Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
Preaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,
Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
When Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear:
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
1 "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
2 It's with O'Leary in the grave."
3 Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn
4 A hue so radiantly brave?
5 There was a rain of blood that day,
6 Red rain in gay blue April weather.
7 It blessed the earth till it gave birth
8 To valour thick as blooms of heather.
Passionate kisses that special night
Romantic walks along the beach
Portraying a future which shines bright
Silently cuddling together without a speach
Loving moments remember me
Tickle me with joyous laughter
Picture me as your angel
Lift our spirits above the clouds
Listen to the birds sing
Calling out a slow song
. When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
Yes, we will be apart,
But we will still be one.
When you go to sleep,
Just send me the sun.
It will carry your message
Across the seven seas.
I will miss u a lot,
Will u miss me please
the wait finally over
stars are in my eyes
in halls of expectancy
sing my nightingale
your love song at the sunset
I am thrilled with deja vu,
When I've only just met you,
As if our drama is grown old,
Before it has ever been told!
How can this feeling persist,
When clear logic it resists?
Have our paths crossed before?
Were you someone I once adored?
See the Romancing politician,
I think he's confused at the exposition.
He finds it hard to see the Rose,
Overshadowed by the Green brose.
Who is that walking near the Garden?
I think she'd like to eat the marden.
She is but a Cute Poetess,
Admired as she sits upon a screenwriter.
Promise me. Promise me you'll stay.
And I'll write about you all my life.
Not about your soulful eyes which led me astray.
Neither your hair with which I'd like to play.
Or that smile which hides and betray.
I won't write about that which decay.
I'll write about your madness which has no shelflife.
About your teasing of which I'm afraid.
About your victories in games and my strife.