Hot Coffee, Warm Smiles

We walked along many London streets;
We stopped at a pub for something to eat.
We walked around for miles and miles;
We saw a sign: ‘hot coffee, warm smiles.'

I stopped to listen to a brass band play:
My friend didn't realise and walked away.
It was in Oxford Street, that I lost my friend,
But we were happily reunited in the end.

Dark chocolate with chilli, by me, was savoured;
I bought a festive latte: gingerbread flavoured.
At festive shop windows, we stopped and stared;
We lost ourselves in the middle of Mayfair.

At the Christmas lights, we both loved to look;
I bought myself some Christmas themed books.
We battled our way through the dense crowds;
The noise from the traffic was extremely loud.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Ode (From The French)

I.
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk­
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion­
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyère--
With that of him whose honour'd grave
Contains the 'bravest of the brave.
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder­
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,

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poem by Byron
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OBL (osama bin laden) the hunt

the hunt for Osama is narrowing down
in Afghanistan he will be found.
he is running out of places in which to hide
on that my friend it is no lie.

he will be captured or killed you see
and will go down miserably.
he has no place in which to go
but time is moving very slow.

people like him can not survive
for he is running out of time
just like Hussein in Iraq
who was sold out when he turned his back.

he will meet his fate like in waterloo
that is what he has to look forward to.
they say a million dollar bounty was put on his head
and that is something he does dread.

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poem by Louis Rams
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The General Elliott

He fell in victory's fierce pursuit,
Holed through and through with shot,
A sabre sweep had hacked him deep
Twixt neck and shoulderknot....

The potman cannot well recall,
The ostler never knew,
Whether his day was Malplaquet,
The Boyne or Waterloo.

But there he hangs for tavern sign,
With foolish bold regard
For cock and hen and loitering men
And wagons down the yard.

Raised high above the hayseed world
He smokes his painted pipe,
And now surveys the orchard ways,
The damsons clustering ripe.

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poem by Robert Graves
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100 days as Medical College Dean (B)

And Lo! I am now here
Seated in the Dean’s chair,
Breathing unpolluted air;
Trying to be quite fair.

Sending occasional glare;
Sometimes, I am a hare;
But that happens quite rare;
There no time to stare.

There’s time not to nails pare;
There isn’t time for patients’ care;
I work for everyone’s welfare;
I use not lift but stair.

There is so much to do;
There are many to woo;
Expecting my Waterloo,
I work hard and pray too.

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poem by John Celes
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Come To Baby, Do

(james, miller)
I took a choo-choo-choo-choo fast as I could take a choo-choo,
Ive come a long-long-long-long way to take you in my arms.
And now its your first move to prove that youve been true,
Come to baby, do.
Ive been away-way-way-way-way beyond the blue horizon,
I hope that no-no-no-no-no one else is on your mind.
So pucker up, my sweet, and meet your waterloo,
Come to baby, do.
Stop me from guessing,
Taint no time to tease.
Stop all your messin,
And put your beggin baby at ease.
I wanna love-love-love you just the way I wanna love you,
Im gonna try-try-try to try to make you understand.
When all is said and done, the one for me is you.
Come to baby, do.
~interlude~
Come to baby, do.
Ive come a long, long way to kiss ya

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song performed by Nat King Cole
Added by Lucian Velea
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Visit to the Train Station.

You and Fay got off the bus
and walked towards Waterloo train station

and you said
I often come here

just to see and smell
and hear the steam trains

and she looked about her
at the sights and sounds

and smell of steam off the trains
at the platforms

and she said
I haven't been here

since my parents took us
to the seaside once

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poem by Terry Collett
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AUGUST THE 7th

In our cacoon
Of solitude
And a promising future
Came a BEAST
Some say from the east
Its origin
And mission
Was cloudy like mist
No one could visualize
But its effect
Will forever be in our minds
August the 7th
Was our waterloo
But we can’t overlook
What it taught us
Cause in the defeat
We came up victorious
We rose from our sleep
And turned vigilant
For

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poem by Paul Oguda
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Yet more Ogdenashicals. just for fun

Ermintrude the echidna
lost her diamond tiara.
Her husband trying to be kind
softly whispered never mind
It never suited your behind.

