Linux Songs Poems

To stand and be still,
At the Birkenhead drill,
Is a damned tough bullet to chew.
                -- Rudyard Kipling

To whom the mornings are like nights,
What must the midnights be!
                -- Emily Dickinson (on hacking?)

To write a sonnet you must ruthlessly
strip down your words to naked, willing flesh.
Then bind them to a metaphor or three,
and take by force a satisfying mesh.
Arrange them to your will, each foot in place.
You are the master here, and they the slaves.
Now whip them to maintain a constant pace
and rhythm as they stand in even staves.
A word that strikes no pleasure?  Cast it out!
What use are words that drive not to the heart?
A lazy phrase? Discard it, shrug off doubt,
and choose more docile words to take its part.
A well-trained sonnet lives to entertain,
by making love directly to the brain.

Tobacco is a filthy weed,
That from the devil does proceed;
It drains your purse, it burns your clothes,
And makes a chimney of your nose.
                -- B. Waterhouse

Too cool to calypso,
Too tough to tango,
Too weird to watusi
                -- The Only Ones

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
        Done by!  Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is youn?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin in graveyard.
        Caveyard!  Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard."

"My lad," said Troll, "this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
        Tinbone!  Thinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll
For he don't need his shinbone."

Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
        Rover!  Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bnone over!"
                -- J. R. R. Tolkien

Try not.
Do.
Or do not.
There is no try.

"Twas bergen and the eirie road
Did mahwah into patterson:              "Beware the Hopatcong, my son!
All jersey were the ocean groves,       The teeth that bite, the nails
And the red bank bayonne.                       that claw!
                                        Beware the bound brook bird, and shun
He took his belmar blade in hand:       The kearney communipaw."
Long time the folsom foe he sought
Till rested he by a bayway tree         And, as in nutley thought he stood,
And stood a while in thought.           The Hopatcong with eyes of flame,
                                        Came whippany through the englewood,
One, two, one, two, and through         And garfield as it came.
        and through
The belmar blade went hackensack!       "And hast thou slain the Hopatcong?
He left it dead and with it's head      Come to my arms, my perth amboy!
He went weehawken back.                 Hohokus day!  Soho!  Rahway!"
                                        He caldwell in his joy.
Did mahwah into patterson:
All jersey were the ocean groves,
And the red bank bayonne.
                -- Paul Kieffer

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.        "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
All mimsy were the borogroves           The jaws that bite, the claws
And the mome raths outgrabe.                    that catch!
                                        Beware the Jubjub bird,
He took his vorpal sword in hand        And shun the frumious Bandersnatch!"
Long time the manxome foe he sought.
So rested he by the tumtum tree         And as in uffish thought he stood
And stood awhile in thought.            The Jabberwock, with eyes aflame
                                        Came whuffling through the tulgey wood
One! Two! One! Two!  And through and    And burbled as it came!
        through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.    "Hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
He left it dead, and took its head,     Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
And went galumphing back.               Oh frabjous day!  Calooh!  Callay!"
                                        He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
                -- Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"

'Twas bullig, and the slithy brokers
Did buy and gamble in the craze         "Beware the Jabberstock, my son!
All rosy were the Dow Jones stokers     The cost that bites, the worth
By market's wrath unphased.                     that falls!
                                        Beware the Econ'mist's word, and shun
He took his forecast sword in hand:     The spurious Street o' Walls!"
Long time the Boesk'some foe he sought -
Sake's liquidity, so d'vested he,       And as in bearish thought he stood
And stood awhile in thought.            The Jabberstock, with clothes of tweed,
                                        Came waffling with the truth too good,
Chip Black! Chip Blue! And through      And yuppied great with greed!
        and through
The forecast blade went snicker-snack!  "And hast thou slain the Jabberstock?
It bit the dirt, and with its shirt,    Come to my firm,  V.P.ish  boy!
He went rebounding back.                O big bucks day! Moolah! Good Play!"
                                        He bought him a Mercedes Toy.
'Twas panic, and the slithy brokers
Did gyre and tumble in the Crash
All flimsy were the Dow Jones stokers
And mammon's wrath them bash!
                -- Peter Stucki, "Jabberstocky"