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  The 'a song for my son' search query is a long-tail keyphrase - it consists of 5 keywords: a, my, for, song, son.

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  My mother comes in my room. As she sees me sleeping, she starts to sing a song. My lovely, lovely son. My dear dear son, Lunch bag, lunch bag, Happy face lunch bag, Rays are telling you that, You are going to school today.

Off Magazine Street

  Fallen from grace and shunned by respectable society, Bobby Long is joyously content drowning his past in cheap hooch and bedding any woman with low standards and high tolerance. His partner, an unproductive writer named Byron Burns, is happy to join him for the long ride down. Their distant salvation is an unwritten manuscript sure to redeem their standing and pride-though both know it's just a thin reason to get up and go to the bar. When their latest female companion dies in their fleabag hotel room, the duo find themselves putting up her young but futureless daughter, Hanna. Despite their own dishonorable intentions and aging desires, the pair cannot abide her lack of ambition and low expectations for herself. Together, they dust off their teachers' instincts and conspire to use every means necessary-legal, illegal, fair, and unfair-to get Hanna into college. Fueled by the purest motives they can muster, the men battle the seduction of vice to give Hanna a chance, and discover for themselves that true character doesn't drown easily. From the Author I started writing this book in the late 1980s, and finished it about ten years ago. It is fictional but based largely on my experiences and observations of my friends. I set the story in New Orleans, painting my own interpretation of places I familiarized myself with while my son was a student at Tulane University. The characters are born of a very real conglomerate of the memories I've formed over the years, and those memories have become a vehicle to explore things about myself. I used the character Byron Burns, based on the mannerisms of a friend now gone, as a way to express my ambition as a writer. Like the character Hanna, I grew up somewhat disadvantaged, and in many ways her story is mine. I was friends with a man whose name was Bobby Long. His character in the story is loosely based on my observations of his personality, although the novel is in no way meant to depict events in his life-only the lessons I learned from it: that goodness can occur far from conventional morality, and beautiful things can look ugly at first glance. Before my friend Bobby Long died several years ago, he asked my son Grayson to write a song about him. My son titled the song 'A Love Song for Bobby Long.' Bobby had said to me many times over the years, 'Boy, you're going to write a book about me one of these days.' And so I have. This is my love song to Bobby Long. About the Author Ronald Everett Capps is a graduate of Auburn University and lives in Fairhope, Alabama, where, in addition to writing, he paints and sculpts. Off Magazine Street is his first novel.

The Rainbow and the Rose

  CONTENTS: I. THE THINGS THAT MATTER. THE CONFESSION. WORK. THE JILTED LOVER TO HIS MOTHER. THE WILL TO LIVE. THE BEATIFIC VISION. II. MUMMY WHEAT. THE BEECH TREE. IN ABSENCE. SILENCE. RAISON D'TRE. THE ONLOOKER. THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. AT PARTING. SONG. RENUNCIATION. III. THE VEIL OF MAYA. SONG. TO VERA, WHO ASKED A SONG. THE POET TO HIS LOVE. THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. SONG. THE MAGIC FLOWER. LA DERNIRE ROBE DE SOI. THE LEAST POSSIBLE. EN TOUT CAS. APPEAL. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. CHAGRIN D'AMOUR. BRIDAL EVE. LOVE AND LIFE. FROM THE ITALIAN. IV. 'OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH.' SUMMER SONG. THE LOWER ROOM. SONG. MAY SONG. V. TO IRIS. TO A CHILD. BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD. TO ROSAMUND. FROM THE TUSCAN. MOTHER SONG. VI. THE ISLAND. POSSESSION. ACCESSION. THE DESTROYER. THE EGOISTS. THE WAY OF LOVE. TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE. THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. THE POOR MAN'S GUEST. IN THE SHALLOWS. 'AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME.' THE STAR. VII. THE PRODIGAL SON. DESPAIR. THE TEMPTATION. SECOND NATURE. DE PROFUNDIS. VIII. AT THE GATE. VIA AMORIS. I. III. IV. V. RETRO SATHANAS. THE OLD DISPENSATION. THE NEW DISPENSATION. THE THREE KINGS. * * * * * * * IX. AFTER DEATH. CHLOE. INVOCATION. THE LAST BETRAYAL. A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY. * * * * * * * * * TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE. DEATH. IN MEMORY OF A PARTING. *** I. THE THINGS THAT MATTER. NOW that I've nearly done my days, And grown too stiff to sweep or sew, I sit and think, till I'm amaze, About what lots of things I know: Things as I've found out one by one And when I'm fast down in the clay, My knowing things and how they're done Will all be lost and thrown away. There's things, I know, as won't be lost, Things as folks write and talk about: The way to keep your roots from frost, And how to get your ink spots out. What medicine's good for sores and sprains, What way to salt your butter down, What charms will cure your different pains, And what will bright your faded gown. But more important things than these, They can't be written in a book: How fast to boil your greens and peas, And how good bacon ought to look; The feel of real good wearing stuff, The kind of apple as will keep, The look of bread that's rose enough, And how to get a child asleep.

