Sunday, September 20, 2015
The Dubliners - The Sick Note
! great story, i wish my patients would entertain me as much,
well, sometimes they do ...:-)
Dear sir I write this note to you to tell me of me plight,
And at the time of writing, I am not a pretty sight.
Me body is all black and blue, me face a deathly gray.
well, sometimes they do ...:-)
Dear sir I write this note to you to tell me of me plight,
And at the time of writing, I am not a pretty sight.
Me body is all black and blue, me face a deathly gray.
And I write this note to say, why Paddy's not at work today.
While working on the fourteenth floor some bricks I had to clear.
Now to throw them down from such a height, was not a good idea.
The foreman wasn't very pleased, he being an awkward sod.
He said I'd have to carry them down the ladders in me hod.
Now, clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow.
So I hoisted up a barrel, and secured the rope below.
But in me haste to do the job, I was too blind to see;
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.
So when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead.
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead.
While I shot up like a rocket, to my dismay I found,
That halfway up, I met the bloody barrel coming down.
Well, the barrel broke my shoulders as to the ground it sped,
And when I reached the top, I banged the pulley with me head.
Well I clung on tight though numb and shock from this almighty blow,
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks fourteen floors below.
Now, when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor,
I then outweighed the barrel, and so started down once more.
Still clinging tightly to the rope, I sped towards the ground.
And I landed on the broken bricks that were all scattered 'round.
While I lay their groaning on the ground I thought I passed the worst,
When the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst.
Well a shower of bricks rained down on me - I hadn't got a hope.
As I lay there moaning on the ground: I let go of the bloody rope.
The barrel then being heavier it started down once more,
And landed right across me as I lay across the floor.
Well it broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say;
That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.
While working on the fourteenth floor some bricks I had to clear.
Now to throw them down from such a height, was not a good idea.
The foreman wasn't very pleased, he being an awkward sod.
He said I'd have to carry them down the ladders in me hod.
Now, clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow.
So I hoisted up a barrel, and secured the rope below.
But in me haste to do the job, I was too blind to see;
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me.
So when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead.
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead.
While I shot up like a rocket, to my dismay I found,
That halfway up, I met the bloody barrel coming down.
Well, the barrel broke my shoulders as to the ground it sped,
And when I reached the top, I banged the pulley with me head.
Well I clung on tight though numb and shock from this almighty blow,
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks fourteen floors below.
Now, when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor,
I then outweighed the barrel, and so started down once more.
Still clinging tightly to the rope, I sped towards the ground.
And I landed on the broken bricks that were all scattered 'round.
While I lay their groaning on the ground I thought I passed the worst,
When the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst.
Well a shower of bricks rained down on me - I hadn't got a hope.
As I lay there moaning on the ground: I let go of the bloody rope.
The barrel then being heavier it started down once more,
And landed right across me as I lay across the floor.
Well it broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say;
That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.
The Dubliners ,The Rebel, Padraig Pearse
I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
and though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine,
the dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors.
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains.
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed.
Tyrants... hypocrites... liars!
poem by: Padraig Pearse
Maraca & his Latin Jazz All Stars in Marciac: "Manteca"
bonjour, good with my coffeee, now i am awake..
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