Coromandel crocodile
whilst swimming in the River Nile
Yawned and swallowed a canoe.
his mother cried this will not do
You make me so ashamed of you.

Caroline the kinkajou
liked a glass of wine or two
Which made her act indecently
so that very frequently
She was confined for her own safety.

Sebastian a young male skunk
was a most aggressive drunk.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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London

My visits to London always bring me cheer;
I wish it were possible to bottle the atmosphere.
I would collect together all the sights and sounds,
And surround myself with them, when I’m down.

A trip to London always seems to lift my mood;
By good old London town, I’m easily wooed.
There is always something new and exciting,
Which is why, to me, London seems so inviting.

I may begin a day feeling just a little bit down,
But once in London, a smile replaces my frown.
It’s one of my very favourite places to be;
There’s always so much to do and to see.

I think that London is such an amazing place;
It can suit all your needs, whatever your pace.
In central London, people are always in a rush,
But in the gardens and parks, can be found, hush.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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View from A Bridge

Outside the Festival Hall, folk are sitting around,
Beneath parasols of red, yellow, orange, and brown.
Waterloo Bridge is all choked up with red buses.
Beneath my feet, a yellow speedboat now rushes.

Across the bridge, youngsters scoot and skate.
I see some buskers: catchy music, they create.
Atop Somerset House, I can see the huge clock.
By the pier, I can see tourist boats ready to dock.

A row of flags flutters in the soft, summer breeze.
The river down below is lined with rustling trees.
With bright banners, the Festival Hall is adorned.
In the distance, I see the iconic dome of St Paul's.

Down on the Embankment, cars are nose to tail:
Their crawling pace is like that of a garden snail.
An ambulance rushes by, using its blues and twos.
On the pier below, for boat trips, there are queues.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Henry Bartle Edward Frere

Bend down and read-the birth, the death, the name.
Born in the year that Waterloo was won,
And died in this, whose days are not yet run,
But which, because a year conceived in shame,
No noble need will christen or will claim.
And yet this dead man, England, was Thy son,
And at his grave we ask what had he done,
Bred to be famous, to be foiled of Fame.
Be the reply his epitaph: That he,
In years as youth, the unyielding spirit bore
He got from Thee, but Thou hast got no more;
And that it is a bane and bar to be
A child of Thine, now the adventurous sea
All vainly beckons to a shrinking shore.

Therefore, great soul, within your marble bed
Sleep sound, nor hear the useless tears we weep.
Why should you wake, when England is asleep,
Or care to live, since England now is dead?
Forbidden are the steeps where Glory led;

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poem by Alfred Austin
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The Macaroni Necklace

Lynzie Anne Mc Kenzie was a very creative girl,
She made a macaroni necklace for her teacher Mrs. Pearl.
'It's the dumbest gift I've seen! ' Laughed little Tony Maloney,
'Nobody wants a necklace made from macaroni! '
'Stupider than Jupiter' said Tony with a smirk.
But Lynzie just ignored him cause she knew he was a jerk.
Oh Mrs. Pearl just loved it and she wore it every day,
Then she bought a matching bracelet and earrings in late May.
Soon people came from miles around to buy what Lynzie made,
'A fashion craze invented by a girl in the first grade! '
She sold three to Oprah and after the show was done,
She sold one to Madonna to wear on VH1.
She sold a broach to The Queen and a pendant to Vanna White,
Who wore it as she waved and smiled on TV every night.
From Timbuktu to Waterloo from what I understand...
Folks bought oodles of her noodles, her work was in DEMAND!
Featured on the shopping channel they sold out the first day.
Lynzie Mc Kenzie started a frenzy; what else can I say?
'Stupider than Jupiter, ' Tony's words were dumb and reckless,
But Lynzie had the last laugh with her macaroni necklace!

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poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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It's Going to Be a Good Day

There's plenty of blue sky,
And the sun is shining bright.
Hurray! hurray! hurray!
It's going to be a good day!

