Rhymes Boy Quotes

The Days were a clan that mighta lived long But Ben Day’s head got screwed on wrong That boy craved dark Satan’s power So he killed his family in one nasty hour Little Michelle he strangled in the night Then chopped up Debby: a bloody sight Mother Patty he saved for last Blew off her head with a shotgun blast Baby Libby somehow survived But to live through that ain’t much a life —SCHOOLYARD RHYME, CIRCA 1985

He had never been interested in stories at any age, and had never quite understood the basic concept. He'd never read a work of fiction all the way through. He did remember, as a small boy, being really annoyed at the depiction of Hickory Dickory Dock in a rag book of nursery rhymes because the clock in the drawing was completely wrong for the period.

Basil my dear boy puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices his principles and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet a really great poet is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.

[...] "boy meets the girl, they fall in love but - oh - they can't possibly be together because of some terrible but really very easy-to-resolve misunderstanding" plots that always ended happily ever after with a passionate kiss and/or a wedding [...]

Books by Roald Dahl The BFG Boy: Tales of Childhood Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator Danny the Champion of the World Dirty Beasts The Enormous Crocodile Esio Trot Fantastic Mr. Fox George’s Marvelous Medicine The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me Going Solo James and the Giant Peach The Magic Finger Matilda The Minpins The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes Skin and Other Stories The Twits The Umbrella Man and Other Stories The Vicar of Nibbleswicke The Witches The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More

It's corny, but I think poems are echoes of the voices in your head and from your past. Your sisters, your father, your ancestors taking to you and through you. Some of it is primal, some of it is hallucinatory bullshit. That madness those boys rapping ain't nothing but urban folklore. They retelling stories passed down from chicken coop to apartment stoop to Ford coupe. Hear that rhyme, boy. Shit, I could get down and rap if I had to. MC Big Mama Osteoporosis in the house.

A sound of laughter was heard-they turned sharply. Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with wild bursts of laughter: "Do they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for honey? Ha! ha!" They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-balanced girl had gone mad right before their eyes. She went on in that high unnatural voice: "Don't stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. It's sane enough what I'm asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, don't you understand? Haven't you read that idiotic rhyme? It's up in all of your bedrooms-put it there for you to study! We might have come here straightaway if we'd had sense. Seven little soldiers chopping up sticks. And the next verse, I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And that's why I'm asking-do they keep bees on this island- isn't it damned funny...?

Down vith children! Do them in! Boil their bones and fry their skin! Bish them, sqvish them, bash them, mash them! Brrreak them, shake them, slash them, smash them! Offer chocs vith magic powder! Say “Eat up!” then say it louder. Crrram them full of sticky eats, Send them home still guzzling sveets. And in the morning little fools Go marching off to separate schools. A girl feels sick and goes all pale. She yells, “Hey look! I've grrrown a tail!” A boy who's standing next to her Screams, “Help! I think I'm grrrowing fur!” Another shouts, “Vee look like frrreaks! There's viskers growing on our cheeks!” A boy who vos extremely tall Cries out, “Vot's wrong? I'm grrrowing small!” Four tiny legs begin to sprrrout From everybody rrround about. And all at vunce, all in a trrrice, There are no children! Only MICE!

In your language you have a form of poetry called a sonnet...It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not? ...There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?...And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?' 'No.' 'But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?' 'Yes." Calvin nodded again. 'So,' said Mrs. Whatsit. 'So what?' 'Oh, do not be stupid, boy!' Mrs. Whatsit scolded. 'You know perfectly well what I am driving at!' 'You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but with freedom within it?' 'Yes,' Mrs. Whatsit said. "You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man . . .” Evie chanted as she played with Stephen in the Challons’ private railway carriage. They occupied one side of a deep upholstered settee, with Sebastian lounging in the other corner. The baby clapped his tiny hands along with his grandmother, his rapt gaze fastened on her face. “Make me a cake as fast as you can . . .” The nursery rhyme concluded, and Evie cheerfully began again. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake—” “My sweet,” Sebastian interrupted, “we’ve been involved in the manufacture of cakes ever since we set foot on the train. For my sanity, I beg you to choose another game.” “Stephen,” Evie asked her grandson, “do you want to play peekaboo?” “No,” came the baby’s grave answer. “Do you want to play ‘beckoning the chickens?’” “No.” Evie’s impish gaze flickered to her husband before she asked the child, “Do you want to play horsie with Gramps?” “Yes!” Sebastian grinned ruefully and reached for the boy. “I knew I should have kept quiet.” He sat Stephen on his knee and began to bounce him, making him squeal with delight.

Boys groped, boys dissed, boys put you down. But it was the girls who made you bleed

Perhaps we ought to feel with more imagination. As today the sky 70 degrees above zero with lines falling The way September moves a lace curtain to be near a pear, The oddest device can't be usual. And that is where The pejorative sense of fear moves axles. In the stars There is no longer any peace, emptied like a cup of coffee Between the blinding rain that interviews. You were my quintuplets when I decided to leave you Opening a picture book the pictures were all of grass Slowly the book was on fire, you the reader Sitting with specs full of smoke exclaimed How it was a rhyme for "brick" or "redder." The next chapter told all about a brook. You were beginning to see the relation when a tidal wave Arrived with sinking ships that spelled out "Aladdin." I thought about the Arab boy in his cave But the thoughts came faster than advice. If you knew that snow was a still toboggan in space The print could rhyme with "fallen star.

There, little girl, don't read, You're fond of your books, I know, But Brother might mope If he had no hope Of getting ahead of you. It's dull for a boy who cannot lead. There, little girl, don't read.

