Saturday, October 6, 2012

To a Young Ass

To a Young Ass
its mother being tethered near it


Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Poor little foal of an oppress├Ęd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes"?
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot --
Chained to a log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green! Poor Ass! they master should have learnt to show
Pity -- best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to say, "And have I then one friend?"
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee Brother -- spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!
--1794

Monday, October 1, 2012

Mobile

IN MOBILE
Oh, the eagles they fly high in Mobile, in Mobile,
Oh, the eagles they fly high in Mobile,
Oh, the eagles they fly high,
And they shit right in your eye,
It’s a good thing cows don't fly in Mobile.

Chorus
In Mobile, in Mobile,
In-mo, in-mo, in-mo, in-Mobile,
[Repeat Verse]

Oh, the vicar is a bugger in Mobile...
And the curate is another,
And they bugger one another in Mobile.

Oh, there's a brand new lighthouse in Mobile...
Which the birds use for a shit-house,
Now the lighthouse is a white-house in Mobile.

There's a man by the name of Hunt in Mobile...
Who thought he had a cunt,
But his balls were back to front in Mobile.

There's a man by the name of West in Mobile...
Who thought he had a breast,
But is balls were on his chest in Mobile.

Oh, the girls they wear tin undies in Mobile...
And they take them off on Sundays,
You should see the boys on Mondays in Mobile.

There's a shortage of good whores in Mobile...
But there are keyholes in the doors,
And there are knotholes in the floors in Mobile.
Oh, the parson is perverted in Mobile...
And his morals are inverted,
There's a thousand he's converted in Mobile.

There's a bastard named Mercator in Mobile...
Who's the greatest masturbator,
Fornicator, cunt-inflator in Mobile.