Written by
Robert William Service |
Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;
Of viol or of lute some make a song.
My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme,
You've been my friend and comforter so long.
Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more;
You've given heaps of people lots of fun;
You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor .
.
.
Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.
I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole;
From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.
The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole
Have echoed to your impish melody.
I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead;
I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon;
I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled,
To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.
I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe,
And the hula-hula graces in the glade.
I've swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau,
And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade.
The ****** on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nile
have shuffled to your insolent appeal.
I've rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile,
And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal.
I've set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub,
Apaches swinging in a Belville bar.
I've played an obligato to the tom-tom's rub-a-dub,
And the throb of Andalusian guitar.
From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo,
From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain,
You've roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true.
.
.
.
Old pal! We'll never hit the trail again.
Oh I know you're cheap and vulgar, you're an instrumental crime.
In drawing-rooms you haven't got a show.
You're a musical abortion, you're the voice of grit and grime,
You're the spokesman of the lowly and the low.
You're a democratic devil, you're the darling of the mob;
You're a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee.
You're the headache of the high-bow, you're the horror of the snob,
but you're worth your weight in ruddy gold to me.
For you've chided me in weakness and you've cheered me in defeat;
You've been an anodyne in hours of pain;
And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet,
You've ragged me back into the ring again.
I'll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit,
The golden harps of harmony to swell;
But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit,
I'll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell.
Yes, I'll hank you, and I'll spank you,
And I'll everlasting yank you
To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.
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Written by
Maggie Estep |
Liner Notes - (from Love Is A Dog From Hell)
My friend Jenny is really
worried that people are going to follow me around and send me dead animal
parts and doll heads as a result of this song but please, if you feel inclined
to send me dead animal parts, think it through.
Thanks.
Stalk me
I once wrote a poem called **** ME
So stalk me
I'm asking for it
Don't take your medication
Stalk ME
Write to me and say Dear Maggie I love what you do
You've got a really big mouth
Actually your mouth is a little too big
Anyone ever tell you what a big-mouthed ***** you are
God, you know I'm kinda sick of you
I mean, what's so great about you
How come you got on TV
I could do that
You ain't ****
You suck
I hate you
but I love you
I love you because I hate you
Can I have your children?
Will you shack up with me?
Oh sure
I'll shack up with you
I love stalkers
Especially when they hate me
But you knew that
That's why you stalk me
You're not fooled by my clever ruse
***** goddess? I think not
I'm just a sucker for punishment
So punish me
Spank me
Dominate my sock drawer
And stalk me
Don't stalk Jodie Foster, David Letterman or John S.
Hall
Don't go through their trash
Their trash is boring
play with my trash
Hurry, I'm waiting
I'm pleading
Just come on and do it
Chew me choke me and stalk me
That'll teach me to write all that goddamned poetry
|
Written by
Robert William Service |
In youth when oft my muse was dumb,
My fancy nighly dead,
To make my inspiration come
I stood upon my head;
And thus I let the blood down flow
Into my cerebellum,
And published every Spring or so
Slim tomes in vellum.
Alas! I am rheumatic now,
Grey is my crown;
I can no more with brooding brow
Stand upside-down.
I fear I might in such a pose
Burst brain blood-vessel;
And that would be a woeful close
To my rhyme wrestle.
If to write verse I must reverse
I fear I'm stymied;
In ink of prose I must immerse
A pen de-rhymèd.
No more to spank the lyric lyre
Like Keats or Browning,
May I inspire the Sacred Fire
My Upside-downing.
|
Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise,
Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys
W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;"
She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank."
An' she says, "Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin'—soon or late,
W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank."
W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels,
Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels.
W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail.
What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail?
Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait,
It's a-comin'—soon or late,
You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."
Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl,
Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl
An' she says, "Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked
[Pg 265]Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked."
An' she says, "Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin'—soon or late,"
When a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
Ef you fin' the days is gettin' awful hot in school
An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool,
Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish,
Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish?
'Tain't no use to hide your bait,
It's a-comin,—soon or late,
Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess,
Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less,
But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well
Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell;
We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait,
It's a-comin'—soon or late,
Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
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