We are living in an increasingly feminized society. Some people view that as an increasingly civilized society, but it has left our boys with deep desires for honor but few outlets for displaying it appropriately.

If there's no feast for this appetite No reason in nursery rhymes Why can't I shake this great and glorious lie? And if there's no dawn beyond this dark No secret stair to climb Where did I learn the song that shakes the sky?

In the library I search for a good book. We have many books, says Mrs. Rose, the librarian, and ALL of them are good. Of course she says that. It's her job. But do I want to read about Trucks Trains and Transport? Or even Horses Houses and Hyenas? In the fiction corner there are pink boks full of princesses and girls who want to be princesses and black books about bad boys and brave boys and brawny boys. Where is the book about a girl whose poems don't rhyme and whose Granny is fading? Pearl, says Mrs. Rose, the bell has rung. I go back to class empty-handed empty headed empty-hearted.

When I roll my eyes, she just shakes her head like I couldn't possibly understand how important all this stuff is. And she's right - I don't. I don't think prancing around in short skirts repeating stupid rhymes, flashing their underwear to cheer on boys without doing so much as a cartwheel. It's the twenty-first century - shouldn't we be more evolved than this?

Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. he lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write poetry that they dare not realize.

Here there was a cheerful boy At least he created tales and lived in joy. Nursery rhymes his grandmother told, Songs and tales emerged gladly in gold. Caring heart, affection spoke loud as brighter, He made the decision: he would be a writer! Rising laughters, crying tears, many feelings, Inserted everything and nothing was in vain. So he transformed the ugly into beautiful, Tales to amuse and make everyone sane, In there he went, without daydreams or zeal. As such it was born the icon of literature still. No one denied he was exceedingly bountiful. A ballerina loves the soldier in his world, Nothing gets involved in his fairy tales, Dancing from a poor weak boy to a king, Eccentric prince of charm in winged corners! Rare star of sweet tenderness, Sensible and masterful in tenderness, Emchanted kingdom of dreams and candor, Now a divine fire of a soul he shines. Havia um menino alegre porem so Ao menos criava contos e deles vivia Nas historias que contava sua avo, Seus contos surgiam pois ele os via. Carinho nao faltava em seu coracao ator, Havia tomado a decisao: seria escritor! Risos, lagrimas, sentimentos saos, Inseria tudo e nada era em vao. Transformava ate o feio em belo, Inadvertia e divertia com seu elo, Adiante ia, sem devaneios e zelo. Nascia assim o icone da literatura. A bailarina ama o soldado em seu mundo, Nada se interpunha em seus contos de fadas, De pobre menino fraco e cogitabundo, Era principe de encantos em cantos alados! Rara estrela de doce brandura, Sensata e magistral em ternura, Em seu reino de sonhos e candura, No fogo divino de sua alma fulgura.

The Days were a clan that mighta lived long But Ben Day’s head got screwed on wrong That boy craved dark Satan’s power So he killed his family in one nasty hour Little Michelle he strangled in the night Then chopped up Debby: a bloody sight Mother Patty he saved for last Blew off her head with a shotgun blast Baby Libby somehow survived But to live through that ain’t much a life —SCHOOLYARD RHYME, CIRCA 1985

There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good . . .” His voice trailed off in the middle of the sentence. Laura found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze and muttered the end of the rhyme. “. . . She was very, very good, and when she was bad . . .” Gabriel finished what he had started, grinning at his own wit. “. . .She was better.” Laura’s eyebrows arched as she hid a quick smile. “That’s not the way I learned it.” Gabriel picked up his fork and dug back into his salsa-spiced eggs. “If you’d been a boy, you would have.

In drear nighted December" In drear nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity— The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy— But were there ever any Writh'd not of passed joy? The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.

Oh my absolute god!” said Vicky or Sophie or Sarah. “You’ve got a girlfriend?” “Ah, how sweet!” added Sophie or Sarah or Vicky. “Oh my god!” Sarah or Vicky or Sophie gushed. “You absolutely have to bring her to the drinks on Friday.” The others squealed their approval at this suggestion. “What’s her name?” Her name. No matter how many times I have to explain it, it doesn’t get any easier. “Her name’s Miranda,” I mumbled into my computer keyboard, “but she calls herself Panda because it rhymes with Miranda and also because she likes pandas.” There was a pause while Vicky/Sophie/Sarah, Sophie/ Sarah/Vicky and Sarah/Vicky/Sophie took this in. I waited for the mocking peals of laughter but they never came. “That is actually awesome,” said Vicky or Sophie or Sarah finally. “I wish my name rhymed with an animal.” “Yeah,” said Sophie or Sarah or Vicky. “It would be so awesome to be called, like, Miraffe or Mirelephant.” “Oh my god, yeah,” agreed Sarah or Vicky or Sophie. “I am totes naming my daughter Miraffe.” “What if you have a boy, though?” Sarah or Vicky or Sophie chewed her pen while she considered this. “Maybe I’ll go for a more masculine animal, like Mirhino or Mirocodile.” “Yeah, Mirocodile’s gorgeous, actually.” “Well, I’ve already got dibs, so you’ll have to take Mirhino.” The conversation continued in this vein until all the peanut M&M’s were finished and it was time for us to go home.

