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Epitaph In The Form Of A Ballade by Francois Villon

Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be;For if some pity of us poor men ye give, The sooner God shall take of you pity.

Here are we five or six strung up, you see,And here the flesh that all too well we fedBit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,

And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;Let no man laugh at us discomforted,But pray to God that he forgive us all.If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,

Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though weWere slain by law; ye know that all alive

Have not wit always to walk righteously; Make therefore intercession heartily With him that ofa virgin's womb was bred,

That his grace be not as a dr-y well-head For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; We aredead, let no man harry or vex us dead,But pray to God that he forgive us all.

The rain has washed and laundered us all five,And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and riveHave dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee Our beards and eyebrows; never we are free,

Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, Driven at its wild will by the wind's change led,More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,

But pray to God that he forgive us all.Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;

We have nought to do in such a master's hall.

Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,But pray to God that he forgive us all. Algernon Charles Swinburne, trans.

Body to Body[Riddle]By Sunny Ange

Roses are red nuts are brown

Skirts go up pants go down

Body to body; Skin to skin

When its stiff stick it in

It goes in dry and comes out wet

The longer its in, the stronger it gets

It comes out dripping and starts to sagBut its not what you think its a used tetleys tea bag

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Mortal Side By Emily Dickonsons

SHE died,this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simplewardrobe,And started for the sun.Her little figure at the gate,The angels must have

spied,Since I could never find her,Upon the mortal side.

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To A Mouse by Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest with the PloughWee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

O what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin':And naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin'Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste

An' weary winter comin' fast,An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribbleAn' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy laneIn proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

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Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But, oh! I backward cast my e'eOn prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!