The King of Ireland's Son

  From Content: 'Connal was the name of the King who ruled over Ireland at that time. He had three sons, and, as the fir-trees grow, some crooked and some straight, one of them grew up so wild that in the end the King and the King's Councillor had to let him have his own way in everything. This youth was the King's eldest son and his mother had died before she could be a guide to him. Now after the King and the King's Councillor left him to his own way the youth I'm telling you about did nothing but ride and hunt all day. Well, one morning he rode abroad—      His hound at his heel,    His hawk on his wrist;    A brave steed to carry him whither he list,    And the blue sky over him, and he rode on until he came to a turn in the road. There he saw a gray old man seated on a heap of stones playing a game of cards with himself. First he had one hand winning and then he had the other. Now he would say 'That's my good right,' and then he would say 'Play and beat that, my gallant left.' The King of Ireland's Son sat on his horse to watch the strange old man, and as he watched him he sang a song to himself      I put the fastenings on my boat    For a year and for a day,    And I went where the rowans grow,    And where the moorhens lay;     And I went over the stepping-stones    And dipped my feet in the ford,    And came at last to the Swineherd's house,—    The Youth without a Sword.     A swallow sang upon his porch    'Glu-ee, glu-ee, glu-ee,'    'The wonder of all wandering,    The wonder of the sea;'    A swallow soon to leave ground sang    'Glu-ee, glu-ee, glu-ee.' 'Prince,' said the old fellow looking up at him, 'if you can play a game as well as you can sing a song, I'd like if you would sit down beside me.' 'I can play any game,' said the King of Ireland's Son. He fastened his horse to the branch of a tree and sat down on the heap of stones beside the old man. 'What shall we play for?' said the gray old fellow. 'Whatever you like,' said the King of Ireland's Son. 'If I win you must give me anything I ask, and if you win I shall give you anything you ask. Will you agree to that?' 'If it is agreeable to you it is agreeable to me,' said the King of Ireland's Son. They played, and the King of Ireland's Son won the game. 'Now what do you desire me to give, King's Son?' said the gray old fellow. 'I shan't ask you for anything,' said the King of Ireland's Son, 'for I think you haven't much to give.' 'Never mind that,' said the gray old fellow. 'I mustn't break my promise, and so you must ask me for something.' 'Very well,' said the King's Son. 'Then there's a field at the back of my father's Castle and I want to see it filled with cattle to-morrow morning. Can you do that for me?' 'I can,' said the gray old fellow. 'Then I want fifty cows, each one white with a red ear, and a white calf going beside each cow.' 'The cattle shall be as you wish.' 'Well, when that's done I shall think the wager has been paid,' said the King of Ireland's son. He mounted his horse, smiling at the foolish old man who played cards with himself and who thought he could bring together fifty white kine, each with a red ear, and a white calf by the side of each cow.'


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