There are people in this country who will argue that because of the demise of morals in general, and Sunday school in particular, kids today are losing their innocence before they should, that because of cartoons and Ken Starr and curricula about their classmates who have two mommies, youth learn too soon about sex and death. Well, like practically everyone else in the Western world who came of age since Gutenberg, I lost my innocence the old-time-religion way, by reading the nursery rhyme of fornication that is the Old Testament and the fairy tale bloodbath that is the New. Job taught me Hey! Life's not fair! Lot's wife taught me that I'm probably going to come across a few weird sleazy things I won't be able to resist looking into. And the book of Revelation taught me to live in the moment, if only because the future's so grim. Being a fundamentalist means going straight to the source. I was asked to not only read the Bible, but to memorize Bible verses. If it wasn't for the easy access to the sordid Word of God I might have had an innocent childhood. Instead, I was a worrywart before my time, shivering in constant fear of a god who, from what I could tell, huffed and puffed around the cosmos looking like my dad did when my sister refused to take her vitamins that one time. God wasn't exactly a children's rights advocate. The first thing a child reading the Bible notices is that you're supposed to honor your mother and father but they're not necessarily required to reciprocate. This was a god who told Abraham to knife his boy Isaac and then at the last minute, when the dagger's poised above Isaac's heart, God tells Abraham that He's just kidding. This was a god who let a child lose his birthright because of some screwball mix-up involving fake fur hands and a bowl of soup. This was a god who saw to it that his own son had his hands and feet nailed onto pieces of wood. God, for me, was not in the details. I still set store by the big Judeo-Christian messages. Who can argue with the Ten Commandments? Don't kill anybody: don't mess around with other people's spouses: be nice to your mom and dad. Fine advice. It was the minutiae that nagged me.

If you tell people you’re writing a book about the Beatles, at first they smile and ask, “Another one? What’s left to say?” So I mention “Baby’s in Black,” or “It’s All Too Much,” or Lil Wayne’s version of “Help” or the Kendrick Lamar battle rhyme where he says “blessings to Paul McCartney,” or Hollywood Bowl, or Rock ’n’ Roll Music, or the Beastie Boys’ “I’m Down”—but I rarely get that far, because they’re already jumping in with their favorite overlooked Beatle song, the artifact nobody else prizes properly, the nuances nobody else notices. Within thirty seconds they’re assigning me a new chapter I must write. And telling me a story to go with it. Every few days, I get into a Beatles argument I’ve never had before, while continuing other arguments that have been raging since my childhood. And though I’ve spent my whole life devouring every scrap of information about them, I’m constantly learning. I guarantee the day this book comes out, I will find out something new. Things like that used to pain me. But that’s what it means to love the Beatles—you never run out of surprises.

[J.Ivy:] We are all here for a reason on a particular path You don't need a curriculum to know that you are part of the math Cats think I'm delirious, but I'm so damn serious That's why I expose my soul to the globe, the world I'm trying to make it better for these little boys and girls I'm not just another individual, my spirit is a part of this That's why I get spiritual, but I get my hymns from Him So it's not me, it's He that's lyrical I'm not a miracle, I'm a heaven-sent instrument My rhythmatic regimen navigates melodic notes for your soul and your mental That's why I'm instrumental Vibrations is what I'm into Yeah, I need my loot by rent day But that is not what gives me the heart of Kunte Kinte I'm tryina give us "us free" like Cinque I can't stop, that's why I'm hot Determination, dedication, motivation I'm talking to you, my many inspirations When I say I can't, let you or self down If I were of the highest cliff, on the highest riff And you slipped off the side and clinched on to your life in my grip I would never, ever let you down And when these words are found Let it been known that God's penmanship has been signed with a language called love That's why my breath is felt by the deaf And why my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind I, too, dream in color and in rhyme So I guess I'm one of a kind in a full house Cuz whenever I open my heart, my soul, or my mouth A touch of God reigns out [Chorus] [Jay-Z (Kanye West)] Who else you know been hot this long, (Oh Ya, you know we ain't finished) Started from nothing but he got this strong, (The ROC is in the building) Built the ROC from a pebble, pedalled rock before I met you, Pedalled bikes, got my nephews pedal bikes because they special, Let you tell that man I'm falling, Well somebody must've caught him, Cause every fourth quarter, I like to Mike Jordan 'em, Number one albums, what I got like four of dem, More of dem on the way, The Eight Wonder on the way, Clear the way, I'm here to stay, Y'all can save the chitter chat, this and that, this and Jay, Dissin' Jay 'ill get you mased, When I start spitting them lyrics, niggas get very religious, Six Hail Maries, please Father forgive us, Young, the Archbishop, the Pope John Paul of y'all niggas, The way y'all all follow Jigga, Hov's a living legend and I tell you why, Everybody wanna be Hov and Hov still alive.

The question is,” said Edmund, “whether it doesn’t make things worse, looking at a Narnian ship when you can’t get there.” “Even looking is better than nothing,” said Lucy. “And she is such a very Narnian ship.” “Still playing your old game?” said Eustace Clarence, who had been listening outside the door and now came grinning into the room. Last year, when he had been staying with the Pevensies, he had managed to hear them all talking of Narnia and he loved teasing them about it. He thought of course that they were making it all up; and as he was far too stupid to make anything up himself, he did not approve of that. “You’re not wanted here,” said Edmund curtly. “I’m trying to think of a limerick,” said Eustace. “Something like this: “Some kids who played games about Narnia Got gradually balmier and balmier--” “Well Narnia and balmier don’t rhyme, to begin with,” said Lucy. “It’s an assonance,” said Eustace. “Don’t ask him what an assy-thingummy is,” said Edmund. “He’s only longing to be asked. Say nothing and perhaps he’ll go away.” Most boys, on meeting a reception like this, would either have cleared out or flared up. Eustace did neither. He just hung about grinning, and presently began talking again. “Do you like that picture?” he asked. “For heaven’s sake don’t let him get started about Art and all that,” said Edmund hurriedly, but Lucy, who was very truthful, had already said, “Yes, I do. I like it very much.” “It’s a rotten picture,” said Eustace. “You won’t see it if you step outside,” said Edmund.

Ah yes, the people concerned. That is very important. You remember, perhaps, who they were?’ Depleach considered. ‘Let me see-it’s a long time ago. There were only five people who were really in it, so to speak-I’m not counting the servants-a couple of faithful old things, scared-looking creatures-they didn’t know anything about anything. No one could suspect them.’ ‘There are five people, you say. Tell me about them.’ ‘Well, there was Philip Blake. He was Crale’s greatest friend-had known him all his life. He was staying in the house at the time.He’s alive. I see him now and again on the links. Lives at St George’s Hill. Stockbroker. Plays the markets and gets away with it. Successful man, running to fat a bit.’ ‘Yes. And who next?’ ‘Then there was Blake’s elder brother. Country squire-stay at home sort of chap.’ A jingle ran through Poirot’s head. He repressed it. He mustnot always be thinking of nursery rhymes. It seemed an obsession with him lately. And yet the jingle persisted. ‘This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home…’ He murmured: ‘He stayed at home-yes?’ ‘He’s the fellow I was telling you about-messed about with drugs-and herbs-bit of a chemist. His hobby. What was his name now? Literary sort of name-I’ve got it. Meredith. Meredith Blake. Don’t know whether he’s alive or not.’ ‘And who next?’ ‘Next? Well, there’s the cause of all the trouble. The girl in the case. Elsa Greer.’ ‘This little pig ate roast beef,’ murmured Poirot. Depleach stared at him. ‘They’ve fed her meat all right,’ he said. ‘She’s been a go-getter. She’s had three husbands since then. In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please. And every time she makes a change, it’s for the better. Lady Dittisham-that’s who she is now. Open anyTatler and you’re sure to find her.’ ‘And the other two?’ ‘There was the governess woman. I don’t remember her name. Nice capable woman. Thompson-Jones-something like that. And there was the child. Caroline Crale’s half-sister. She must have been about fifteen. She’s made rather a name for herself. Digs up things and goes trekking to the back of beyond. Warren-that’s her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarming young woman nowadays. I met her the other day.’ ‘She is not, then, the little pig who cried Wee Wee Wee…?’ Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly. He said drily: ‘She’s had something to cry Wee-Wee about in her life! She’s disfigured, you know. Got a bad scar down one side of her face. She-Oh well, you’ll hear all about it, I dare say.’ Poirot stood up. He said: ‘I thank you. You have been very kind. If Mrs Crale didnot kill her husband-’ Depleach interrupted him: ‘But she did, old boy, she did. Take my word for it.’ Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption. ‘Then it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so.’ ‘One of themcould have done it, I suppose,’ said Depleach, doubtfully. ‘But I don’t see why any of themshould. No reason at all! In fact, I’m quite sure none of themdid do it. Do get this bee out of your bonnet, old boy!’ But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.

The Unknown Soldier A tale to tell in bloody rhyme, A story to last ’til the dawn of end’s time. Of a loving boy who left dear home, To bear his countries burdens; her honor to sow. –A common boy, I say, who left kith and kin, To battle der Kaiser and all that was therein. The Arsenal of Democracy was his kind, –To make the world safe–was their call and chime. Trained he thus in the far army camps, Drilled he often in the march and stamp. Laughed he did with new found friends, Lived they together for the noble end. Greyish mottled images clipp’ed and hack´ed– Black and white broke drum Ʀ…ɧ..λ..t…ʮ..m..ȿ —marching armies off to ’ttack. Images scratched, chopped, theatrical exaggerate, Confetti parades, shouts of high praise To where hell would sup and partake with all bon hope as the transport do them take Faded icons board the ship– To steel them away collaged together –joined in spirit and hip. Timeworn humanity of once what was To broker peace in eagles and doves. Mortal clay in the earth but to grapple and smite As warbirds ironed soar in heaven’s light. All called all forward to divinities’ kept date, Heroes all–all aces and fates. Paris–Used to sing and play at some cards, A common Joe everybody knew from own heart. He could have been called ‘the kid’ by the ‘old man,’ But a common private now taking orders to stand. Receiving letters from his shy sweet one, Read them over and over until they faded to none. Trained like hell with his Commander-in-Arms, –To avoid the dangers of a most bloody harm. Aye, this boy was mortal, true enough said, He could be one of thousands alive but now surely dead. How he sang and cried and ate the gruel of rations, And grumbled as soldiers do at war’s great contagions. Out–out to the battle this young did go, To become a man; the world to show. (An ocean away his mother cried so– To return her boy safe as far as the heavens go). Lay he down in trenched hole, With balls bursting overhead upon the knoll. Listened hardnfast to the “Sarge” bearing the news, —“We’re going over soon—” was all he knew. The whistle blew; up and over they went, Charging the Hun, his life to be spent (“Avoid the gas boys that’ll blister yer arse!!”). Running through wires razored and deadened trees, Fell he into a gouge to find in shelter of need (They say he bayoneted one just as he–, face to face in War’s Dance of trialed humanity). A nameless sonnuvabitch shell then did untimely RiiiiiiiP the field asunder in burrrstzʑ–and he tripped. And on the field of battle’s blood did he die, Faceless in a puddle as blurrs of ghosting men shrieked as they were fleeing by–. Perished he alone in the no man’s land, Surrounded by an army of his brother’s teeming bands . . . And a world away a mother sighed, Listened to the rain and lay down and cried. . . . Today lays the grave somber and white, Guarded decades long in both the dark and the light. Silent sentinels watch o’er and with him do walk, Speak they neither; their duty talks. Lone, stark sentries perform the unsmiling task, –Guarding this one dead–at the nation’s bequest. Cared over day and night in both rain or sun, Present changing of the guard and their duty is done (The changing of the guard ’tis poetry motioned A Nation defining itself–telling of rifles twirl-clicking under the intensest of devotions). This poem–of The Unknown, taken thus, Is rend eternal by Divinity’s Iron Trust. How he, a common soldier, gained the estate Of bearing his countries glory unto his unknown fate. Here rests in honored glory a warrior known but to God, Now rests he in peace from the conflict path he trod. He is our friend, our family, brother, our mother’s son –belongs he to us all, For he has stood in our place–heeding God’s final call.

