FabSwingers.com > Forums > Ireland > Favourite Poem
Favourite Poem
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""On the Ning Nang Nong, Where the cows go Bong, and the monkeys all day boo, there's a Nong Nang Ning, where the tree's go, PING! and the teapots Jibber, Jabber, Joo... On the Ning Nong Nang, all the mice go, CLANG! and you just can't catch them when they do, So, It's Ning Nang Nong, cows go Bong, Nong Nang Ning, trees go Ping, Ning Nong Nang, mice go Clang! What a noisy place to belong, is the Ning Nang, Ning Nang Nong!!"  Bet that's Roald Dahl | |||
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"Spike Milligan"  | |||
"Spike Milligan "it was a guess, but it seemed right. HNY..x | |||
"Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. " 💖 So beautiful. | |||
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"Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. 💖 So beautiful. " | |||
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"Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. " One of my favourites ❤️ | |||
"Who's CB @tiny delight? 'The Shower' is 👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻" Charles Bukowski He's not to everyone's taste but I like him. Happy New Year Rubs 🥂🍾✨️ | |||
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"One of my favourites. I Am Complete Simply Because I Am Imperfect by Rupi Kaur we think we are lost while our fuller found and complete selves are somewhere in the future we get on our hands and knees thinking self-improvement will help us reach them but this finding ourselves bullshit is never going to end i’m tired of putting off living until i have more information on who i am i’m a new person every month always becoming and unbecoming only to become again our fuller selves are not off in the future they’re right here in the only moment that exists i don’t need fixing i will be searching for answers my whole life not because i’m a half-formed thing but because i’m brilliant enough to keep growing everything necessary to live a vivid life already exists in me!" Oh I'm loving this ❤️ | |||
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"The Listeners - Walter de La Mare • ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even louder, and lifted his head: ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone." Love this also | |||
"The Listeners - Walter de La Mare • ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even louder, and lifted his head: ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,’ he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone." Haven't heard that poem in years. I absolutely loved it. | |||
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"Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. " That's a beautiful poem . | |||
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"The island, it is silent now But the ghosts still haunt the waves And the torch lights up a famished man Who fortune could not save Did you work upon the railroad? Did you rid the streets of crime? Were your dollars from the White House? Were they from the Five-and-Dime? Did the old songs taunt or cheer you? And did they still make you cry? Did you count the months and years Or did your teardrops quickly dry? "Ah, no", says he, "it was not to be On a coffin ship I came here And I never even got so far That they could change my name" Thousands are sailing Across the western ocean To a land of opportunity That some of them will never see Fortune prevailing Across the western ocean Their bellies full Their spirits free They'll break the chains of poverty And they'll dance In Manhattan's desert twilight In the death of afternoon We stepped hand in hand on Broadway Like the first man on the moon And a blackbird broke the silence As you whistled it so sweet And in Brendan Behan's footsteps I danced up and down the street Then we said goodnight to Broadway Giving it our best regards Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen Dear old Times Square's favourite bard Then we raised a glass to JFK And a dozen more besides When I got back to my empty room I suppose I must have cried Thousands are sailing Again across the ocean Where the hand of opportunity Draws tickets in a lottery Postcards we're mailing Of sky light skies and oceans From rooms the daylight never sees And lights don't glow on Christmas trees And we danced to the music And we danced Thousands are sailing Across the western ocean Where the hand of opportunity Draws tickets in a lottery Where e'er we go, we celebrate The land that makes us refugees From fear of priests with empty plates From guilt and weeping effigies Still we dance to the music And we dance ... ... ... Philip Chevron " One of my favourite of The Pogues songs | |||
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"The Shower we like to shower afterwards (I like the water hotter than she) and her face is always soft and peaceful and she'll wash me first spread the soap over my balls lift the balls squeeze them, then wash the cock: "hey, this thing is still hard!" then get all the hair down there,- the belly, the back, the neck, the legs, I grin grin grin, and then I wash her. . . first the cunt, I stand behind her, my cock in the cheeks of her ass I gently soap up the cunt hairs, wash there with a soothing motion, I linger perhaps longer than necessary, then I get the backs of the legs, the ass, the back, the neck, I turn her, kiss her, soap up the breasts, get them and the belly, the neck, the fronts of the legs, the ankles, the feet, and then the cunt, once more, for luck. . . another kiss, and she gets out first, toweling, sometimes singing while I stay in turn the water on hotter feeling the good times of love's miracle I then get out. . . it is usually mid-afternoon and quiet, and getting dressed we talk about what else there might be to do, but being together solves most of it for as long as those things stay solved in the history of women and man, it's different for each- for me, it's splendid enough to remember past the memories of pain and defeat and unhappiness: when you take it away do it slowly and easily make it as if I were dying in my sleep instead of in my life, amen. CB" Beautiful | |||
