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ProfilePosted byOptionsPost Date


Cooper Report 29 Oct 2012 16:32

My Sons favourite from a very young age.

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the Trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

Spike Milligan :-D


Dermot Report 29 Oct 2012 14:09

I was born & raised in Ireland where the air is fresh & clean,
In the village of Dureen near the town of Skibereen.

I always had the best of food & never liked the pan.
I grew up healthily & could cycle with any man.

Oh weren’t they the happy days when I was young & free.
I could dance & sing & have a drink wherever I might be.

Kathleen O’Houlihan was the girl I used to date.
But, because of unemployment, I was forced to emigrate.

It was back in 1960 that I left my childhood home
Determined to achieve success & make it on my own.

I stared work with Wimpey far from home & family
And made new friends & some enemies too across the Irish sea.

Oh well I can remember the day of my first pay.
I joined a jolly bunch of chaps down at the Travellers’ Way.

We drank some pints of Guinness but I’ll always have regrets
Because before I left that tavern, I bought some cigarettes.

For more than 40 years now, I’ve smoked 20 fags a day
Which means I’ve sent up in smoke an awful lot of pay.

I haven’t had a breakfast now for 20 years or so;
Cup of tea, light a fag & off to work I go.

The people whom I’m staying with look after all my needs;
And when I come home each evening, they put up some mighty feeds.

They really shouldn’t bother for my taste buds have disappeared;
And bacon, beef or mutton chops - they all taste kinda weird.

I met a young lad recently - he came from Donegal;
He’s a qualified accountant & thinks he knows it all.

He asked me how many fags I smoke & when I started;
I didn’t take much notice for I was trying to kill my thirst.

He took out his calculator & began to add it up;
T’wasn’t that I asked him - cheeky little pup.

And when he had finished, he looked at me and spoke;
“You have £67k pounds all gone up in smoke”.

Now, £67k is an awful lot of dough;
And to spend it on a poisoned weed is hard to take I know.

I used to think that all my friends would surely be impressed;
But now I think of all that muck I’ve inhaled into my chest.

I can never stop coughing - I even cough all night;
My eyes are kinda watery & my face is deadly white.

My memory has started failing & it’s often I forget;
Oh, what the hell about it - I’ll have another cigarette.

Sometimes I sit & dream awhile when I’m all alone;
About the days when I was young & weighing 13 stones.

I was then in peak condition for cycling was my thing;
And I hoped one day to emulate Stephen Roche or Christy Ring.

Oh God be with those happy days & things that might have been;
Had I the chance to stay at home & work in Skibereen.

Still, it isn’t emigration that’s caused my main regrets;
It’s that day in 1960 when I bought those cigarettes.

I’m lying in intensive care with my body wrecked with pain;
Oh what I would give to see my Irish home again.

In my mind, I have a vision of the fields of new moan hay;
And I see the sun ascending way beyond old Bantry Bay.

The doctor’s been to see me & his face was rather grim;
And the Matron asked me yesterday to name my next of kin.

If only I could breathe again the air I can’t forget;
I swear to God I’d never smoke another cigarette.

Rambling Rose

Rambling Rose Report 29 Oct 2012 12:46

This makes me cry ( so I'm posting it without reading lol).....

To a Bull-Dog by John Collings Squire

We shan't see Willy any more, Mamie,
He won't be coming any more:
He came back once and again and again,
But he won't get leave any more.

We looked from the window and there was his cab,
And we ran downstairs like a streak,
And he said, 'Hullo, you bad dog,' and you crouched to the floor,
Paralysed to hear him speak.

And then let fly at his face and his chest
Till I had to hold you down,
While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat,
And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.

We went upstairs to the studio,
The three of us, just as of old,
And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
As round the room he strolled.

Here in the room where, years ago
Before the old life stopped,
He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe,
He would pick up the threads he'd dropped,

Fondling all the drawings he had left behind,
Glad to find them all still the same,
And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings
. . . Every time he came.

But now I know what a dog doesn't know,
Though you'll thrust your head on my knee,
And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness
That you find so dull in me.

And all your life, you will never know
What I wouldn't tell you even if I could,
That the last time we waved him away
Willy went for good.

But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug
Sleeping in the warmth of the stove,
Even through your muddled old canine brain
Shapes from the past may rove.

You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream,
How we brought home a silly little pup,
With a big square head and little crooked legs
That could scarcely bear him up,

But your tail will tap at the memory
Of a man whose friend you were,
Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog
When he found you in his chair;

Who'd make you face a reproving finger
And solemnly lecture you
Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish:
And you'll dream of your triumphs too,

Of summer evening chases in the garden
When you dodged us all about with a bone:
We were three boys, and you were the cleverest,
But now we're two alone.

When summer comes again,
And the long sunsets fade,
We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two
That since the war we've played.

And though you run expectant as you always do
To the uniforms we meet,
You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers
In even the longest street,

Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought,
Even now were the old words said,
If I tried the old trick and said, 'Where's Willy?'
You would quiver and lift your head,

And your brown eyes would look to ask if I was serious
And wait for the word to spring.
Sleep undisturbed: I shan't say that again,
You innocent old thing.

I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa,
While you lie asleep on the floor;
For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of,
And he won't be coming here any more.

note (W.H.S., Capt. (Acting Major) R.F.A.; killed April 12, 1917)


Claddagh Report 29 Oct 2012 12:17

This poem has always stuck in my mind.

