Sagan
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:20 PM
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Statistics -- A poem for Armistice Day |
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Edited on Mon Nov-10-03 04:21 PM by Sagan
Statistics by Carl Sandburg NAPOLEON shifted, Restless in the old sarcophagus And murmured to a watchguard: “Who goes there?” “Twenty-one million men, Soldiers, armies, guns, Twenty-one million Afoot, horseback, In the air, Under the sea.” And Napoleon turned to his sleep: “It is not my world answering; It is some dreamer who knows not The world I marched in From Calais to Moscow.” And he slept on In the old sarcophagus While the aëroplanes Droned their motors Between Napoleon’s mausoleum And the cool night stars.
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WannaJumpMyScooter
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:22 PM
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1. Wow.. I have never seen that... what collection of Sandburg is |
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Edited on Mon Nov-10-03 04:22 PM by WannaJumpMyScooter
that from>?
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qwertyMike
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:30 PM
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I was bored on the 9th of Octover 1940 when, I believe, the Nasties were still booming us led by Madalf Heatlump (Who had only one). Anyway, they didn't get me. I attended to varicous schools in Liddypol. And still didn't pass-much to my Aunties supplies. As a memebr of the most publified Beatles me and (P, G, and R's) records might seem funnier to some of you than this book, but as far as I'm conceived this correction of short writty is the most wonderfoul larf I've ever ready.
God help and breed you all.
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qwertyMike
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:41 PM
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3. Masters of War - Halliburton |
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Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin' But build to destroy You play with my world Like it's your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain
You fasten the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion As young people's blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud
You've thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain't worth the blood That runs in your veins
How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I'm young You might say I'm unlearned But there's one thing I know Though I'm younger than you Even Jesus would never Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand o'er your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead
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qwertyMike
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:44 PM
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4. War - ya gotta love it |
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At 7.30am on Saturday 1st July 1916 the ‘flower of Britain’s youth’ rose from the trenches along an eighteen mile stretch of the Western Front in the final ‘push’ of the ‘war to end all wars’. They had flocked to the recruiting offices in their thousands, most eager to give ‘The Hun one on the nose’ before the war was over. For so many it would be their lives that would be over, and well before the end of the war in 1918. By the close of that fateful July day in 1916 nearly 60,000 British soldiers, each a son, a father, a loved one, lay dead and wounded, near a small unassuming river whose name would live in infamy - the River Somme.
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Lisa
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Mon Nov-10-03 04:48 PM
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5. The Parable of the Old Men and the Young |
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Wilfred Owen
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, And builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him, thy son. Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns, A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
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Wed Apr 24th 2024, 09:27 PM
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