Favorite poem

[GodsEmbryo]

The Conundrum of the Workshops
By: Rudyard Kipling

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our ****** Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and
they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art ?"

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an ***** tongue.

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the ***** is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry ***** and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much - as our ****** Adam knew!

 

[Petra]

I never saw a purple cow
I never want to see one
I can tell you anyhow
I rather see one than be one

 

[Vanilla Bear]

I never saw a purple cow
I never want to see one
I can tell you anyhow
I rather see one than be one

Here you go
http://www.egghof.com/weblog/Milka-Kuh.gif

 

[Thomas O'Malley]

Probably not to understand for the most of you but very nice as well

Vriend by Toon Hermans

je hebt iemand nodig
stil en oprecht
die als het erop aan komt
voor je bidt of voor je vecht
pas als je iemand hebt
die met je lacht en met je grient
dan pas kun je zeggen:
'k heb een vriend

als je iemand hebt
die alles met je deelt
de tafel en het bed
één die nooit verveelt
als je iemand hebt
die al je zorgen heelt
weet je wat dat zeggen wil
weet je wat dat scheelt?

je hebt iemand nodig
stil en oprecht
die als het erop aan komt
voor je bidt of voor je vecht
pas als je iemand hebt
die met je lacht en met je grient
dan pas kun je zeggen:
'k heb een vriend

pas als je iemand hebt
die met je lacht en met je grient
dan pas mag je zeggen:
ik heb 'n vriend


I'd really love to translate it in English, but translating poems is not done, and all the magic would be gone.

 

[Ace Boobtoucher]

There once was a woman from China
who had an extremely large vagina.
When she was dead, they painted it red
and used it to dock ocean liners.

 

[siffert]

I knew a lady in Amsterdam
She stuffed her cunt up full of clam
She was a very stupid fucking Dutch bitch

She had lobsters up the arse
She was fucking working class
She - was - a ..... Dutch bitch

 

[siffert]

IF.....

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can ***** - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can ***** your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my ***!