Allison Prouty, who raises her hand for everything, helped give out the scripts while Donatello told us what parts we each had. When she got to me, she said, “Rafe, I think you’d make a fine Paris,” and everyone in the room started laughing, right at me. “Paris?” I asked. “Why do I have to read a girl’s part?” “Paris is a boy,” Donatello told me. “He’s one of Lord Capulet’s best men.” “Yeah, well, he probably still wears tights,” I said, but Donatello ignored me. “Listen to the language as we read through,” she told everyone. “Notice how every line has ten syllables. Notice the subtle rhyming. That’s not easy to do. Nobody wrote like Shakespeare. Nobody!” And I thought—hmmmm. Idea in progress, please stand by. “Let’s begin,” Donatello said. “‘Act One, Scene One.’ ” It turned out that this Paris guy (he really was a guy) doesn’t come in until page 12. That was good. It gave me time to work on my idea. Donatello probably thought I was taking notes like Jeanne Galletta and the other brainiacs, but I was actually hot on the trail of those 30,000 points. Ten syllables per line? Check! Rhyming? Check! By the time we got to my part, there were only a couple

When I was a boy I felt that the roll of rhyme in poetry was to compel one to find the un-obvious- because of the necessity of finding a word which rhymes. This forces novel associations, and almost guarantees deviations from routine chains or trains of thought. It becomes, paradoxically, a sort of automatic mechanism of originality.

I didn’t want something old, something new, something borrowed, or something blue. I wanted something alive, something dead, something black, something red. I smiled at the little rhyme I had made up. I don’t know when I had become so morbid, but in a way, a wedding was like a little death, wasn’t it?

Ode to Charlie THE DOG OF A LIFETIME We got a pup named Charlie One year at Christmastime. He changed our lives completely So I’ll share this dog rhyme. His ears were long and dangly, His legs were short and fat, His naps were almost constant, ’Cept when he chased the cat. I dressed him up in outfits, In dresses, shirts, and jeans, In boots and leather loafers-- The dapp’rest pup I’d seen! He started working cattle With Ladd and all the crew. He thought this was his purpose. Oh, if he only knew! That he was just a Bassett And bred for not so much. But Charlie rose above it And learned that cowdog touch. But man, that short dog syndrome… He thought he was in charge And ruled the other doggies His bravado, always large! But deep down, all he wanted Were tummy rubs all day And sausage, ham, and burgers And bacon, I would say. He snored just like an engine, His breath was not so great, His ears were always crusty From hanging in his plate. But Charlie Boy was perfect And loyal through and through. He knew what we were thinking, He sensed what we would do. We thought he’d live forever But cancer came and stayed, Then left with our dear Charles And left us all dismayed. And yet, we feel so lucky He got to be our friend. We have a million memories Right up until the end. We loved you, Charlie, you were the best We never will forget you And the very second we get to Heaven… We’re coming straight to get you!

moment. You taught me that rhyme. How does it go? One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. Five’s for silver, six for gold... And

Chang had turned to a young student next to him to point out a spry elderly woman lost under the spell of tai-chi, when the boy’s chest exploded and he dropped to the ground. The People’s Liberation Army soldiers had begun firing on the crowd in Tiananmen Square. The tanks came through a moment later, driving the people in front of them, crushing many beneath the treads (the famous televised image of the student stopping the tank with a flower was the rare exception that terrible night). Chang could never watch tai-chi without thinking of that moment, which solidified his stance as an outspoken dissident and changed his life – and that of his father and family – forever.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, ten for a bird that’s best to miss.

The last poem of the first group, beginning `O thou, my lovely boy', is not a strict sonnet, being a series of six rhyming pentameter couplets, as if the sonnet were entirely made up of conclusions.

Poetry - It's a Tough Life! It does not suit a man to settle for less than he can be, anymore that it fits a lowly flies to stay but writhing maggots. So quit your bullshit day jobs, unfetter the shackles of mediocrity! Arise stock boys, Abercrombie P/T Asst. Managers and F/T faggots. Take up the quill, assume the countenance of the all-know-it poet. Fill this besotted world with your rhymes, unveiled wisdom, your wit. You need neither high skool equivalency diploma nor baccalaureate ~ Us poets at Hello Poetry just wants to get the skinny on all ya’ shit. Move back to your mom’s basement, even her garret will do. Order in pizza and Chinese, pump up the volume, and get crackin! Load Call Of Duty on your PlayStation, be disciplined, follow through. Blaze some 420, smell the roses, text your friends ~ livin' ain’t slackin'! We invite adversity, woe and want ~ indeed, a poet’s life is hard, But nothing beats chillin’ at home all day, just playin’ the fucking bard.

