left to right in search of the candy store. Then he saw it, that glorious gleaming colourful shop, His one and final destination, his stop. It was small yet filled with people from all over the city, Every one, young and old wanted a piece of candy. The little kid pushed and pulled with all his might, A piece of candy he craved like the elders craved shandy. The din and crowd couldn't lower his spirit, His eyes set on this sugary treat, his favourite. But till the time he could get to the counter, The last treat the man in front bought for his little daughter. The kid got all teary eyed and walked out of the store, Standing outside he watched all the other kids happily walk out of the door, Drops started falling to the ground, The girl from inside watched him all along as he cried and frowned. The little kid's world had fallen apart for a minute, Till this cute brown eyed girl decided to do something about it, She went up to him and asked him if he wanted some? All she wanted was for him not to be so sore. The teary eyed kid looked up with a smile, He nodded in cheer as he wiped his tears. A huge bit of candy he took as he reached for his arm band. Searching for the two pennies to repay the little girl. To his dismay only to realize, The money had fallen down somewhere in the struggle. Gulping down saliva he dared to let her know the truth, "I have no money to give you", he said. "Its ok", said she with a beaming smile, The boy nevertheless decided to give her his favourite arm band. That day those little kids exchanged more than just candy and a piece of cloth, They exchanged smiles, kindness and pieces of their heart.
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40
There is no whiskey in his room tonight... Instead, There is a half-empty glass of- Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper, Or something black. Something minuscule, even though he has not sipped from it. He has not looked at it- his tongue Was only dry for two minutes before he Locked the door. For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release... at 2AM. Release at 2AM. There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as The glass that is sitting next to it. 'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks. 'Closed lid', 'Carbon', 'Closed lid' He does not know what to type. As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years, He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa. The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself Was turning more into a hobby than an art and he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy That nobody else needed to know about. "Tragedy:" he types. "I don't know how to forget about you." 'And etcetera,' he thinks. In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away. She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy That isn't him. She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared from someone who thought it never existed. One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted. One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is... Before she meets someone there... Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself. 'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks. And then imagines himself embedded into Dark bitter things. (Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.) He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed. He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each little drop. "You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides, And puts it onto the paper. He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again. 'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..."  He thinks. Release at 2AM.
0
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
mzwai-p
Tobacco, Caffeine, Dark Chocolate
There is no whiskey in his room tonight... Instead, There is a half-empty glass of- Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper, Or something black. Something minuscule, even though he has not sipped from it. He has not looked at it- his tongue Was only dry for two minutes before he Locked the door. For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release... at 2AM. Release at 2AM. There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as The glass that is sitting next to it. 'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks. 'Closed lid', 'Carbon', 'Closed lid' He does not know what to type. As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years, He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa. The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself Was turning more into a hobby than an art and he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy That nobody else needed to know about. "Tragedy:" he types. "I don't know how to forget about you." 'And etcetera,' he thinks. In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away. She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy That isn't him. She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared from someone who thought it never existed. One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted. One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is... Before she meets someone there... Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself. 'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks. And then imagines himself embedded into Dark bitter things. (Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.) He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed. He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each little drop. "You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides, And puts it onto the paper. He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again. 'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..."  He thinks. Release at 2AM.
