To the friendly pub, for I'm dry,
And all I ask is my pint of beer
And a patch of bright blue sky.
I find the streets so tiring,
And the day drags on and on,
Down to the pub let us hurry,
And leave in a blaze of song.
The crab had not made the sound,
But instead was dead on the ground.
Why should he die? I asked,
May he not once sun-bask?
Shall he then roast fast?
But to and fro to the islands-o
Round and round we ever go.
I counted the sea-shore and found
The crab was still dead on the ground;
The sun was not always round.
Turn your eyes from their sullen, squat foms,
Lest the still, small sense they hypnotise
And stupefy, and twist eagerly, avidly
Around your eyebeam tenuous to blind,
Strangling the tender imagination, eyes
That see breathing rock moving kind.
Let them not occupy the tender love
And spend the zeal; do not look
At those slabs as life - an evil book
Devilprinted, prejudice vicious clear;
Never at the small evil print, Miranda,
Strain your tender eyesight, dear.
To curse the lamp that lit the gloom,
His all-pervading black words flowed Like blood -
"I hate this stubborn flame," Said he
- "There never will be room For both of us, and I alone am owed
The rule of this dull place."
He came And swore, and smashed the light,
Then slunk back proud into his night.
I see you, and again I do not see;
To me, my sweet, you are most dear,
Ail in my mind - concerns just me.
Not fair to listen and ignore,
Not fair to see, and quick forget,
But, have I never seen you,
That, sweet, I regret.
They walk this life too few
Who see what they regard,
Man loves only self;
And altruism is hard.
Its large golden humour they greatly admired,
Expansive they heard wisdom it breathed,
Its fine wise words ever pouring untired.
They reached for their matches, and sang to the Sun
That they all would soon he great as he,
So gaily their corduroy trousers they lit
And they burnt as they all snurgled merrily.
Hooray! They were all such great big suns,
All just fine debonair little tawdry suns;
Such suave little things, the poor fools tried
To light his gloom, but they all died
Because he was really the moon.
That the world is hell?
Where there are fools;
It is too easy
To hate the world of lies
And of hypocrisy;
The world was ever so.
So what
If they are stupid?
No good being a monk
If you have no god.
Of half-truths and words.
Words, words, words;
The world talks too much.
Strength in silence.
Silence in love.
Weak silly words
Upset the luxury
Of silent joy.
I searched for the frog who wore a long gown,
I chased all the doves who flew to the fray
And the world of tomorrow is with us today.
So take delight in simple joys.
I looked for the frog who was lost in the fog,
And asked all the cats for the way to the sea,
The elephants laughed, and stamped on the men,
And we must return to the jungle again.
Sing ho! for the life of the elephant bold,
Sing ho! for the life of the tiger,
For though we may laugh at the way we have lived,
We could not find anything finer.
That I may hear your charming voice;
Chant me a lay of warriors gone
And maids whose love still Iingers on.
You sang me once fair words of love
And I swore faith by Hevn above;
Speak now no words of love, I fear
Though they were sweet, they are too dear.
You sang me once harsh words of hate
And swore my doom by every fate;
Kiss me, my sweet, sweet, no words I hear,
For kiss is cheap, and so is beer.
You sing me now a sad, sad song,
Of how you loved me loved me, right and wrong;
I hear but hissing snakes around
Each syllable you sweetly sound.
I hear your voice again, my pet,
Your voice I never shall forget;
But now you're gone, I softly pray
That devils too may hear your lay.
Nothing but a lost tiger
Playing hockey by the sea;
Blow you, said he,
Life is what you make it.
And see the draonfly, still wet,
And glistening from chrysalis,
Spread its glimmering wings
Outside the children play happy,
And I do not care. The foolish sun burns
Through uninteresting panes, and I, I
Cannot even dislike the torrid day.
Quiet, alone, bored. Her pretty picture
On the wall turns dingy yellow for lack
Of looking. Indifferent
To all I sit, and stare; alone? Alone;
And I do not care.