Sissy boys were described by the Ancients as “God's gift to humankind.” For “us,” the sissification process is natural, coming from a boy's inner soul and manifesting itself in his mannerisms, personality and character. It is definitely not a lifestyle choice, as some believe, which can be avoided or reversed. Many sissy boys are known for their intuitive, sensitive and creative spirits. More often than not, they are open and liberal in their outlook on life, and accepting of others who also do not conform to society’s norm. Sissy boys are certainly not weak; rather, we are strong, resilient individuals who are unafraid to stand out in a crowd. We have demure, soft-spoken and genteel voices. Yet, our souls are giants, waiting to burst forth with valuable contributions to the world. It is a sissy boy's birthright to dance, rejoice and sing his own song, set to his own music. The Ancients consider these unique souls as special beings, capable of guiding the populace's return to divinity. There is no special rhyme or reason to this sissification phenomenon. It just is. I'm privileged and proud to be a sissified boy!

1968 From Tollywood to Bollywood   The name “Bollywood” was inspired by “Tollywood,” which referred to the cinema of West Bengal. Dating back to 1932, “Tollywood” was the earliest Hollywood-inspired name. It refers to the Bengali film industry based in Tollygunge, Calcutta. This was the center of Indian movie industry at the time, and the chance juxtaposition of two pairs of rhyming syllables - Holly and Tolly - led to the portmanteau “Tollywood.

From here he could see the farmer's daughter in the yard, feeding the geese. Wasn't there a nursery rhyme in there somewhere? No, he was thinking of the farmer's wife, wasn't he?--cutting off tails with a carving knife. A horrid image. Poor mice, he had thought when he was a boy. Still thought the same now that he was a man. Nursery rhymes were brutal affairs.

How We Define Ourselves Maybe some of you are like me. Raised in a Christian home, I often felt defined by the things that I didn’t do. To not smoke, not drink, not swear, not chew, and not go with boys who do (such a helpful little rhyme) was how I defined myself for the most part. But what would it look like if we parented a generation of young people to define themselves by what they did do? What if they were defined by their actions of justice and mercy, forgiveness and love, strength and courage, generosity and humility and faithfulness? What if they were a generation who lived in the world and still proclaimed these things by their very lives?

It is deeply satisfying to a boy's heart to hack at logs.

A childish rhyme of my infancy came back into my mind - the rhyme of the ten little soldier boys. It had fascinated me as a child of two - the inexorable diminishment - the sense of inevitability. I began, secretly, to collect victims....

I don't let boys make me cry I write rhymes and fucking fly Been to Hell- check out my wrists Came back King- check out my Mist -from 'Came Back KIng

You do what you think is best, Jim,” Mason said in a taut voice, “but I don’t think we have time for any more searches. There’s a lot of territory out there. We’ve got to get after that boy and get after him fast.” But it was Lincoln Rhyme who responded. Eyes on the map, at Location G-10, Blackwater Landing, the last place anyone had seen Lydia Johansson alive, he said, “We don’t have enough time to move fast.

In her eye , he saw a menacing glint. He unhooked his rope and began to sprint.

But when I landed in college, I noticed what looked like a gleaming. A goofy, doofy, curly-haired man with broad shoulders brushed by me in the hallway one day. He smelled like cinnamon. He had teddy-brown eyes and performed in the college’s improv group. He was the best one by far, made big gestures, made jokes from a place of kindness and whimsy, pulled ripples of laughter out of this cold, hard world. I used to sit in the audience and marvel. He seemed like an impossibility. It took years. Years of slowly befriending him through mutual friends. Years of calling into his late-night, freestyle-rap radio show, daring my tongue to try… to rhyme on the fly! I even joined the improv group. And eventually, one night I told him how I felt and instead of flinching away, as I had assumed he would, as the boys in the hallway had made it seem that he would, he kissed me. After graduating college, we moved in together, to a small one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with a red Formica table and a great front stoop. I finagled my way into a job helping produce a radio program all about science and wonder. He was continuing with comedy—stand-up and improv and writing—and working as a yellow-cab driver to support himself. We stayed up late into the night, sipping beers on the stoop, talking about our days, turning awkward moments and missteps into jokes. I felt like I had found the thing I had thought could never exist. Refuge. It smelled like cinnamon and its walls were made of bad puns and cheap rhymes, piling higher and higher against the chill of the world. My head became full of visions for the future. The TV shows we would write, the tree houses we would build, the way the grass would curl between our toes as we chased our kids through the yard. Until, seven years into it, I toppled the whole thing. Late one night on a beach five hundred miles away from him, possessed by moonlight and red wine and the smell of a bonfire, I reached out for the bouncing blond girl I had been trying not to eye all night. She was wet from swimming; she was prickled in goose bumps, hundreds of goose bumps, that I wanted to press flat with my tongue. She smiled as I placed my hand on her waist, as I touched my lips to her neck. The stars wrapped around us. Her steam became mine. When I told the curly-haired man what I had done, he told me it was over.