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53
Impregnate your old crock squirtin' Papier—mâché blackball on the ***** Oglin' for upshot And whatever frigs our orifice Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold ****** all of your bazookas at once And unclench into ventilator I like dung and tinsel Shandy ****** fuss Breedin' with the puke And the Weltanschauung that I'm in statu pupillari Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold ****** all of your bazookas at once And unclench into ventilator Like a punctilious Zeitgeist's nincompoop We were born, born to be unstatesmanlike We can spirt so penetrating I never wanna croak Born to be unstatesmanlike Born to be unstatesmanlike
0
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
irma-cerrutti
Born To Be Unstatesmanlike
Impregnate your old crock squirtin' Papier—mâché blackball on the ***** Oglin' for upshot And whatever frigs our orifice Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold ****** all of your bazookas at once And unclench into ventilator I like dung and tinsel Shandy ****** fuss Breedin' with the puke And the Weltanschauung that I'm in statu pupillari Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold ****** all of your bazookas at once And unclench into ventilator Like a punctilious Zeitgeist's nincompoop We were born, born to be unstatesmanlike We can spirt so penetrating I never wanna croak Born to be unstatesmanlike Born to be unstatesmanlike
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22
It was in Rome You guys got the table(cade,nevin) So we stood there Till you asked us if we'd like to join Sure I said so awkward first cause you somehow look like Ryan Gosling(no you look better, RG has never been my type) Blue eyed boy from Iowa Strangely enough, my bedtime T-shirt says Iowa hawkeyes We talked bout beer ,Shandy, Greek islands ,Prague,Bristol and Iowa. Why should I know? then you turned to me Hey, fun fact, do you know the British first sounds like American? Why should I know?Why did you say so? But that was the most intimating thing on the table. Strangely enough, you only asked my name when you left, and everything was left in Rome.
0
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
maggieYCW
Alex Unknown
It was in Rome You guys got the table(cade,nevin) So we stood there Till you asked us if we'd like to join Sure I said so awkward first cause you somehow look like Ryan Gosling(no you look better, RG has never been my type) Blue eyed boy from Iowa Strangely enough, my bedtime T-shirt says Iowa hawkeyes We talked bout beer ,Shandy, Greek islands ,Prague,Bristol and Iowa. Why should I know? then you turned to me Hey, fun fact, do you know the British first sounds like American? Why should I know?Why did you say so? But that was the most intimating thing on the table. Strangely enough, you only asked my name when you left, and everything was left in Rome.
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14
would we sit across from one another on trains with bars of purple Cadburys chocolate, squared by your large gentle hands one bottle of luminous Rock Shandy between us my crubeen feet cocooned in skin coloured tights, now lodged between your legs, a gesture as natural as our growing years, would this be companionship at its best?
0
Mar 26, 2011
Mar 26, 2011 at 8:44 AM UTC
ceara
Still Twinkling
would we sit across from one another on trains with bars of purple Cadburys chocolate, squared by your large gentle hands one bottle of luminous Rock Shandy between us my crubeen feet cocooned in skin coloured tights, now lodged between your legs, a gesture as natural as our growing years, would this be companionship at its best?
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8
Its Friday and school is ended Home we run, both trying to win the race to the garden gate Hot and red faced, my brother beats me by an inch I tell myself "I let him touch the post before me" Into weekend scruffs we climb, piles of school clothes left behind For mum to gather, washing to be done My brother and I have something more important to do We need to make sure they are ready And they are, all washed and clean and ready for 7-0'clock When the pop van comes. 4 empty bottles, waiting to be handed back and reborn 4 empty bottles, worth 5p each off the next ones! 4 empty bottles to exchange for 4 full But what will we choose When the pop van comes ? 7-0'clock 4 bottles, 2 each We march to where the van full of wonderful fizziness will stop My brother and I stand in line, there are children all around with their bottles too All waiting for their turn to swap 1 empty for one full with 5p off! When the pop van comes My brother chooses first as he beat me to the gate (I let him win) Raspberryade! Now me, Shandy please, (I like to pretend its beer) Finally mum joins us and chooses orangeade and a bottle of dandelion and burdock for dad We take back our bottles, excited, thirsty, Into the glass I pour my 'beer' Glug glug, glug, glug, fizzzzzzzzzzzzz, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp. Too much! Bubbles tickle my tongue, I lose my breath, too fizzy Buuuuuuurp! I love it when the pop van comes
