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“You are writing a Gospel, A chapter each day, By deeds that you do, By words that you say. Men read what you write, Whether faithless or true; Say, what is the Gospel According to you?” Paul Gilbert Redmer Hoekstra

I’m through with cover-ups, I’m through with Rome, To think that I believed them all these years, From now on I’ll worship God at home And bid an end to all my childish fears, Fears I learned in school where we were crammed With all the shit the men in black prescribed, Anyone who questioned them was damned, They raised their poisoned cup and we imbibed. I’m through with cover-ups, I’m through with Rome, The thought police can’t reach me now I’m free, And though I love the art of spire and dome, The ritual and all it means to me, I’m through with cover-ups, I’m through with Rome, From now on I’ll worship God at home. Gabriel  Fitzmaurice The High Council by Wolfgang Lettl

A word like war, so small, So long unheard, unseen. Against it, words like love and hope Smash to smithereens. Dick Davis Salto livre, Johnson Barros 

At night we seek out ways To still the tired and wrestling mind. I turn to verse; sometimes prayers. Boulders to hide behind. Dick Davis 19.43 London,  Timo Arnall

A mathematician fell madly in love With a lady, young, handsome, and charming; By angles and ratios harmonic he strove Her curves and proportions all faultless to prove. As he scrawled hieroglyphics alarming. He measured with care, from the ends of a base, The arcs which her features subtended: Then he framed transcendental equations, to trace, The flowing outlines of her figure and face, And thought the result very splendid. He studied (since music has charms for the fair) The theory of fiddles and whistles, — Then composed, by acoustic equations, an air, Which, when ‘twas performed, made the lady’s long hair Stand on end, like a porcupine’s bristles. The lady loved dancing: — he therefore applied, To the polka and waltz, an equation; But when to rotate on his axis he tried, His centre of gravity swayed to one side, And he fell, by the earth’s gravitation. No doubts of the fate of his suit made him pause, For he proved, to his own satisfaction, That the fair

What was our trust, we trust not,    What was our faith, we doubt; Whether we must or not    We may debate about. The soul, perhaps, is a gust of gas    And wrong is a form of right— But we know that Energy equals Mass    By the Square of the Speed of Light. What we have known, we know not,    What we have proved, abjure. Life is a tangled bowknot,    But one thing still is sure. Come, little lad; come, little lass,    Your docile creed recite: “We know that Energy equals Mass    By the Square of the Speed of Light.” Morris Bishop TIA International Photography

Only one I in the whole wide world And millions and millions of you, But every you is an I to itself And I am a you to you, too! But if I am a you and you are an I And the opposite also is true, It makes us both the same somehow Yet splits us each in two. It’s more and more mysterious, The more I think it through: Every you everywhere in the world is an I; Every I in the world is a you! Mary Ann Hoberman Selfie,  Radhakrishna Rao

What causes it—the strange felicity That surges through the nerves when least expected As sudden thankfulness sweeps over me, And somehow I feel cared for and protected? Then, cares that fill an ordinary day Diffuse within a sense of being blessed; For no good cause, guilt vanishes away And anxious premonitions are repressed. Perhaps it’s merely chemicals released Into the intricacies of the brain; Perhaps some psychological stress has ceased, Or paused, before returning once again— Or, maybe, other factors are bestowing The moments that arrive that keep me going. Thomas Carper Kukui Nut Trees, Sunset and Me,  ygchan

I conclude a sonnet never changed a mind, or moved a heart, or opened a locked door. If such could be so readily arranged, poems could not possibly stay stocked. Pockets would be filled and pillows swarmed. Oh no, a sonnet never swung a gate, cracked a safe, or left a bomb disarmed. It never swam a moat, or pried a crate. Or rather, whom it moved, at any rate, was accidental; a side effect, some poor someone tugged at when its influence, its weight, its pool of midnight revealed a midnight shore. Yes, then, it may have changed a life, or more; but not the one it was intended for. Kate Light Crosswalk,  Stefan Höchst