THE PEOPLE OF ICE PLANET BARBARIANS As of the end of BARBARIAN’S TOUCH (suggested pronunciations in parenthesis) AT THE MAIN TRIBAL CAVE CAVE 1 Vektal (Vehk-tall) - The chief of the sa-khui. Mated to Georgie. Georgie – Human woman (and unofficial leader of the human females). Has taken on a dual-leadership role with her mate. Talie (Tah-lee) – Their baby daughter. CAVE 2 Maylak (May-lack) – Tribe Healer. Mated to Kashrem and currently pregnant with child. Kashrem (Cash-rehm) - Her mate, also a leather-worker. Esha (Esh-uh) – Their young daughter. CAVE 3 Sevvah (Sev-uh) – Tribe elder, mother to Aehako, Rokan, and Sessah Oshen (Aw-shen) – Tribe elder, her mate Sessah (Ses-uh) - Their youngest son CAVE 4 Warrek (War-ehk) – Tribal hunter. Eklan (Ehk-lan) – His father. Elder. CAVE 5 Ereven (Air-uh-ven) Hunter, mated to Claire Claire – mated to Ereven, currently pregnant CAVE 6 Liz – Raahosh’s mate and huntress. Currently pregnant for a second time. Raahosh (Rah-hosh) – Her mate. A hunter and brother to Rukh. Raashel (Rah-shel) – Their daughter. CAVE 7 Stacy – Mated to Pashov. Mother to Pacy, a baby boy. Pashov (Pah-showv) – son of Kemli and Borran, brother to Farli and Salukh. Mate of Stacy, father to Pacy. Pacy – Their infant son. CAVE 8 Nora – Mate to Dagesh, mother to twins Anna and Elsa. Dagesh (Dah-zzhesh) (the g sound is swallowed) – Her mate. A hunter. Anna & Elsa – Their infant twin daughters. CAVE 9 Harlow – Mate to Rukh. ‘Mechanic’ to the Elders’ Cave. Spends 75% of her time there with her family. Rukh (Rookh) – Former exile and loner. Original name Maarukh. (Mah-rookh). Brother to Raahosh. Mate to Harlow. Rukhar (Roo-car) – Their infant son. CAVE 10 Megan – Mate to Cashol. Mother to newborn Holvek. Cashol – (Cash-awl) – Mate to Megan. Hunter. Father to newborn Holvek. Holvek – (Haul-vehk) – Wee blue baby boy! CAVE 11 Marlene (Mar-lenn) – Human mate to Zennek. Has unnamed child. French. Zennek – (Zehn-eck) – Mate to Marlene. Has unnamed child. CAVE 12 Ariana – Human female. Mate to Zolaya. Mother to Analay. Zolaya (Zoh-lay-uh) – Hunter and mate to Ariana. Father to Analay. Analay – (Ah-nuh-lay) – Their infant son. CAVE 13 Tiffany – Human female. Mated to Salukh and newly pregnant. Salukh - Salukh (Sah-luke) – Hunter. Son of Kemli and Borran, brother to Farli and Pashov. CAVE 14 Aehako – (Eye-ha-koh) – Acting leader of the South cave. Mate to Kira, father to Kae. Son of Sevvah and Oshen, brother to Rokan and Sessah. Kira – Human woman, mate to Aehako, mother of Kae. Was the first to be abducted by aliens and wore an ear-translator for a long time. Kae (Ki –rhymes with ‘fly’) – Their newborn daughter. CAVE 15 Kemli – (Kemm-lee) Female elder, mother to Salukh, Pashov and Farli Borran – (Bore-awn) Her mate, elder Farli – (Far-lee) Their teenage daughter. Her brothers are Salukh and Pashov. She has a pet dvisti named Chahm-pee (Chompy). CAVE 16 Drayan (Dry-ann) – Elder. Drenol (Dree-nowl) – Elder. CAVE 17 Vadren (Vaw-dren) – Elder. Vaza (Vaw-zhuh) – Widower and elder. Loves to creep on the ladies. CAVE 18 Asha (Ah-shuh) – Separated from Hemalo. No living child. Maddie – Lila’s sister. Found in second crash. CAVE 19 Bek – (BEHK) – Hunter. Hassen (Hass-en) – Hunter. Harrec (Hair-ek) – Hunter. Taushen (Tow –rhymes with cow- shen) – Hunter. Hemalo (Hee-mah-lo) – Separated from Asha. CAVE 20 Josie – Human woman. Mated to Haeden and newly pregnant. Haeden (Hi-den) – Hunter. Previously resonated to Zalah but she died (along with his khui) in the khui-sickness before resonance could be completed. Now mated to Josie. CAVE 21 (formerly a storage cave) Rokan (Row-can) – Oldest son to Sevvah and Oshen. Brother to Aehako and Sessah. Adult male hunter. Now mated to Lila. Has ‘sixth’ sense. Lila – Maddie’s sister. Hearing impaired. Resonated to Rokan.

Dan Dilco- Liv calls him her ‘Dildo’ because he became her new sex toy over the weekend and for now… instead of that. She gives him that pet name, there have been a lot of pet names, that is how we all keep track of them all too. She has one of those also like most of us girls, nevertheless, she’s more cover than me, in not hiding it in a Pringles can. Anyway, this one came about because it rhymes with his last name. I guess she thinks that’s cute. He’s the last one on the list to pick up today, I’m sure next week or maybe tomorrow for all I know it will be someone new, but as for now, he’s the one that is all horned-up for her as she is for him. It won’t last… I think she randomly started making out with him at the bonfire, they have hooked up at least ten times, senses Friday. I don’t think Liv knows what she wants. I think she is too Bi or Bi-curious or something to choose. It seems after they become a dating couple it ends as fast as it starts. I don’t think she’s that hard to get along with, high maintenance maybe, but she’s a sweet girl overall, with a loving and trusting person. Liv already asked me to go out with her… Um- I like her, yet not in that way. I have been there, done that kind of a thing, I have kissed her, yet I never thought about it going anywhere. I don’t want to end a good friendship. Plus, I only want the forbidden boy named Ray!

Down by the Docks, scraping fiddles go in the public-houses all day long, and, shrill above their din and all the din, rises the screeching of innumerable parrots brought from foreign parts, who appear to be very much astonished by what they find on these native shores of ours.  Possibly the parrots don’t know, possibly they do, that Down by the Docks is the road to the Pacific Ocean, with its lovely islands, where the savage girls plait flowers, and the savage boys carve cocoa-nut shells, and the grim blind idols muse in their shady groves to exactly the same purpose as the priests and chiefs.  And possibly the parrots don’t know, possibly they do, that the noble savage is a wearisome impostor wherever he is, and has five hundred thousand volumes of indifferent rhyme, and no reason, to answer for.