I'm sat on a speeding train
And I'm London bound again.
I'm going to sing with my choir.
Of this train journey, I never tire.

I love the constantly changing view.
To see, there is always something new.
The train hurtles towards Waterloo Station,
Passing amidst a still sleepy nation.

For a while, together we will croon,
And finish our show an hour after noon.
After that, I'll go for a steady trot.
I love walking the South Bank, when it's hot.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Rockets Tail

That november night, looking up into the sky,
You said,
Hey, wish that was me up there--
Its the biggest rocket I could find,
And its holding the night in its arms
If only for a moment.
I cant see the look in its eyes,
But Im sure it must be laughing.
But it seemed to me the saddest thing Id ever seen,
And I thought you were crazy, wishing such a thing.
I saw only a stick on fire,
Alone on its journey
Home to the quickening ground,
With no one there to catch it.
I put on my pointed hat
And my black and silver suit,
And I check my gunpowder pack
And I strap the stick on my back.
And, dressed as a rocket on waterloo bridge--
Nobody seems to see me.

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song performed by Kate Bush
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sir William Gomm: Sonnets

I.
AT threescore years and five aroused anew
To rule in India, forth a soldier went
On whose bright-fronted youth fierce war had spent
Its iron stress of storm, till glory grew
Full as the red sun waned on Waterloo.
Landing, he met the word from England sent
Which bade him yield up rule: and he, content,
Resigned it, as a mightier warrior’s due;
And wrote as one rejoicing to record
That ‘from the first’ his royal heart was lord
Of its own pride or pain; that thought was none
Therein save this, that in her perilous strait
England, whose womb brings forth her sons so great,
Should choose to serve her first her mightiest son.

II.

Glory beyond all flight of warlike fame
Go with the warrior’s memory who preferred

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Ma Lady's Lips Am Like De Honey

(Negro Love Song)

Breeze a-sighin' and a-blowin',
Southern summer night.
Stars a-gleamin' and a-glowin',
Moon jes shinin' right.

Strollin', like all lovers do,
Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;
Honey on her lips to waste;
'Speck I'm gwine to steal a taste.

Oh, ma lady's lips am like de honey,
Ma lady's lips am like de rose;
An' I'm jes like de little bee a-buzzin'
'Round de flower wha' de nectah grows.

Ma lady's lips dey smile so temptin',
Ma lady's teeth so white dey shine,
Oh, ma lady's lips so tantalizin',

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poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Stiff Upper Lip

What made good queen bess
Such a great success?
What made wellington
Do what he did at waterloo?
What makes every englishman
A fighter through and through?
It isnt roast beef, or ale, or home, or mother
Its just a little thing they sing to one another
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
Carry on, old fluff
Chin up, keep muddling through
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When the goings rough
Pip pip to old man trouble
And a toodly-oo too
Carry on through thick and thin
If you feel youre in the right
Does the fighting spirit win?
Quite, quite, quite, quite, quite
Stiff upper lip, stout fella

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song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
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The Train To Waterloo

I can see the 10.06 train heading towards Waterloo,
And, I wish I could jump aboard, and go there too!
I have a real longing to head on up to London City,
But I have to go to work today, which is a real pity.

In spirit, I’m also riding with the people on the train,
But, here, in this sleepy old town, my body remains.
I can imagine myself sitting there in a train carriage;
With London, I have formed a really loving marriage!

To be one of those lucky passengers, I am yearning;
So much so, that it feels as though my heart is burning.
I can imagine sitting on a train, which is really packed,
As it heads up towards London, along the railway tracks.

I’ve lived here, all my life, in this sleepy little town,
Where there is hardly ever anything really going down.
But, in London, there is always something going on,
Amidst the Capital’s seemingly never-ending throng.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Janice and You and Shared Love.

Janice met you
as you walked
across the bombsite
from the New Kent Road

to Meadow Row
you watched
as she trod
carefully over

bricks and stones
some half buried
under the settled
earth and mixed brick

her hands held out
like some tight-rope walker
and she saw you
and smiled

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poem by Terry Collett
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