Monday, August 14, 2006


[Just read it. Loved it. Wanted to share]

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
The lover’s in the garden
The battle’s in the sky.
The banker’s in the city
Getting of his gold;
Oh isn’t it a pity
The rye can’t be sold.

The queen is drinking sherry
And dancing to a band;
A crowd may well feel merry
That it does not understand.

The banker turns his gold about
But that won’t sell the rye,
Starve and grow cold without,
And ask the reason why
The guns are in the garden,
And the battle’s in the sky.

- Julian Bell
[Poetry of the Thirties, edited by Robin Skelton.]


goatman said...

I'd heard the first two lines before somewhere but didn't know the rest of the poem. Quite nice.
Found the following recently:

"Man is kind enough when he's not excited by religion, but once the holy holies have got a grip on him he's capable of almost anything. When a disciple from the wildcat religious asylum comes marching forth, get under the bed. It doesn't matter whether he's a Christian, Hindu, Jew, or Muslim. If he's made up his mind that you need reforming, he will do it with anything handy -- an ax, eight hundred years of witch burning or, if necessary, he will blow you up."

by Mark Twain (raised 90 miles from where I sit)


Shakia said...

nice poem, beshi kichu ar bolte parbo na... as sleep has come over me.

Weatherman said...

Glad u guys liked it.

Great quote goatman!