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Marching towards oblivion
Lyrics
to Louie-Louie
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Fine little girl she waits for me
Me catch the ship for cross the sea
Me sail the ship all alone
Me never think me make it home
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Three nights and days me sail the sea
Me think of girl constantly
On the ship I dream she there
I smell the Rose in her hair
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
(guitar solo)
Me see Jamaica moon above
It won't be long me see my love
I take her in my arms and then
Me tell her I never leave again
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
Louie Louie, Me Gotta Go
(guitar solo)
ANOTHER VERSION?
Louie, Louie
Richard DerryLyrics Only
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
A fine little girl, she wait for me.
Me catch the ship across the sea.
I sailed the ship all alone.
I never think I'll make it home.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Three nights and days we sailed the sea.
Me think of girl constantly.
On the ship, I dream she there.
I smell the rose in her hair.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Me see Jamaican moon above.
It won't be long me see me love.
Me take her in my arms and then.
I tell her I never leave again.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
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What Ratings?
Mark Twain Sets the Record Straight
by Mark Twain
As concerns tobacco, there are many superstitions. And the chiefest
is this -- that there is a STANDARD governing the matter, whereas
there is nothing of the kind. Each man's own preference is the only
standard for him, the only one which he can accept, the only one
which can command him. A congress of all the tobacco-lovers in the
world could not elect a standard which would be binding upon you or
me, or would even much influence us.
The next superstition is that a man has a standard of his own. He
hasn't. He thinks he has, but he hasn't. He thinks he can tell what
he regards as a good cigar from what he regards as a bad one -- but
he can't. He goes by brand, yet imagines he goes by the flavor. One
may palm off the worst counterfeit upon him; if it bears his brand
he will smoke it contentedly and never suspect.
Children of twenty-five, who have seven years experience, try to
tell me what is a good cigar and what isn't. Me, who never learned
to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for
a light.
No one can tell me what is a good cigar -- for me. I am the only
judge. People who claim to know say that I smoke the worst cigars in
the world. They bring their own cigars when they come to my house.
They betray an unmanly terror when I offer them a cigar; they tell
lies and hurry way to meet engagements which they have not made when
they are threatened with the hospitalities of my box.
I removed the labels and put the cigars into a box with my favorite
brand on it -- a brand which those people all knew, and which cowed
them as men are cowed by an epidemic. They took these cigars when
offered at the end of the supper, and lit them and sternly struggled
with them -- in dreary silence, for hilarity died when the fell
brand came into view and started around -- but their fortitude held
for a short time only; then they made excuses and filed out,
treading on one another's heels with indecent eagerness; and in the
morning when I went out to observe results, the cigars lay all
between the front door and the gate. All except one -- that lay in
the plate of the man whom I had cabbaged the lot. One or two whiffs
was all he could stand. He told me afterward that some day I would
get shot for giving people that
kind of cigars to smoke.
Am I certain of my own standard? Perfectly; yes, absolutely --
unless somebody fools me by putting my brand on some other kind of
cigar; for no doubt I am like the rest, and know my cigar by the
brand instead of by the flavor. However, my standard is a pretty
wide one and covers a good deal of territory. To me, almost any
cigar is good that nobody else will smoke, and to me almost all
cigars are bad that other people consider good. Nearly any cigar
will do me, except a
Havana.
People think they hurt my feelings when they come to my house with
their life preservers on -- I mean, with their own cigars in their
pockets. It is an error; I take care of myself in a similar way.
When I go into danger -- that is, into rich people's houses, where,
in the nature of things, they will have high-tariff cigars, red and
gilt girded and nested in a rosewood box along with a damp sponge,
cigars which develop a dismal black ash and burn down the side and
smell, and grow hot to the fingers, and will go on burning hotter
and hotter, and go on smelling more and more infamously and
unendurably the deeper the fire tunnels down inside below the
thimbleful of honest tobacco that is in the front end, the furnisher
of it praising it all the time and telling you how much the deadly
thing cost -- yes, when I go into that sort of peril I carry my own
defense along; I carry my own brand -- twenty-seven cents a barrel
-- and I live to see my family again.
I may seem to light his red-gartered cigar, but that is only for
courtesy's sake; I smuggle it into my pocket for the poor, of whom I
know many, and light one of my own; and while he praises it I join
in, but when he says it cost forty-five cents I say nothing, for I
know better.
However, to say true, my tastes are so catholic that I have never
seen any cigars that I really could not smoke, except those that
cost a dollar apiece. I have examined those and know that they are
made of dog-hair, and not good dog-hair
at that.
It is as I remarked in the beginning -- the taste for tobacco is a
matter of superstition. There are no standards -- no real standards.
Each man's preference is the only standard for him, the only one
which he can accept, the only one which
can command him.
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