Linux Songs Poems

Come, muse, let us sing of rats!
                -- From a poem by James Grainger, 1721-1767

Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse
That no compunctious visiting of nature
Shake my fell purpose, not keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall the in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry `Hold, hold!'
                -- Lady MacBeth

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Confusion will be my epitaph
as I walk a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh
but I fear that tomorrow we'll be crying.
                -- King Crimson, "In the Court of the Crimson King"

Death comes on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower;
Each season has its own disease,
Its peril -- every hour.
        --Reginald Heber

        Deck us all with Boston Charlie,
        Walla Walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo!
        Nora's freezin' on the trolley,
        Swaller dollar cauliflower, alleygaroo!

        Don't we know archaic barrel,
        Lullaby Lilla Boy, Louisville Lou.
        Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
        Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!
                -- Pogo, "Deck Us All With Boston Charlie" [Walt Kelly]

Declared guilty... of displaying feelings of an almost human nature.
                -- Pink Floyd, "The Wall"

Despising machines to a man,
The Luddites joined up with the Klan,
        And ride out by night
        In a sheeting of white
To lynch all the robots they can.
                -- C. M. and G. A. Maxson

Didja' ever have to make up your mind,
Pick up on one and leave the other behind,
It's not often easy, and it's not often kind,
Didja' ever have to make up your mind?
                -- Lovin' Spoonful

Disillusioned words like bullets bark,
As human gods aim for their mark,
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored christs that glow in the dark.
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred.
                -- Bob Dylan