0
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
manda-clement
POP VAN
Its Friday and school is ended Home we run, both trying to win the race to the garden gate Hot and red faced, my brother beats me by an inch I tell myself "I let him touch the post before me" Into weekend scruffs we climb, piles of school clothes left behind For mum to gather, washing to be done My brother and I have something more important to do We need to make sure they are ready And they are, all washed and clean and ready for 7-0'clock When the pop van comes. 4 empty bottles, waiting to be handed back and reborn 4 empty bottles, worth 5p each off the next ones! 4 empty bottles to exchange for 4 full But what will we choose When the pop van comes ? 7-0'clock 4 bottles, 2 each We march to where the van full of wonderful fizziness will stop My brother and I stand in line, there are children all around with their bottles too All waiting for their turn to swap 1 empty for one full with 5p off! When the pop van comes My brother chooses first as he beat me to the gate (I let him win) Raspberryade! Now me, Shandy please, (I like to pretend its beer) Finally mum joins us and chooses orangeade and a bottle of dandelion and burdock for dad We take back our bottles, excited, thirsty, Into the glass I pour my 'beer' Glug glug, glug, glug, fizzzzzzzzzzzzz, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp. Too much! Bubbles tickle my tongue, I lose my breath, too fizzy Buuuuuuurp! I love it when the pop van comes
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35
i don't know why,             in a litre, that's 250ml gone, on the basis that, working from 40%, i'm figuring, 40% - x = 37.5%, add the half and then add the 2... what do you get? 40%.                anyway...                  these "hard" spirits are perfect for mixers...                      you get a perfect mix of, say,           *dark *** & pepsi, to conjure up a sharpshooter known as blackbeard; and that really is a name for the most trivial cocktail.     and when i mean "hard", i do mean "hard". ever drink habsburg absinthe?         that's nearing the 100% mark...             or what one might call:    the 10,000 indicator for: what wasn't ran, but was drunk; zeno's paradoxical centimetre or inches or miles or kilometres come later, or at least last...    but this is fascinating... % = double negation given that kant said, 0 = negation... it's like a denial divided by denial...            i know the symbol suggests more omicron representation than a zee-ρ;     never mind... it's the perfect fraction... like a golden ratio, % = the perfect fraction. the thing is though...           i'm drinking this 37.5% dark *** and thinking... if this **** was at 40%...           i'd be worrying about not mixing it properly...             and this is a "hard" spirit after all... it's not exactly habsburg absinthe,         or a plum extract that's know by the name of śliwowica, common in the tatra mountains... which, like habsburg absinthe, is nearing            the ten thousand mark; but some strange reason 37.5% is the perfect partner for a mixer... say... *** & pepsi... whiskey & pepsi... ***** & pepsi...         at 40% you're thinking... posh whiskey, drank lukewarm... like a brandy / cognac. 37.5% is a ******* mystery to me...        i actually can perfect the sharpshooter concept with that balance... mingling 40% with a mixer is... is... just ****** hard...           sharpshooter? excess of spirit and a little bit of a mixer...      a bit like... a shandy... beer with a head of lemonade?                                 no? don't know it? 37.5%, and a litre of it?! and enough pepsi?   i call that a friday night... as a party soloist; oh i did to the laundry wasted today,       almost anything done drunk is fun as **** you get all autistic, making patterns out of the clothes and where they should hang on the washing-line...        red sock, blue sock... no... red sock red sock... here!        blue sock... tartan pattern blue sock... no...         ah! blue sock blue sock.... dangle here! well... you know... people have their alternative hobbies.