The greatest poem ever known Is one all poets have outgrown: The poetry, innate, untold, Of being only four years old. Still young enough to be a part Of Nature’s great impulsive heart, Born comrade of bird, beast, and tree And unselfconscious as the bee- And yet with lovely reason skilled Each day new paradise to build; Elate explorer of each sense, Without dismay, without pretense! In your unstained transparent eyes There is no conscience, no surprise: Life’s queer conundrums you accept, Your strange divinity still kept. Being, that now absorbs you, all Harmonious, unit, integral, Will shred into perplexing bits,- Oh, contradictions of the wits! And Life, that sets all things in rhyme, may make you poet, too, in time- But there were days, O tender elf, When you were Poetry itself! Christopher Morley Florecer,  Melina Mira

 As I walked out one evening,    Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement    Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river    I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway:    ’Love has no ending. ‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you    Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain    And the salmon sing in the street, ‘I’ll love you till the ocean    Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking    Like geese about the sky. ‘The years shall run like rabbits,    For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages,    And the first love of the world.’ But all the clocks in the city    Began to whirr and chime: ‘O let not Time deceive you,    You cannot conquer Time. ‘In the burrows of the Nightmare    Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow    And coughs when you would kiss. ‘In headaches and in worry    Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy    To-morrow or

When soul and body feed, one sees Their differing physiologies. Firmness of apple, fluted shape Of celery, or tight-skinned grape I grind and mangle when I eat, Then in dark, salt, internal heat, Annihilate their natures by The very act that makes them I. But when the soul partakes of good Or truth, which are her savoury food, By some far subtler chemistry It is not they that change, but she, Who feels them enter with the state Of conquerors her opened gate, Or, mirror-like, digests their ray By turning luminous as they. CS Lewis Dry fruits and spices,  Satyajeet Sahu

THE willow and the river Ripple with silver speech, And one refrain forever They murmur each to each: “Brook with the silver gravel, Would that your lot were mine; To wander free, to travel Where greener valleys shine— Strange ventures, fresh revealings, And, at the end—the sea! Brook, with your turns and wheelings, How rich your life must be.” “Tree with the golden rustling, Would that I were so blessed, To cease this stumbling, jostling, This feverish unrest. I join the ocean’s riot; You stand song-filled—and free! Tree, with your peace and quiet, How rich your life must be.” The willow and the river Ripple with silver speech, And one refrain forever They murmur each to each. Louis Untermeyer Meandering Mississippi, NASA, Goddard Space Center

I A boy was born ‘mid little things Between a little world and sky— And dreamed not of the cosmic rings Round which the circling planets fly. He lived in little works and thoughts, Where little ventures grow and plod, And paced and plowed his little plots, And prayed unto his little God. But as the mighty system grew, His faith grew faint with many scars; The cosmos widened in his view— but God was lost among His stars. II Another boy in lowly days, As he, to little things was born, But gathered lore in woodland ways, And from the glory of the morn. As wider skies broke on his view, God greatened in his growing mind; Each year he dreamed his God anew, and left his older God behind. He saw the boundless scheme dilate, In star and blossom, sky and clod; And as the universe grew great, He dreamed for it a greater God. Sam Walter Foss Azure,  Lincoln Harrison (Harry)

I have a rendezvous with Life, In days I hope will come, Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind, Ere voices sweet grow dumb. I have a rendezvous with Life, When Spring’s first heralds hum. Sure some would cry it’s better far To crown their days with sleep Than face the road, the wind and rain, To heed the calling deep. Though wet nor blow nor space I fear, Yet fear I deeply, too, Lest Death should meet and claim me ere I keep Life’s rendezvous. Countee Cullen Aerial,  Andrey Filippov