Does it Matter? by Siegfried Sassoon

Does it matter?-losing your legs?
For people will always be kind.
And you need not show that you mind
when others come in after hunting,
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter?-losing your sight?
There's such splended work for the blind
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?-those dreams from the pit?
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad,
For they'll know you fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.


Gins Report 29 Oct 2012 10:49

Aww Sue, thats lovely and sad at the same time


SueMaid Report 29 Oct 2012 09:13

A very moving poem with Remembrance Day in mind.


The soldier stood and faced God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my Church have you been true?

The soldier squared his shoulders
And said, "No Lord I guess I ain't
Because those of us who carry guns
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough,
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep.
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here,
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand,
I never expected or had too much;
But if you don't I'll understand".

There was silence around the throne
Where the saints had often trod
As the soldier waited quietly
For the judgement of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in hell.



SueMaid Report 29 Oct 2012 09:00

Here is one that is sadly all too true in our busy lives.

Around the Corner

Around the corner I have a friend

In this great city that has no end

Yet the days go by and weeks rush on

And before I know it a year has gone

And I never see my old friends face

For life is a swift and terrible race

He knows I like him just as well

As in the days when I rang his bell

And he rang mine but we were younger then

And now we are busy,tired men

Tired of playing a foolish game

Tired of trying to make a name

'Tomorrow' I say ' I will call on Jim

Just to show I 'm thinking of him'

But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes

And distance between us grows and grows

Around the corner, yet miles away

'Here is telegram sir' Jim died today

And that's what we get and deserve in the end

Around the corner a vanished friend.


AnninGlos Report 29 Oct 2012 08:12

I have so many but one of my favourites:

Listen to the Warm
By Rod McKuen

I live alone.
It hasn't always been that way.
It's nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you're still alive.

I'm not sure what it means.
Why we cannot shake the old loves from out minds.
It must be that we build on memory
and make them more that what they were.
And is the manufacture
just a safe device for closing up the wall?

I do remember.
The only fuzzy circumstance
is something where-and how.
Why, I know.
It happens just because we need
to want and to be wanted too,
when love is here or gone
to lie down in the darkness
and listen to the warm.


RolloTheRed Report 29 Oct 2012 07:49

One of my modern favorites

"Mercedes Benz"

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV ?
Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me.
I wait for delivery each day until three,
So oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV ?

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town ?
I'm counting on you, Lord, please don't let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round,
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town ?

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends,
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?

Janis Joplin


Gins Report 28 Oct 2012 09:02

They are lovely......they make you step back and think

I remember seeing that film Stephen and never knew where the poem came from


SueMaid Report 28 Oct 2012 08:34

A Robert Frost poem -

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


SueMaid Report 28 Oct 2012 08:31

I have to pick two - this one I love.

I Sit Beside the Fire

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.



Gins Report 28 Oct 2012 07:11

Neubie, Im no literary expert! You wont learn much from me, but here another I like, reminds me of todays generation!

I Want It Now

Gooses, geeses
I want my geese to lay gold eggs for easter
At least a hundred a day
And by the way

I want a feast
I want a bean feast
Cream buns and doughnuts
And fruitcake with no nuts
So good you could go nuts

No, now

I want a ball
I want a party
Pink macaroons
And a million balloons
And performing baboons and
Give it to me now

I want the world
I want the whole world
I want to lock it
All up in my pocket
It's my bar of chocolate
Give it to me now

I want today
I want tomorrow
I want to wear 'em
Like braids in my hair and
I don't want to share 'em

I want a party with roomfuls of laughter
Ten thousand tons of ice cream
And if I don't get the things I am after
I'm going to scream

I want the works
I want the whole works
Presents and prizes
And sweets and surprises
Of all shapes and sizes

And now

Don't care how, I want it now
Don't care how, I want it now

Roald Dahl


maggiewinchester Report 28 Oct 2012 01:34

Another wartime poem\;

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens likecoral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call is easing the Spring.

They call is easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have the naming of parts.

Henry Reed

Another favourite is by Spike Milligan:

She stood on the bridge at midnight
Her legs were all a quiver....
she gave a cough
her leg fell off.....
and floated down the river


Neubie Report 27 Oct 2012 21:08

can you give an example of what you like ?
I am trying to expand on the things I read and this would really help.


Gins Report 27 Oct 2012 20:58


I prefer modern many things have happened to inspire this


Neubie Report 27 Oct 2012 20:46

Gins .. I suffered all the Wordsworth and Keats poems at school , the only Poets I found interesting were Owen and William Blake..
Owen told the truth about war .. Blake was different , no daffodils and birds twittering. :-D


Gins Report 27 Oct 2012 20:40

Wilfred Owen....I'd forgot about him

Rollo, never heard that poem - thank you


Neubie Report 27 Oct 2012 20:23

Strange Meeting

IT seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through caverns which titanic wars had groined,
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in sleep or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile I knew that sullen hall.
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained,
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns whooped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours
Was my hope also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For of my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold:
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift, with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariots wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells.
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint
I would have poured my spirit without stint.
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark--for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried, but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now..."

Wilfred Owen
This stuck with me since O level English Lit years ago and for this to strike a chord with a 15 year old prima donna in the 1970's says it all.


RolloTheRed Report 27 Oct 2012 20:19

As remembrance day is soon I rather like this understated memory of a soldie by Robert Frost

A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.