jay_a2j wrote:hey if any1 would like me to make them a signature or like an avator just let me no, my sig below i did, and i also did "panther 88" so i can do something like that for u if ud like...
There once was a woman who was quite begat.
She had three babies named Nat, Pat, and Tat.
She said it was fun in the breeding,
but found it was hell in the feeding when she saw there was never any tit for Tat.
Dancing Mustard will be sorely missed,
-and many CC folk are pissed.
Those ban-crazy mods
Are arrogant sods
Who believe that their arse should be kissed.
Nothing so grand as what was posted above, but a personal favorite:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more."
[page 144:]
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door; ——
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster — so, when Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —
That sad answer, "Nevermore!"
[page 145:]
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!
One of my favourites.
Byron wrote this in one evening, having been inspired to genius by the presnece of a lady (probably his cousin but they had a different slant on that sort of thing..)
It reminds me of the importance of the title; it lights the path for you to meet the poet on their journey.
She Walks In Beauty like the night
(a poem by Lord Byron)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
One day a small cat ate a rat,
the next day it grew fat!
It weighed several tons,
and was killed by the Huns,
in an air-raid in London while wearing a hat!
the chinese are quite nice;
though overfond of rice.
they are strangely demented
they're faces should be censored
and they are popular with lice
Admins & Mods are bitches;
They should be torched like witches!
And Clapper! it's so sad,
I say she should be banned!
Great topics!-closed for spam!
I say she should be skinned and her meat used for ham!
I also have theories;
to answer you queries,
that mods are ruthless!
and they are toothless!
and that pirates they be...
using their laptops at sea!
and Adimins! All Canadian! A conspiracy it be!
A conspiracy! you'll see!
and free Dancing Mustard!
he's like a blue busstard...
a small flightless bird!
a bird! you heard!
to round it all off.
I say Admins and Mods are poff!
and to conclude!
Admins & Mods are screwed
don't ban me
I'm a fan of Spike Millington- or, er-Spike Milligan
Milligamaniacs Unite!
Milligamaniac:MILL-i-GA-MAY-knee-ACK
a person entirely devoted to Spike Millington- or, er-Spike Milligan
Last edited by AceGeneral*** on Thu Jul 16, 2009 8:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A fantastic poem, and combined with Zacks voice the result is pure intensity. Listen to all of it, if you have the time. It's an 8 minute slow motion explosion.
go Spike Millington!- er, Spike Milligan! The famous spelling error
pies by me
wicky wacky wocky wicky wacky yoo
your eating all my pies! what am I to do?
if you were eating your pies, you wouldn't have to be killed,
so if you have a prayer, say it now! KA FOOHEY HILLED!
wicky wacky wocky wicky wacky yoo
The I.G at War by Lt. Tony Goldsmith, 1943 and I believe, never published, can be found in 'Rommel? 'Gunner Who?' by Spike Millington!- er, Spike Milligan!
I'm Captain Blenkinsop, I.G,
Sent by mistake across the sea,
To land upon this dismal shore
And find myself involved in war!
Sad is the tale I have to tell-
For a man like me this war is hell!
For how can anyone expect?
My fall of shot to prove correct,
When everything I telll the guns,
Is interfered with by the Huns?
When bombs are falling down in rows,
How can I make my traverse close?
Or take a bearing on the Pole,
While cowering in a muddy hole?
It's plain that the opposing forces,
haven't taken their proper courses,
But, worst of all, the other day,
When I was checking sommeones lay,
The Germans rushed the gun position,
Without the Commandants permission!
I had to meet them man to man,
Armed with only a Tetley fan.
O send me back to Salisbury Plain,
And never let me rove again!
Larkhill's the only place for me,
Where I could live at ease and free,
And frame, with sharpened pencil stroke,
A barrage of predicted smoke.
Worked out for sixteen different breezes,
With extra graphs, case it freezes,
For non-rigidity corrected,
And on Merton Grid projected!
O take me to the R.A mess,
To dwell in red brick happiness,
Enfold my body, leather chair,
And let me fight the war from there!
A Silly Poem by by Spike Millington!- er, Spike Milligan!
Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?
On the Ning Nan Nong by Spike Millington!- er, Spike Milligan!
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
