Le printemps est à nos portes!

Slainte, Mrs. McGrath

Bon restant de St-Patrick aux ivrognes qui sont pas encore couchés!


"Mrs McGrath," the sergeant said,
"Would you like a soldier out of your son Ted?
With a scarlet coat and a big cocked hat
Mrs McGrath will you like that?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Now Mrs McGrath lived on the shore
And after seven years or more
She spied a ship come into the bay
With her son from far away

"O captain dear, where have ye been?
You been sailing the Mediterranean
Have you news of my son Ted
Is he living or is he dead?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Then came Ted without any legs
And in their place two wooden pegs
She kissed him a dozen times or two
And said, "my God, Ted, is it you?

Now were ye drunk or were ye blind
When ye left your two fine legs behind?
Or was it walking upon the sea
That wore your two fine legs away?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

"Now I wasn't drunk and I wasn't blind
When I left my two fine legs behind
A cannonball on the fifth of May
Tore my two fine legs away"

"My, Teddy boy," the widow cried
"Your two fine legs were yer mother's pride
Stumps of a tree won't do at all
Why didn't ye run from the cannonball?"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

"All foreign wars I do proclaim
Live on blood and a mother's pain
I'd rather have my son as he used to be
Than the King of America and his whole Navy"

With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
With your too-ri-aa fol-ded-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa
Too-ri-aa fol-did-dle-di-aa too-ri-oo-ri-oo-ri-aa

Hey!

20e anniversaire du décès de Charles Bukowski

Je suis probablement dans le champ, mais j'ai cru remarquer que de nos jours, le top du top, l'ultime accomplissement pour quelqu'un de moindrement créatif, c'est d'aboutir chez Sid Lee pour créer des annonces de souliers de courses, de sent-bon ou de vodka cheap.
Je sais ben que ça paye les comptes, pis je sais ben que je suis probablement juste jaloux, mais, calisse, c'est tout? L'accomplissement ultime du créatif, c'est de vendre plus de papier cul que le concurrent?
Ou faire élire le moins pire candidat de la gang?
Oui, vraiment, quelle époque formidable.

Il y a 20 ans mourrait Charles Bukowski, à voir l'état des choses, je suis pas convaincu que ça lui tenterait de revenir si on lui donnait la chance entre reboire un dernier Bordeaux ou continuer de se faire manger le cul par les asticots.


“I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.” 

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.” 
― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye

Pour que les femmes aient plus qu'une journée, un de ces jours

if we lived in a world withought tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

If we lived in a world without tears
How would heartbeats
Know when to stop
How owuld blood know
Which body to flow outside of
How would bullets find the guns

If we lived in a wold without tears
How would misery know
Which back door to walk through
How would trouble know
Which mind to live inside of
How would sorrow find a home

If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones