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
It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the 'plains where shade is not',
And you mentioned it was dusty -- 'all was dry and all was hot'.
True, the bush 'hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too,
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you;
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee --
It was a time when they were afraid of him.
My father, a bare man, a gypsy, a horse
with broken knees no one would shoot.
Then again, he was like the orange tree,
and young women plucked from him sweet fruit.
To meet him, you must be in the right place,
even his sons and daughter, we wondered
where was papa now and what was he doing.
He held the mystique of travelers
that pass your backyard and disappear into the trees.
DAME DOWSON, was a granny grey,
Who, three score years and ten,
Had pass'd her busy hours away,
In talking of the Men !
They were her theme, at home, abroad,
At wake, and by the winter fire,
Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw'd,
In sunshine or in shade, her ire
Was never calm'd; for still she made
Scandal her pleasure--and her trade!
The mountains and glens of Aberfoyle are beautiful to sight,
Likewise the rivers and lakes are sparkling and bright;
And its woods were frequented by the Lady of the Lake,
And on its Lakes many a sail in her boat she did take.
The scenery there will fill the tourist with joy,
Because 'tis there once lived the bold Rob Roy,
Who spent many happy days with his Helen there,
By chasing the deer in the woods so fair.
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.