I never heard of ponte preta - is this that game were the Afghans ride horses and bash a goat's head...like at Ibrox?

Na - big Mohsni's fae Tunisia...

Moshni is from fudland

I SEE THINGS THAT OTHERS CANT SEE
OTHERS SEE THINGS THAT I CANT SEE
THATS WHY MY SELF AND OTHERS CANT AGREE

do wah diddy 2014

That's a good 'un, Do Wah.

Im sure you remember the comp winner vel, 'The Prisoner and the Lover?' you paid me in hard lay @ 1.01 cash!
Under your Polish name...anyway, I have always enjoyed The bells, by E A P. which has also been set to music by Phil Ochs.

*'you'll' !! I knew I'd ruin it!

One of my favourites from childhood.

FATHER WILLIAM by Lewis Carol

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "As I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "And your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

Lovely poem Tony Broke, written with feeling.
Chit Chat has talent.

Baise un poulet
dans Le Marais
de Paris, aujord'hui,
svp.

IF I WAS A FLY I WOULD RISE TO GREAT
HEIGHTS IN THE SKY
BUT BECAUSE IM ME
IM JUST A NUICENCE LIKE A FLEA

Non est sine litteris
Non est, non cogitatur imperium
Ludens in tenebris et non in elit
Suspendisse pellentesque nisi transmittetis
Hey! (sic) magister transmittetis pellentesque
Omnia in omnibus, in muro, ut ultricies nisl

The first poem I taught my eldest grand-daughter, when she was 5, with 'dance routine', three more grandchildren to teach it to, but not yet, they're 3 (boy) 2 (girl) and 7 months (boy)

(start skipping)  

Float like  a butterfly
(throw left jab)
sting like a bee
your hands can't hit
(hide head behind raised fists)
what your eyes can't see
(drop hands to side)
now you see me
(put hands back in front of face)
now you don't
George thinks he will
but I know he won't
(Raise both arms in air in victory).
I am the Greatest.

The Unanswered Question.

By Kevin Shadley-Johnson.

Fred Quiverly was a billionaire when he
Contacted the town council of Hettersley.
"I want to do a MASSIVE project, linking
North and South Hettersly," said Fred.

The project was budgeted at 680 million
Euros and aimed to increase tourism in
Hettersley : "I will build a Giant Strider"
Said Fred and sure enough, by the year's
End, the Giant Strider was built, in the
Desolate gap between the two Hettersleys,
North and South, bang, bang, bang, bang.

"Wait a minute," said Fred, "Let me take
You there, to the Giant Strider that will
Forever link the lonely gap betweeeeen
North and South Hettersley! It's optional!"

5.4 billion Euros was the final price to be
Paid for the Giant Strider, a great plarkotex
Figure that walked the long road between
North and South while the cars sped between
Its legs for free due to the generosity of Fred.

Yet there were malcontents who complained, after
Five years had elapsed, "What is the point of the Giant
Strider? Ok, Fred Quiverly built the fookin' thing, but we
Have to pay the prohibitive maintenance costs and
Tourism has dropped away somethin' chronic...
Why didn't Quiverly pay for hospitals & schools instead?"

Are you sure it wasn't a Charlie Chaplin film? Or a Pete 'n' Dud sketch?

Velasquez - it was definitely a poem.

Can I have Fifty pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my Uppers.
I can pay you back
When I get this postal order from Australia
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewen?

Don't think it was W H Davis, velasquez.

I think the poem I'm looking for was a bit too whimsical?

It's driving me mad now!

Valentine by John Fuller

The things about you I appreciate
may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
and chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power
and see your eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
and other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
to chase you screaming up a tower
or make you cower
by asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like successfully to guess your weight
and win you at a fete.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders
falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders
marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
the neat arrangement of your teeth
(half above and half beneath)
in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk
I like the way your elbows work,
on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
and certain things we might exchange,
something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount
and give some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you hold a teacup.
I like your legs when you unwind them,
even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
and had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide
into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride
of Frankenstein
or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.
How melodramatic
if you were something muttering in attics
like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
to call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
and see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference
and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
the final name in your appointment book,
your future tense.

Zammo