0
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
37.5% mystery / habsburg absinthe
i don't know why,             in a litre, that's 250ml gone, on the basis that, working from 40%, i'm figuring, 40% - x = 37.5%, add the half and then add the 2... what do you get? 40%.                anyway...                  these "hard" spirits are perfect for mixers...                      you get a perfect mix of, say,           *dark *** & pepsi, to conjure up a sharpshooter known as blackbeard; and that really is a name for the most trivial cocktail.     and when i mean "hard", i do mean "hard". ever drink habsburg absinthe?         that's nearing the 100% mark...             or what one might call:    the 10,000 indicator for: what wasn't ran, but was drunk; zeno's paradoxical centimetre or inches or miles or kilometres come later, or at least last...    but this is fascinating... % = double negation given that kant said, 0 = negation... it's like a denial divided by denial...            i know the symbol suggests more omicron representation than a zee-ρ;     never mind... it's the perfect fraction... like a golden ratio, % = the perfect fraction. the thing is though...           i'm drinking this 37.5% dark *** and thinking... if this **** was at 40%...           i'd be worrying about not mixing it properly...             and this is a "hard" spirit after all... it's not exactly habsburg absinthe,         or a plum extract that's know by the name of śliwowica, common in the tatra mountains... which, like habsburg absinthe, is nearing            the ten thousand mark; but some strange reason 37.5% is the perfect partner for a mixer... say... *** & pepsi... whiskey & pepsi... ***** & pepsi...         at 40% you're thinking... posh whiskey, drank lukewarm... like a brandy / cognac. 37.5% is a ******* mystery to me...        i actually can perfect the sharpshooter concept with that balance... mingling 40% with a mixer is... is... just ****** hard...           sharpshooter? excess of spirit and a little bit of a mixer...      a bit like... a shandy... beer with a head of lemonade?                                 no? don't know it? 37.5%, and a litre of it?! and enough pepsi?   i call that a friday night... as a party soloist; oh i did to the laundry wasted today,       almost anything done drunk is fun as **** you get all autistic, making patterns out of the clothes and where they should hang on the washing-line...        red sock, blue sock... no... red sock red sock... here!        blue sock... tartan pattern blue sock... no...         ah! blue sock blue sock.... dangle here! well... you know... people have their alternative hobbies.
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65
It dawned upon me we had never celebrated Christmas together because You would indefinitely be Out of town. I remembered the vintage cards you got me for Valentine's though, those you couriered through a friend, accompanied with your sweet note. I still crave, you know. The basil chicken rice, chicken wings and thai milk tea at our favourite thai restaurant, near the lodge. Are the ponies still there? I smile thinking back about how I stopped you in your tracks and irritated you with my indecisive texts about our adventure. Man in black 1 2 3 wasn't as interesting as your sleep talking, really. "Hug more, more" But I swear the air con wasn't helping. Pasta, and the Jolly Shandy wannabe champagne on your birthday. Percy pig and working hard for pancakes, Do these ring a bell? 1993 shirt Zara perfume A photo of you driving That scar on your chin. Thoughts come and go you know, it really isn't up to me. "You haven't met enough guys to conclude" Your voice echoed. I am clear, or so I hope to be. I still know how you like your Subway, and the Harry Potter name of your dog, The dog you think of As frequently as you thought of me. Friendship. "I tried, and I wasn't comfortable." I tried too, Friendship; inevitable. There are times you succumb to irrationality too? "Just for tonight" One night, One kiss. I felt it, you know? I hope irrationality still runs in your blood and it continues to boil you to take action, someday. Against my interests or not It doesn't matter. Pathetic self inflicted redemption that kills my strength and feminism callings. I thought I burnt my longing for you along with those stars and cards and correction tape and money and your manly diary. What burnt was passion and incorrigible stubbornness instead. Blind faith in fate Naked trust in love. This Christmas I try to give myself a present. I thought long and hard, My present is my present.
0
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
nutellaneo
A Long Poem
It dawned upon me we had never celebrated Christmas together because You would indefinitely be Out of town. I remembered the vintage cards you got me for Valentine's though, those you couriered through a friend, accompanied with your sweet note. I still crave, you know. The basil chicken rice, chicken wings and thai milk tea at our favourite thai restaurant, near the lodge. Are the ponies still there? I smile thinking back about how I stopped you in your tracks and irritated you with my indecisive texts about our adventure. Man in black 1 2 3 wasn't as interesting as your sleep talking, really. "Hug more, more" But I swear the air con wasn't helping. Pasta, and the Jolly Shandy wannabe champagne on your birthday. Percy pig and working hard for pancakes, Do these ring a bell? 1993 shirt Zara perfume A photo of you driving That scar on your chin. Thoughts come and go you know, it really isn't up to me. "You haven't met enough guys to conclude" Your voice echoed. I am clear, or so I hope to be. I still know how you like your Subway, and the Harry Potter name of your dog, The dog you think of As frequently as you thought of me. Friendship. "I tried, and I wasn't comfortable." I tried too, Friendship; inevitable. There are times you succumb to irrationality too? "Just for tonight" One night, One kiss. I felt it, you know? I hope irrationality still runs in your blood and it continues to boil you to take action, someday. Against my interests or not It doesn't matter. Pathetic self inflicted redemption that kills my strength and feminism callings. I thought I burnt my longing for you along with those stars and cards and correction tape and money and your manly diary. What burnt was passion and incorrigible stubbornness instead. Blind faith in fate Naked trust in love. This Christmas I try to give myself a present. I thought long and hard, My present is my present.