In tribunal, Mother held a funeral. Fake condolers spread, A debate they held For here I was, Behind bars, Her heart I took stealthily, And she… Fell for me, Unwillingly. Silence! the judge said to audience: Mother, defense, Reporters, radio agents, The girl's father; the wronged. Plead your case, judge says, to the father, my prosecutor, to guillotine, pushing me closer. "This boy is but a thief, Stealing a heart from my daughter. His poetry starting a war within her, Between his charm and care For her and another, Between his eloquence and fear, And how much closer she went. On love she came to reflect. And his way a choice she sent: Love not the rhyme, but me… repent. Or let poetry be enough, throw away my love. Of quitting poetry, he reported then betrayed her heart and stole it. Now without him she is With her love he lives And caused his madness her death This, your honor is the case. I now demand Justice, And the guillotine." "Silence! Defense." This boy, your honor, A poet and a sweet-talker, Both things, inevitable and meritless. He, I say, shall be sold To the unemployed, And those who of hope are void, Or to radio agents To break him apart And be, for entertainment, sold in a gallery of yearning and joining, specially or renouncement and criticism, alternately, or love unescapable. Money, it shall yield, a compensation to the girl and her lost heart that is now ancient." "Silence! The Mother." "Your honor, If him you must kill, Include me in the will. Let the pond of his blood Water the crops Let its source be my heart and his unpublished poems and the starved bellies and the nibs of birds the branch inhabitants That should be rather the middle Between his memory and the kill Rather fearless Not a hunger filled injustice" The father, "I object, It is all of him I want A compensation for my daughter and her heart" The defense, "Rather to pieces be fractioned, Between the ill, the unemployed and the runaway; Divided." A humming noise, In his honor's chest, In my rhymes, Rather… in the entire court. "Silence!", he said. He a man who is free His heart telling him to revolt The only power he's got Is but a plea to God To be by the revolution killed not And by karma hit not. What I now see fit, Is for him to be executed, by what to his nature is opposite. Deny him the pen And the flag Tell him every detail of the girl and her lost heart No way to reach her will be allowed he This is my decree Allowed not his poetry Is but death to the free To be by his words suffocated To love stealthily "All Rise!" "Case dismissed." Oh, la la la Oh, la la la

In the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme, there is no indication that he is an egg. Early illustrations portrayed him as a young boy.

Boys and girls come out to play...'" "'The moon doth shine as bright as day!'" Rapunzel finished. She thought of the bright, cold winter full moon that cast a light so strong that windows in her tower lit up like magic, and instead of sunbeams, blue moonbeams traced the floor. She would run to the tower window.... Leave your supper and leave your sleep... ... and the whole world would be white and blue, as bright as daytime, but with a glowing, magical scrim. Rapunzel had felt like she could dive into it, fly over the whole world in its strange state. And join your playfellows in the street. Her hair began to glow.

Having experienced multiple deaths in her family, she offered a formula for eulogizing departed loved ones, pointing out that tears were the easier to elicit the more unexpected and violent the demise. “It will be best if he went away suddenly, being killed, drowned, or froze to death.” The address in such a case ought to include a litany of melancholy expressions such as “dreadful, deadly, cruel cold death, unhappy fate, weeping eyes.” An experienced speaker would wring the maximal lachrymation from an audience, but in a pinch anyone could deliver the doleful sentiments. “Put them into the empty skull of some young Harvard (but in case you have ne’er a one at hand, you may use your own).” Rhymes were nice: “power, flower; quiver, shiver; grieve us, leave us.” A concluding flourish was the mark of a really distinguished graveside encomium. “If you can procure a scrap of Latin to put at the end, it will garnish it mightily.” Had they come from the pen of a mature writer, the Dogood letters would deserve to be considered a delightful example of social satire. Coming as they did from the pen of a mere youth, they reveal emerging genius. Some of what Franklin wrote he might have experienced indirectly; some he extrapolated from his reading; much he must simply have imagined. But the tone is uniformly confident and true to the character he created. Silence is irreverent and full of herself, yet she brings most readers—the proud and powerful excepted—into the realm of her sympathy. They laugh when she laughs, and laugh at whom she laughs at. She is one of the more memorable minor characters of American literature, and all the more memorable for being the creation of a sixteen-year-old boy.

MARYBOROUGH MINER" "Come all you sons of liberty and listen to my song, I'll tell you my observations and it won't take very long, I've fossicked around this continent, five hundred miles or more, And many's the time I might have starved, but for the cheek I bore. I've been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat, I've long-tommed on the Lachlan, and I've fossicked Lambing Flat, So you can understand, my boys, just from this little rhyme, I'm a Maryborough miner, and I'm one of the good old time. I came to the Fitzroy River, all with my Bendigo rig, I had a shovel, a pick and a pan, and for a licence I begged, But the assay-man called me a loafer, said for work I'd no desire, And so, to do him justice, boys, I set his office on fire. Oh yes, my jolly jokers, I've done it on the cross, Although I carry my bluey now, I've sweated many a horse, I've helped to rob the escort of many an ounce of gold, And the traps have been upon my tail more tiroes than I ever told. Oh yes, the traps have trailed me and been frightened out of their stripes, They never could have caught me, for they feared my cure for gripes, And well they knew I carried it, for they had often seen it, Glistening in my flipper, chaps, my 'patent pill machine'. I'm one of the men who cradled on the reef at Tarrangower, Anxiety and misery my grim companions there, I puddled the clay at Bendigo, and chanced my arm at Kew, And I wound up my avocation with ten years on Cockatoo. So you can understand, my boys, just from this little rhyme, I'm a Maryborough miner, and I'm one of the good old time.