Little Jack Horner,
Sat in a corner;
Eating an Apple Pie.
He put in his Thumb,
And pulled out a plum; and said,

What the ****'s a Plum;
Doing in an Apple Pie?
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner
with out a pie.
The reason being is
Because sugar is to high
Poor Lance Armstrong...always;
Taking the public's flack.
Five times he won;
The Tour-De-France,
While peddling along on Crack.

If I were him,
I'd tell them all,
To take a long hard hike.
For I remember well,
When I was on drugs;
I couldn't...Hell even,
Find My F***ing Bike.
I love it CF, ty for the smiles...

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
By Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Ding Dong Bell,
Pussy in the Well,
Who put him in?

I did...I hate cats.
Hickory Dickory Dock,
The Mouse ran up the Clock.
The Clock struck One; and,

The Mouse fell off.

Give a man a horse he can ride,
Give a man a boat he can sail;
And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke,
Give a man a book he can read;
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love,
As I, O my love, love thee;
And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,
At home, on land, on sea.

~James Thompson

I want to gather your darkness
in my hands, to cup it like water
and drink.
I want this in the same way
as I want to touch your cheek -
it is the same -
the way a moth will come
to the bedroom window in late September,
beating and beating its wings against cold glass;
the way a horse will lower
its long head to water, and drink,
and pause to lift its head and look,
and drink again,
taking everything in with the water,

~jane hirshfield

Your eyes drink of me,
Love makes them shine,
Your eyes that lean
So close to mine.

We have long been lovers,
We know the range
Of each others moods
And how they change;

But when we look
At each other so
Then we feel
How little we know;

The spirit eludes us,
Timid and free -
Can I ever know you
Or you know me?

~sara teasdale

I want to find your texture under water
in the darkest night, with my hands
open, like the blind who can move
on a current of breath and odor.
It's their strange luck to have this touch:
leaf to branch, water to shore,
hand to cheek. To know
the difference between tears and rain;
morning's dampness. In the black
pools, where the moon rests,
and rainbows rise
I want to lift you above the wetness
and watch stars spark over
your shoulders and feel the
brush of air as you take flight.

~stephen j. lyons
Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
— your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

Afterwards you had that drunk, drugged look
my daughter used to get, when she had let go
of my nipple, her mouth gone slack and her eyes
turned vague and filmy, as though behind them
the milk was rising up to fill her
whole head, that would loll on the small
white stalk of her neck so I would have to hold her
closer, amazed at the sheer power
of satiety, which was nothing like the needing
to be fed, the wild flailing and crying until she fastened
herself to me and made the seal tight
between us, and sucked, drawing the liquid down
and out of my body; no, this was the crowning
moment, this giving of herself, knowing
she could show me how helpless
she was—that’s what I saw, that night when you
pulled your mouth from mine and
leaned back against a chain-link fence,
in front of a burned-out church: a man
who was going to be that vulnerable,
that easy and impossible to hurt.

~Kim Addonizio
Good God, what a night that was,
The bed was so soft, and how we clung,
Burning together, lying this way and that,
Our uncontrollable passions
Flowing through our mouths.
If I could only die that way,
I'd say goodbye to the business of living.

~petronius arbiter
[translated from the Greek by
kenneth rexroth]

As I lie next to you
I am your violin
all smooth curves
waiting to be played upon

as you lie next to me
you are my bow
straight and thin
rigidly poised
in expectation

slowly you fine-tune my body
listening for the different sounds
our music makes
as your bow glides
over my body

at first tentatively
testing the chords
then gently
plucking at the strings

until the soft humming
becomes a duet
then a string ensemble
some brass joins in
finally the full orchestra
explodes in a symphony
of cymbals and drums

the applause is silent

~Natasha Josefowitz