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64
No shandy drinking Ivory tower pedants Will dictate to me
0
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
david-alexander-walker
My Voice
No shandy drinking Ivory tower pedants Will dictate to me
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3
yeah, buy art, what a weird concept in the 21st century; i'm waiting for pope Francis to become my patron and ask me to redo the Sistine chapel. i can only remember buying four singles disks in my day, i bought en vogue's don't let go (love) when i was "supposed" to buy the prodigy's music for the jilted generation (indeed i'm part of the jaded crew), i bought no doubt's cover it's my life (original version by talk talk), m.m.'s fight song, and indeed the Budweiser advert song done by the wise guys say ooh la la - the Graeae frogs you remember? bud - weis - er... the shared eye actually a brown glass bottle - peer in... admit it, pop music is intended to make your heart into a sponge, soak up **** up all those emotions that you'll never get as you might get from toasting bread or making coffee or drinking a sharpshooter of excess whiskey and little coke, a shandy by comparison (shandy? ah, beer topped up with lemonade, like you like me i know the only slang is that of drunks)... well the 5th was eagle eye cherry's save tonight, but i don't know why i returned it at the our price store (post-virgin megastore music cornershop outlet) with the cashier's bewilderment; but admit it, pop music is intended to make your heart into a sponge, **** it up and soak in it, when the songs don't reveal you the love intended; well, the music industry did combat the free music policy (i still stream but don't keep), they employed about 5 producers, used algorithms to create an endless stream of music without an original message but a pattern by which you react emotionally to it in the same way... and i'm not ashamed to admit that justin bieber's love yourself is good, i mean the sly and gentle guitar riff and the horns... and i can relate to the message... music for the bedroom, music not for arenas or clubs... music you can think in rather than dance or be a cheerleader of movie iconoclasm - man, the lack of drums, where the vocals act like drums, bring back the woodwinds of the vocals and drop the excess bass and drums that thump your eardrums deaf.
0
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the graeae frogs
yeah, buy art, what a weird concept in the 21st century; i'm waiting for pope Francis to become my patron and ask me to redo the Sistine chapel. i can only remember buying four singles disks in my day, i bought en vogue's don't let go (love) when i was "supposed" to buy the prodigy's music for the jilted generation (indeed i'm part of the jaded crew), i bought no doubt's cover it's my life (original version by talk talk), m.m.'s fight song, and indeed the Budweiser advert song done by the wise guys say ooh la la - the Graeae frogs you remember? bud - weis - er... the shared eye actually a brown glass bottle - peer in... admit it, pop music is intended to make your heart into a sponge, soak up **** up all those emotions that you'll never get as you might get from toasting bread or making coffee or drinking a sharpshooter of excess whiskey and little coke, a shandy by comparison (shandy? ah, beer topped up with lemonade, like you like me i know the only slang is that of drunks)... well the 5th was eagle eye cherry's save tonight, but i don't know why i returned it at the our price store (post-virgin megastore music cornershop outlet) with the cashier's bewilderment; but admit it, pop music is intended to make your heart into a sponge, **** it up and soak in it, when the songs don't reveal you the love intended; well, the music industry did combat the free music policy (i still stream but don't keep), they employed about 5 producers, used algorithms to create an endless stream of music without an original message but a pattern by which you react emotionally to it in the same way... and i'm not ashamed to admit that justin bieber's love yourself is good, i mean the sly and gentle guitar riff and the horns... and i can relate to the message... music for the bedroom, music not for arenas or clubs... music you can think in rather than dance or be a cheerleader of movie iconoclasm - man, the lack of drums, where the vocals act like drums, bring back the woodwinds of the vocals and drop the excess bass and drums that thump your eardrums deaf.
