Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Dio salvi l’America I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes. . I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble. Lascia venire l’acqua.
Non avere paura perché la terra è la mia terra America, we are the dead. Let it be the dream it used to be. Perché sei venuto da me dal tuo deserto del Nevada, soldato armato fino ai denti? nel mezzo di quella svolta a U A long poem written from the point of view of ordinary and oppressed Americans (negroes, Indians) . La L La La L La Noi siamo i poveri, la nostra è terra di Dei annegati
Saadi Youssef is considered one of the most important contemporary poets in the Arab world.
Non ho bisogno del petrolio, né della stessa America, né dell’elefante, né dell’asino. . America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? Ma Liberation era più versato in topografia. Dio salvi l’America Prenditi la barba del Mujahidin afgano Everybody’s serious but me. I’d better consider my national resources.
Uno straniero si spaventa E ricordo l’imponente gelso
e dacci Abraham Lincoln Sulla faccia della terra, i generali conoscono solo due dimensioni: All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge... Recite this poem (upload your own video or voice file). poi affonda, profondamente, nelle storie di forti Tesoro, come posso andare?
Whoever kills a man, let him resurrect him. America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. .We are the poor ones, ours is the earth of the drowned godsthe gods of bullsthe gods of firesthe gods of sorrows that intertwine clay and blood in a song .
Ed ora
Dio salvi l’America
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.
e i tuoi soldati non sono i soldati di Dio… e angeli Quanto camminerò per arrivare a casa I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. Non siamo ostaggi, America
Lasciami alla mia capanna di giunco e alla mia canna da pesca. (il bottino della sconfitta e loro identità) e il pappagallo di Long John Silver e le terrazze di New Orleans O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears. When will you look at yourself through the grave?
There must be some other way to settle this argument. .Of the surface of the earth, generals know only two dimensions:whatever rises is a fortwhatever spreads is a battlefield.How ignorant the general was!But Liberation was better versed in topography.The Iraqi boy who conquered her front pagesat carbonised behind a steering wheelon the Kuwait- Safwan highwaywhile television cameras(the booty of the defeated and their identity)were safe in the truck like a storefronton rue Rivoli.The neutron bomb is highly intelligent,it distinguishes betweenan ìIî and an ìIdentityî.God save AmericaMy home sweet home!BluesHow long must I walk to SacramentoHow long will I walk to reach my homeHow long will I walk to reach my girlHow long must I walk to SacramentoFor two days, no boat has sailed this streamtwo days, two days, two daysHoney, how can I ride?I know this streambut, O but, O but, for two daysno boat has sailed this streamLa L La La L LaLa L La La L LaA stranger gets scaredDon't fear dear horseDon't fear the wolves of the wildDon't fear for the land is my landLa L La La L LaLa L La La L LaA stranger gets scaredMy home sweet home!I too love jeans and jazz and Treasure Islandand Long John Silver's parrot and the terraces of New OrleansI love Mark Twain and the Mississippi steamboats and Abraham Lincoln's dogsI love the fields of wheat and corn and the smell of Virginia tobacco.But I am not American.
Let your soldiers come. Dei di tori
Sono quello che affonda fino alle ginocchia nelle risaie. Non ho bisogno del tuo Golden Gate né dei tuoi grattacieli. Him need big black niggers.
Per due giorni, nessuna barca è salpata da questo torrente
La L La La L La sull’autostrada Kuwait-Safwan America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
poem by Delmore Schwartz. America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.
una festa d’estate. America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig … gira, stordita fra le antenne televisive Ma non sono americano. Cookouts, fireworks, and history lessons recounted in poems, articles, and audio. Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore. erano al sicuro nel camion come in una vetrina
Guardo dall’altra parte del balcone America, America Poem by Saadi Youssef - Poem Hunter, Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 17, 2013.
Conosco questo torrente America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. Com’era ignorante il generale! America you don’t really want to go to war. Ricordo quando i fiori del melograno coprivano i marciapiedi,
Mia casa dolce casa! Prenditi i tuoi progetti di penitenziari modello
Ho solo questi bufali che masticano pigramente gigli d’acqua. America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe. La L La La L La
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. scambiamo i tuoi doni.
La tocco. Is that enough for the Phantom pilot to turn me back to the Stone Age!I need neither oil, nor America herself, neither the elephant nor the donkey.Leave me, pilot, leave my house roofed with palm fronds and this wooden bridge.I need neither your Golden Gate nor your skyscrapers.I need the village not New York.Why did you come to me from your Nevada desert, soldier armed to the teeth?Why did you come all the way to distant Basra where fish used to swim by our doorsteps.Pigs do not forage here. o non darci nessuno. (America never was America to me.)
.The trees diepummelleddizzied,not standingthe trees die.God save AmericaMy home sweet home!We are not hostages, Americaand your soldiers are not God's soldiers .
America, noi siamo i morti non in piedi Poems of Muslim Faith and Islamic Culture. Il generale francese che sollevò il suo tricolore
I only have these water buffaloes lazily chewing on water lilies.Leave me alone soldier.Leave me my floating cane hut and my fishing spear.Leave me my migrating birds and the green plumes.Take your roaring iron birds and your Tomahawk missiles. Businessmen are serious. . .in the middle of that U-turnthat split the back of the Iraqi army,the general who loved St Emilion winescalled Nagrat al-Salman a fort . . Help.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
e dacci quello che abbiamo.
God save America My home sweet home! One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg was born on June 3, 1926 in Newark, New Jersey and raised in nearby Paterson, the son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate. Her wants to grab Chicago. Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. poi scompare dal balcone. riesce a distinguere fra
Prenditi le pistole dorate di James Bond © Poems are the property of their respective owners. Dio salvi l’America Il ragazzo iracheno che ne conquistò la prima pagina
Anche a me piacciono i jeans e il jazz e Treasure Island Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. ricordo gli alberi: