Other Mixes By mother
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Mixed Genre
Cassette
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Mixed Genre
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CD
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Mixed Genre
CD
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Alternative - Indie Rock
this country eats its young (sleep music)
Artist | Song | |
the raincoats | life on the line | |
t. rex | hound dog | |
cannanes | screaming | |
yo la tengo | tears are in your eyes | |
sleepytime trio | you're dead | |
centro-matic | love has found me somehow | |
heavens to betsy | seek and hide | |
the ex | the art of losing | |
j-live | braggin writes | |
jonathan richman | egyptian reggae | |
submission hold | something finer | |
julie doiron and the wooden stars | dance music | |
television | friction | |
blood of abraham | this great land devours | |
cadallaca | you're my only one | |
pulp | coy mistress | |
the ex | she said (odd version) | |
richard youngs | soon it will be fire | |
heavens to betsy | stay dead | |
Comment:
HAD we but world enough, and time,This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingFd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.