I.     One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail as all calves do. Since then three hundred years have fled, And I infer the calf is dead. II. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs my moral tale. The trail was taken up next day, By a lone dog that passed that way; And then a wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do. And from that day, o’er hill and glade. Through those old woods a path was made.         III.     And many men wound in and out, And dodged, and turned, and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath, Because ‘twas such a crooked path; But still they followed—do not laugh— The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding wood-way stalked Because he wobbled when he walked.         IV.     This forest path became a lane, that ben

Within my earthly temple there’s a crowd; There’s one of us that’s humble, one that’s proud; There’s one that’s brokenhearted for his sins And one who, unrepentant, sits and grins; There’s one who loves his neighbor as himself And one who cares for naught but fame and wealth. From such corroding care I would be free If once I could determine which is me. Edward Sanford Martin Tibetan Buddhist City,  Valerian Guillot

Within the hollow wave there lies a world, gleaming glass-perfect, rising to be hurled into a thousand fragments on the sand, driven by tide’s inexorable hand. Now in the instant while disaster towers, I glimpse the land more beautiful than ours, another sky, more lapis-lazuli, lit by unsetting suns, another sea by no horizon bound, another shore, glistening with shells I never saw before. Smooth mirror of the present, poised between the crest’s “becoming” and the foam’s “has-been” — how luminous the landscape seen across the crystal lens of an impending loss! Anne Morrow Lindbergh Heatwave, Aplonid

Love that is hoarded, moulds at last Until we know some day The only thing we ever have Is what we give away. And kindness that is never used But hidden all alone Will slowly harden till it is As hard as any stone. It is the things we always hold That we will lose some day; The only things we ever keep Are what we give away. Louis Ginsberg The World is in my Hands,  Ty Nguyen

O Maker of the Mighty Deep, Whereon our vessels fare, Above our life’s adventure keep Thy faithful watch and care. In Thee we trust, whate’er befall; Thy sea is great, our boats are small. We know not where the secret tides Will help us or delay, Nor where the lurking tempest hides, Nor where the fogs are gray. We trust in Thee, whate’er befall; Thy sea is great, our boats are small. When outward bound we boldly sail And leave the friendly shore, Let not our hearts of courage fail Until the voyage is o’er. We trust in Thee, whate’er befall; Thy sea is great, our boats are small. When homeward bound, we gladly turn, Oh! bring us safely there, Where harbor-lights of friendship burn And peace is in the air. We trust in Thee, whate’er befall; Thy sea is great, our boats are small. Beyond the circle of the sea, When voyaging is past, We seek our final port in Thee; Oh! bring us home at last. In Thee we trust, whate’er befall; Thy sea is great, our boats are

I sat alone with my conscience In a place where time had ceased, And we talked of my former living In the land where the years increased; And I felt I should have to answer The question it put to me, And to face the answer and questions Through all eternity. The ghosts of forgotten actions Came floating before my sight, And things that I thought were dead things Were alive with a terrible might. And the vision of all my past life Was an awful thing to face, Alone with my conscience sitting In that solemnly silent place. And I thought of a faraway warning, Of a sorrow that was to be mine, In a land that was then the future, But now is the present time. And I thought of my former thinking Of the judgment day to be; But sitting alone with my conscience Seemed judgment enough for me. And I wondered if there was a future To this land beyond the grave; But no one gave me an answer, And no one came to save. Then I felt that the future was present, And the prese

I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day; I’d rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way. The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear, Fine counsel is confusing, but example’s always clear; And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds, For to see good put in action is what everybody needs. I soon can learn to do it if you’ll let me see it done; I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run. And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true, But I’d rather get my lessons by observing what you do; For I might misunderstand you and the high advise you give, But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live. When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind. When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me To become as big and thoughtful as I know that friend to be. And all travelers can witness that the be

Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signaled for all songs to cease Though your companions have gone to their rest and you are tired; Though fear broods in the dark and the face of the sky is veiled; Yet, bird, O my bird, do not close your wings. That is not the gloom of the leaves of the forest, that is the sea swelling like a dark black smoke. That is not the dance of the flowering Jasmine, that is flashing foam. Ah, where is the sunny green shore, where is your nest? Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. The lone night lies along your path, the dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills. The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon swims the deep night. Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. There is no hope, no fear for you. There is no word, no whisper, no cry. There is no home, no bed of rest. There is only your pair of wings and the pathless sky. Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not clos

If I go to see the play, Of the story I am certain; Promptly it gets under way With the lifting of the curtain. Builded all that’s said and done On the ancient recipe— ‘Tis the same old Two and One: A and B in love with C. If I read the latest book, There’s the mossy situation; One may confidently look For the trite triangulation. Old as time, but ever new, Seemingly, this tale of Three— Same old yarn of One and Two: A and C in love with B. If I cast my eyes around, Far and near and middle distance, Still the formula is found In our everyday existence. Everywhere I look I see— Fact or fiction, life or play— Still the little game of Three: B and C in love with A. While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax. Jack must have his pair of Jills, Jill must have her pair of Jacks. Bert Leston Taylor Leonardo Montoya

Like snails I see the people go Along the pavement, row on row; And each one on his shoulder bears His coiling shell of petty cares— The spiral of his own affairs. Some peer about, some creep on blind, But not one leaves his shell behind. And I, who think I see so well, Peer at the rest, but cannot tell How much is cut off by my shell. Eleanor Palmer Hammond Ilan Burla

Who is so low that I am not his brother? Who is so high that I’ve no path to him? Who is so poor I may not feel his hunger? Who is so rich I may not pity him? Who is so hurt I may not know his heartache? Who sings for joy my heart may never share? Who in God’s heaven has passed beyond my vision? Who to hell’s depths where I may never fare? May none, then, call on me for understanding, May none, then, turn to me for help in pain, And drain alone their bitter cup of sorrow, Or find they knock upon my heart in vain. S. Ralph Harlow Torn, Ale Brando

LET me live out my years in heat of blood! Let me die drunken with the dreamer’s wine! Let me not see this soul-house built of mud Go toppling to the dusk—a vacant shrine. Let me go quickly, like a candle light Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow. Give me high noon—and let it then be night! Thus would I go. And grant that when I face the grisly Thing, My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring That feels the Master Melody—and snaps! John G. Neihardt

The Spring blew trumpets of color; Her Green sang in my brain — I heard a blind man groping “Tap — tap” with his cane; I pitied him in his blindness; But can I boast, “I see”? Perhaps there walks a spirit Close by, who pities me, — A spirit who hears me tapping The five-sensed cane of mind Amid such unguessed glories — That I am worse than blind. Harry Kemp Canopy, Gerry Segismundo

MY debt to you, Belovèd,   Is one I cannot pay In any coin of any realm   On any reckoning day; For where is he shall figure   The debt, when all is said, To one who makes you dream again   When all the dreams were dead? Or where is the appraiser   Who shall the claim compute Of one who makes you sing again   When all the songs were mute? Jessie B. Rittenhouse Double Date,  Marcin Bieszczanin

I have loved colours, and not flowers; Their motion, not the swallows wings; And wasted more than half my hours Without the comradeship of things. How is it, now, that I can see, With love and wonder and delight, The children of the hedge and tree, The little lords of day and night? How is it that I see the roads, No longer with usurping eyes, A twilight meeting-place for toads, A mid-day mart for butterflies? I feel, in every midge that hums, Life, fugitive and infinite, And suddenly the world becomes A part of me and I of it. Arthur Symons Daisy Shower, Steve Wall

He drew a circle that shut me out — Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But Love and I had the wit to win: We drew a circle that took him in! Edwin Markham Somos un círculo,  Adrian Felipe Pera

THE park is filled with night and fog,   The veils are drawn about the world, The drowsy lights along the paths   Are dim and pearled. Gold and gleaming the empty streets,   Gold and gleaming the misty lake, The mirrored lights like sunken swords,   Glimmer and shake. Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love, With youth, a singing voice, and eyes To take earth’s wonder with surprise? Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied,— I, for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light,— I, for whom all beauty burns Like incense in a million urns? O beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love? Sara Teasdale The View From the Porch, Dave Jackson

Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade; Since it was given to me to hear on happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime’s stream, Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days; I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours, Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old, Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold. Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet; My heart has far mor

Soft the dove-hued shadows mingle, Color fades, sound droops to sleep. Life and motion melt to darkness Swaying murmurs far and deep. But the night moth’s languid flitting Stirs the air invisibly: Oh, the hour of wordless longing; I in all, and all in me. Twilight—tranquil, brooding twilight, Course through me, serene and smooth; Quiet, languid, fragrant twilight, Flood all depths, all sorrows soothe, Every sense in dark and cooling Self-forgetfulness immerse,— Grant that I may taste extinction In the dreaming universe. Fyodor Tyutchev Qito, Attilio Rizzo

The night will never stay, The night will still go by, Though with a million stars You pin it to the sky, Though you bind it with the blowing wind And buckle it with the moon, The night will slip away Like sorrow or a tune. Eleanor Farjeon Color Star Trails, Shang-Fu Dai

Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wander’d idly over the noisy keys; I knew not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then, But I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight like the close of an Angel’s Psalm, And it lay on my fever’d spirit with a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow like love overcoming strife, It seem’d the harmonious echo from our discordant life. It link’d all perplexed meanings into one perfect peace And trembled away into silence as if it were loth to cease; I have sought, but I seek it vainly, that one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the organ and enter’d into mine. It may be that Death’s bright Angel will speak in that chord again; It may be that only in Heav’n I shall hear that grand Amen! Adelaide Anne Proctor Composition,  Farshad Sanaee

Christ has no hands but our hands To do His work today; He has no feet but our feet To lead men in His way; He has no tongues but our tongues To tell men how He died; He has no help but our help To bring them to His side. We are the only Bible The careless world will read; We are the sinner’s Gospel, We are the scoffer’s creed; We are the Lord’s last message, Given in deed and word; What if the type is crooked? What if the print is blurred? What if our hands are busy With work other than His? What if our feet are walking Where sin’s allurement is? What if our tongues are speaking Of things His lips would spurn? How can we hope to help Him And hasten His return? Annie Johnson Flint Madonna of Port Lligat, Salvador Dali

The expert designing the long-range gun To exterminate everyone under the sun, Would like to get out but can only mutter;— “What can I do? It’s my bread and butter.” W. H. Auden Biennale dell'arte 2011, Venezia, Italy, Daniele Cirillo

I I do not hold with him who thinks The world is jonahed by a jinx; That everything is sad and sour, And life a withered hothouse flower. II I hate the Polyanna pest Who says that All Is for the Best, And hold in high, unhidden scorn Who sees the Rose, nor feels the Thorn. III I do not like extremists who Are like the pair in (I) and (II); But how I hate the wabbly gink, Like me, who knows not what to think! Franklin Pierce Adams Stay Away from the Nuts, Chris McVeigh

Yes, all men knew who talked with him, The universe was bothering Jim. He looked through many books to find For what the cosmos was designed, How it was made when time begun, And what ‘twas good for when ‘twas done. Through old black-letter scrolls he waded. The schoolmen’s folios he invaded, Through many tomes of thought he went, To find out what the whole thing meant. He yearned to find out what it was, The cause behind the final cause ; He longed to get his fingers on The Ding an sich, the noumenon ; He wished to be equipped to say What we are here for, anyway. Just what the cosmos is about, And learn the things you can’t find out. And all men knew who talked with him, The universe was bothering Jim. He read the old Ionian sages, And spent nine days upon two pages ; And he devoured — a ten years’ feast — The occult wisdom of the East ; He read cuneiform inscriptions, And hieroglyphs of old Egyptians, To see if he could find some mention Of nature’s unrev

There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own. I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of man Is cast. Edwin Markham Flying, Jo Wallace

Who seeks perfection in the art Of driving well an ass and cart, Or painting mountains in a mist Seeks God although an atheist. Francis Carlin Papstdorf, Matthias Ludwig

I went out on an April morning All alone, for my heart was high, I was a child of the shining meadow, I was a sister of the sky. There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea. Sara Teasdale Volando a casa, Momoztia

She thinks that even up in heaven Her class lies late and snores, While poor black cherubs rise at seven To do celestial chores. Countee Cullen Photo by Quân Trần Minh

I had a diamond...it got lost; All I remember is what it cost. I saw a dew drop...just a minute But I remember the diamonds in it. Don Blanding Il était une fois... / Fairy tale, Bruno Maldfodet

Are you happy? It’s the only way to be, kid. Yes, be happy, it’s a good nice way to be. But not happy-happy, kid, don’t be too doubled-up doggone happy. It’s the doubled-up doggone happy- happy people … bust hard … they do bust hard … when they bust. Be happy, kid, go to it, but not too doggone happy. Carl Sandburg Autumn Leaves, Iwona Stefanczuk

EDDI, priest of St. Wilfrid In his chapel at Manhood End, Ordered a midnight service For such as cared to attend. But the Saxons were keeping Christmas, And the night was stormy as well. Nobody came to service, Though Eddi rang the bell. ‘Wicked weather for walking,’ Said Eddi of Manhood End. ‘But I must go on with the service For such as care to attend. The altar-lamps were lighted, – An old marsh-donkey came, Bold as a guest invited, And stared at the guttering flame. The storm beat on at the windows, The water splashed on the floor, And a wet, yoke-weary bullock Pushed in through the open door. ‘How do I know what is greatest, How do I know what is least? That is My Father’s business,’ Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest. ‘But – three are gathered together – Listen to me and attend. I bring good news, my brethren!’ Said Eddi of Manhood End. And he told the Ox of a Manger And a Stall in Bethlehem, And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider, That rode to Jerusale

I want to sing lyrics, lyrics,    Mad as a brook in spring; I want to shout the music    Of flushed adventuring. But how can I sing lyrics?    I who have seen to-day The stoop of factory women,    The children kept from play... And on an open hilltop,    Where the cloak of the sky is wide, Have seen a tree of terror    Where a black man died. I want to sing lyrics, lyrics,    But these have hushed my song. I am mute at the world’s great sadness,    And stark at the world’s great wrong. Anonynmous PHOBETOR, Joy Celine Asto

My glass can’t quite persuade me I am old – In that respect my ageing eyes are kind – But when I see a photograph, I’m told The dismal truth: I’ve left my youth behind. And when I try to get up from a chair My knees remind me they are past their best. The burden they have carried everywhere Is heavier now. No wonder they protest. Arthritic fingers, problematic neck, Sometimes causing mild to moderate pain, Could well persuade me I’m an ancient wreck But here’s what helps me to feel young again: My love, who fell for me so long ago, Still loves me just as much, and tells me so. Wendy Cope Great Grandma-Brock, David Robinson

We’re grateful that you called today And sorry that we’re occupied. We will be with you right away. Press one if you would like to stay, Press two if you cannot decide. We’re grateful that you called today. Press three to end this brief delay, Press four if you believe we’ve lied. We will be with you right away. Press five to hear some music play, Press six to speak with someone snide. We’re grateful that you called today. Press seven if your hair’s turned gray, Press eight if you’ve already died. We will be with you right away. Press nine to hear recordings say That service is our greatest pride. We’re grateful that you called today. We will be with you right away. Dan Skwire the number you have called is temporary not available,  Jor Danier