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47
My childhood hero died in a crushing way We attended his funeral the very next day There were still flowers about and words to say He left us so early with so much more music to play Taken before he knew, his song had become a great anthem He'd say "Mama told me, I’d been born with a silver spoon Yep, I’d been born with a silver spoon His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I've gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we’ll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done Church speakers turned on, then all in harmony, everybody sings We all said, "Thanks for the music man, for the joy that it brings Your lyrics speak to us all, almost the same as the ole kings Now laid to rest, with paper and pen, as we bow on down As we left the building, the kids were playing cats in the cradle And we thought, Wow! Even the young ones feel the beat, yep For real, Wow! Even the young ones feel the beat His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I've gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done Well, one year later, we came together, again So great to see you all, for those of us that remain Guys, we all rock to the same beat, while we’re still alive We shook each others hands, and said our goodbyes What I'd really like though guys, is to have one more beer So five hours later, we all agreed to get together every year His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I’ve gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done I've aged quite a lot, since those hippy years I now prefer to sip on shandy, than those heavy beers I said, “What, speak up”, I can’t hear anything in my ears They said, we have our problems, like remembering our wives You forget your recent life, but seem to remember earlier times But it's sure been nice listening to music with all you guys It's sure been nice listening to music with you And as they left the building, one by one, gone before me The young would grow up, just like me They would find their own great anthem, just like me His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I’ve gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done.
0
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 7:26 AM UTC
Fetchitnow
A Great Anthem
My childhood hero died in a crushing way We attended his funeral the very next day There were still flowers about and words to say He left us so early with so much more music to play Taken before he knew, his song had become a great anthem He'd say "Mama told me, I’d been born with a silver spoon Yep, I’d been born with a silver spoon His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I've gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we’ll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done Church speakers turned on, then all in harmony, everybody sings We all said, "Thanks for the music man, for the joy that it brings Your lyrics speak to us all, almost the same as the ole kings Now laid to rest, with paper and pen, as we bow on down As we left the building, the kids were playing cats in the cradle And we thought, Wow! Even the young ones feel the beat, yep For real, Wow! Even the young ones feel the beat His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I've gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done Well, one year later, we came together, again So great to see you all, for those of us that remain Guys, we all rock to the same beat, while we’re still alive We shook each others hands, and said our goodbyes What I'd really like though guys, is to have one more beer So five hours later, we all agreed to get together every year His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I’ve gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done I've aged quite a lot, since those hippy years I now prefer to sip on shandy, than those heavy beers I said, “What, speak up”, I can’t hear anything in my ears They said, we have our problems, like remembering our wives You forget your recent life, but seem to remember earlier times But it's sure been nice listening to music with all you guys It's sure been nice listening to music with you And as they left the building, one by one, gone before me The young would grow up, just like me They would find their own great anthem, just like me His young child cried, that little boy blew away his pain Daddy always told him, he wanted his family, not all the fame When you comin' home, Daddy, the sweet child would often pray Soon my son, I’ve gotta entertain the fans, until there are none You know we'll be a close-knit family, when I’m all dusted and done.
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50
...of the world." (sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCV) "Alas, poor Yorick!"  echoes down the tale O' centries since that Tristram Shandy thence Was published, and familiar too, though whence I ne'er could say 'til now, in sheer betrayl-- Love-sick being cause for seeking to avail Me of some cure from false hopes' keen pretense-- To succour me at THAT font was for sense Jist what the Doctor ordered:  pretty bail. Now Corp'ral Trim reads Yorick's sermon fer Ole Shandy's intrest ere that Tristram's through The birth canal, I've highr ground as it were. Not cuz the antique novel is a crew Of nonsense.  No.  It sets off this e'er poor 'Scuse for "real'ty"...IF I can breathe too. 23Mar19a
0
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 10:03 PM UTC
JennyGordon
...As Queen Sings "We Are The Champions
...of the world." (sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCV) "Alas, poor Yorick!"  echoes down the tale O' centries since that Tristram Shandy thence Was published, and familiar too, though whence I ne'er could say 'til now, in sheer betrayl-- Love-sick being cause for seeking to avail Me of some cure from false hopes' keen pretense-- To succour me at THAT font was for sense Jist what the Doctor ordered:  pretty bail. Now Corp'ral Trim reads Yorick's sermon fer Ole Shandy's intrest ere that Tristram's through The birth canal, I've highr ground as it were. Not cuz the antique novel is a crew Of nonsense.  No.  It sets off this e'er poor 'Scuse for "real'ty"...IF I can breathe too. 23Mar19a
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17
You're leaving — Surfactant. Summer months reduce attraction. No one remembers fast food, the things they eat for convenience. No one would miss it in its absence. I'll want you even when Summer dissolves you. Dilutes my memory into flat beer shandy. I won't call you. The summer is short, the road is short. But too much sun can make a man insane. Time is a solvent. An effective surfactant. Say you'll miss me and think of me in muggy summer rain.
0
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
molly-5
Unbound
You're leaving — Surfactant. Summer months reduce attraction. No one remembers fast food, the things they eat for convenience. No one would miss it in its absence. I'll want you even when Summer dissolves you. Dilutes my memory into flat beer shandy. I won't call you. The summer is short, the road is short. But too much sun can make a man insane. Time is a solvent. An effective surfactant. Say you'll miss me and think of me in muggy summer rain.
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17
plum pudding looks good in a custardy coat beer, brandy and for the alcohol free lemonade shandy. It's great that Jesus was born in December the January sales wouldn't work in September which leads me to think this plan was thought out and that's what those three wise men are about, but while the turkeys are cooking if you believe and you're looking for a sign that's fine by me I found my sign under the Christmas tree, an IOU from you know who someone's been a naughty boy.
0
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
That time of year
plum pudding looks good in a custardy coat beer, brandy and for the alcohol free lemonade shandy. It's great that Jesus was born in December the January sales wouldn't work in September which leads me to think this plan was thought out and that's what those three wise men are about, but while the turkeys are cooking if you believe and you're looking for a sign that's fine by me I found my sign under the Christmas tree, an IOU from you know who someone's been a naughty boy.
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21
i dance to the sound of your voice like old heads to 90s dancehall while swaying with shandy there's an indescribable love an underappreciated love story i meet you outside the brownstone except its not a brownstone and it's an apartment in the P's and you see me holding flowers except this time around i couldn't get the flowers but with intentions of getting flowers, your favorite, and we hit it off and you become the love of my life and we do it all over again until i wake up
0
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 5:58 PM UTC
croox
keep ya heart three stacks
i dance to the sound of your voice like old heads to 90s dancehall while swaying with shandy there's an indescribable love an underappreciated love story i meet you outside the brownstone except its not a brownstone and it's an apartment in the P's and you see me holding flowers except this time around i couldn't get the flowers but with intentions of getting flowers, your favorite, and we hit it off and you become the love of my life and we do it all over again until i wake up
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16
Summer shandy Sandy, The hints of lemon sour Crack a bottle on the hour, I practically drink it in the shower, I should quit you but I don’t have the power. A quick take to addiction, My body gives into submission, My friends all tell me to listen, But it’s your cold taste I’ve been missing. I struggle with the cravings, Suicidal ravings, Dashed to bits on pencil shavings, Written in shame, but I ain’t praying. Oh, Summer Shandy Sandy, I miss the long walks, The quiet talks, The bomb drops, Tell me to stop, But I need to drink, Don’t want to think, About the hours later in the kitchen sink, Where you and I could commiserate, When I have you I don’t need no dinner plate, You put me in a sorry state, No real plans to situate, But when I’m with you I’m feeling great. Oh, Sweet Summer Shandy Sandy, I miss the feeling, This copacetic healing, You’ve got my stomach reeling, But my heart is hearing, The low tone notes repeating, The bottles chilled, thought I was beating, Her sirens calling, but I’m still reaching, For that sweet sinful cold embrace, Of her twist off cap, and that smooth, rich grace.
