Tuesday, February 24, 2015

All Along the Watchtower

by Bob Dylan

'There must be some way out of here,' said the joker to the thief
'There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth'

'No reason to get excited,' the thief, he kindly spoke
'There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late'

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too
Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl

Tuesday, February 17, 2015


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Dedicated Follower of Fashion

by Ray Davies

They seek him here, they seek him there
His clothes are loud but never square
It will make or break him, so he's got to buy the best
'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion

And when he does his little rounds
'Round the boutiques of London town
Eagerly pursuing all the latest fads and trends
'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion

Oh yes, he is, oh yes, he is
There's one thing that he loves and that is flattery
One week he's in polka-dots, the next week he's in stripes
'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion

They seek him here, they seek him there
In Regent Street and Leicester Square
Everywhere the Carnabetian army marches on
Each one a dedicated follower of fashion

Oh yes, he is, oh yes, he is
His world is built 'round discotheques and parties
This pleasure-seeking individual always looks his best
'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion

Oh yes, he is, oh yes, he is
He flits from shop to shop just like a butterfly
In matters of the cloth, he is as fickle as can be
'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Children of the Heavenly Father

by Carolina Sandell

Children of the heavenly Father
safely in his bosom gather;
nestling bird nor star in heaven
such a refuge e'er was given.

God his own shall tend and nourish;
in his holy courts they flourish.
From all evil powers he spares them;
in his mighty arms he bears them.

Neither life nor death shall ever
from the Lord his children sever;
for to them his grace revealing,
he turns sorrow into healing.

Praise the Lord in joyful numbers,
your Protector never slumbers;
at the will of your Defender
ev'ry foeman must surrender.

Though he giveth or he taketh,
God his children ne'er forsaken;
his the loving purpose solely
to preserve them pure and holy.

More secure is no one ever
than the loved ones of the Savior;
not yon star on high abiding
nor the bird in home-nest hiding.

Friday, February 6, 2015

Someone Keeps Moving My Chair

by John Linnell

Mr. Horrible! Mr. Horrible!
Telephone call for Mr. Horrible!
But before he can talk to the ugliness men
There's some horrible business left
For him to attend to

Something unpleasant has spilled on his brain
As he sponges it off, they say...

'Is this Horrible? Is this Horrible?
It's the ugliness men, Mr. Horrible
We're just trying to bug you
We thought that our dreadfulness
Might be a thing to annoy you with'

But Mr. Horrible says, 'I don't mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair'

Would you mind if we balance this glass of milk
Where your visiting friend accidentally was killed?
Would it be okay with you if we wrote a reminder
Of things we'll forget to do today otherwise
Using a green magic marker
If it's alright, on the back of your head?

Mr. Horrible, Mr. Horrible
We're not done with you yet, Mr. Horrible
You have to try on these pants so the ugliness men
Can decide if they're just as embarrassing as we think
We have to be sure about this

But Mr. Horrible says, 'I don't mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair'

Monday, February 2, 2015

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

by Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

from 'The Dead'

by James Joyce

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes [and] in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.