0
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 4:19 AM UTC
cole-cummings
Summer Shandy Sandy
Summer shandy Sandy, The hints of lemon sour Crack a bottle on the hour, I practically drink it in the shower, I should quit you but I don’t have the power. A quick take to addiction, My body gives into submission, My friends all tell me to listen, But it’s your cold taste I’ve been missing. I struggle with the cravings, Suicidal ravings, Dashed to bits on pencil shavings, Written in shame, but I ain’t praying. Oh, Summer Shandy Sandy, I miss the long walks, The quiet talks, The bomb drops, Tell me to stop, But I need to drink, Don’t want to think, About the hours later in the kitchen sink, Where you and I could commiserate, When I have you I don’t need no dinner plate, You put me in a sorry state, No real plans to situate, But when I’m with you I’m feeling great. Oh, Sweet Summer Shandy Sandy, I miss the feeling, This copacetic healing, You’ve got my stomach reeling, But my heart is hearing, The low tone notes repeating, The bottles chilled, thought I was beating, Her sirens calling, but I’m still reaching, For that sweet sinful cold embrace, Of her twist off cap, and that smooth, rich grace.
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36
I found my self asking the following question, after I got a yes on is the universe friendly, what good can I do in it? This now, is after me, catching me, shooing a fly from the kitchen. Uncle Toby did that sort of thing, I heard, I swear, I would if that were something I know I know how to do, I would swear not at all, otherwise. Knowing, I never understood either the marbled page or the black one, and I barely recall Uncle Toby sparing the life of a certain fly, which reminds me, I chose to recall all I do know about that, and share it, by tossing it back. Tristam Shandy is full of powerful words lain idle now, some time. -fishing for truth in this realm of words, thereś rules and hereś rules, keyboard internationale now allows ¿ possible quest reject buttons but at the price of normal apostrophes, we can live with that ś means usually a karmic possession of the previous phase phrasing through your attention span... jest ride on through.. the flaky bits of inimical karmas, make some people sneeze, when they breathe, thatś the better choice, when no real rules are known but pain is a possible outcome of points stumbled on unawares, in far flung plains, where the act of polishing diamonds, or any hard thing, leaves the teensiest shards that jest scrape away the **** of the earth, collected in yo art trees, happy little trees, jest put one here, no, combine the two, to be like man-kind, body and otherwise, full and empty, both, in here. Now, this is how we make a bubble be, inside out.
0
Mar 5, 2020
Mar 5, 2020 at 5:51 PM UTC
kenpepiton
If my bubble were inside out
I found my self asking the following question, after I got a yes on is the universe friendly, what good can I do in it? This now, is after me, catching me, shooing a fly from the kitchen. Uncle Toby did that sort of thing, I heard, I swear, I would if that were something I know I know how to do, I would swear not at all, otherwise. Knowing, I never understood either the marbled page or the black one, and I barely recall Uncle Toby sparing the life of a certain fly, which reminds me, I chose to recall all I do know about that, and share it, by tossing it back. Tristam Shandy is full of powerful words lain idle now, some time. -fishing for truth in this realm of words, thereś rules and hereś rules, keyboard internationale now allows ¿ possible quest reject buttons but at the price of normal apostrophes, we can live with that ś means usually a karmic possession of the previous phase phrasing through your attention span... jest ride on through.. the flaky bits of inimical karmas, make some people sneeze, when they breathe, thatś the better choice, when no real rules are known but pain is a possible outcome of points stumbled on unawares, in far flung plains, where the act of polishing diamonds, or any hard thing, leaves the teensiest shards that jest scrape away the **** of the earth, collected in yo art trees, happy little trees, jest put one here, no, combine the two, to be like man-kind, body and otherwise, full and empty, both, in here. Now, this is how we make a bubble be, inside out.
Continue reading...
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