Best 98 quotes in «rhyme quotes» category

Oh, southern rappers... so hard to write a rhyme when you only know 30 words.

People only call me 'Fiery' because it rhymes with Fred, just like 'Typhoon' rhymes with Tyson

People don't ask Jay-Z to take his shirt off when he rhymes.

Rhymes more fresher than a virgin in a 'frigerator.

Sometimes I have something stuck in my head and that directs the rhyme that I'm writing with.

Once in awhile you have a thought, and you rhyme it.

Puttin rhymes into shape just like Jack LaLanne.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

San Francisco is poetry. Even the hills rhyme.

Tell the truth and make it rhyme

Time ain’t nothing, but time. It’s a verse with no rhyme, And it all come down to you. «El tiempo solo es tiempo. Es un verso sin rima, y todo depende de ti.»

The past does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.

There is no business like show business. There is also no business like certified public accounting, but that doesn't rhyme as well.

Time, ain't nothin, but time. It's a verse with no rhyme, and it all comes down to you.

A glassy calm replaced the storm surrounding their boat. The distant thunder struck a note, white-hot and remote. An invisible magnet seemed to steer their course. The island pulled them in with its dreamy force.

What a lot of people don't know is that Wyclef started off as a battle rapper, when he decided that he would rhyme.

A good poem has rhyming but no ending, it continues to rhyme in our heart.

Аfter all the beats and rhymes, I felt like everybody around me was rapping and so I was like.

And now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and your grandmother, nd upon all your relations.' Is he cursing in rhyme?' He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of his curse.' ("The Crucifixion Of The Outcast")

By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.

A poetess is not as selfish as you assume. After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride— and spaces—the groom, she knows that as soon as she has penned the poem, it’s yours to consume. So, without giving it a think, she blows on the ink and the letters fly away like dandelions on a windy day, landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips. But more often than not, you can easily spot them trodden and forgotten, becoming sodden and rotten. Yet, she will continue to make what’s others to take because selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

Before he got too far, he thought he smelled a fire. No sooner did he blink before he sensed something dire. He heard a sound and froze, danger tickling his nose. His ears perked up as tiny cries of capture rose.

From attraction and affection Cover of perfection Failure beyond texture to a painful lesson Everything that was from the start wasn't from the heart

Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued. 'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said. Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song' 'What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question. 'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?' 'N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking. 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o' 'Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?' 'It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently. 'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know. Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious. "Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.' 'And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt 'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?' 'It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted 'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him. 'Would that be so bad?' 'Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.' 'It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked. Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other' Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him. 'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?' 'So what?' Crowley challenged Halt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.' 'A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry

I, Larry Vail, do hereby confess To murdering Merry in her little dress. To strangling and raping and making a mess. To all of these charges the answer is yes.

It is not until you rhyme with a person that makes you their perfect match, it is when you are satisfied with each others peculiarities, and find jewels in their loopholes.

It’s a poem, of our love, that doesn’t rhyme. A story, never meant to have, a happy end.

I’ve been worried since I left the womb Like a schizophrenic on shrooms Like a hypochondriac on crack Never shy with the panic attacks; Internal reality succumbs to psychosis Dreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paint Excelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

Princess, princess, youngest daughter, Open up and let me in! Or else your promise by the water Isn’t worth a rusty pin. Keep your promise, royal daughter, Open up and let me in!

Sealing your lips makes your eyes talk Truth creeps beneath your lame feet’s walk Knees stiffen when blood vessels stalk A pounding heart’s lies hard as rock

She's my pride, my winning prize, always a surprise, to look into her eyes, see her free soul, as soap that slips from the grip of control; a stroll through the park on a dark night with stars to spark the sky, heaven with no price tag I realize, love is the same: endless, priceless, full bliss; to have this princess I pinch myself thinking this is a dream, but to my reprise, I can only say I am now, at last, alive.

Some people imagine that rhyme interferes with the rational processes of thought by obliging us to distort what we originally had in mind. But are rational processes so important? In many of us, even in poets, they can be dull and predictable. An interruption, a few detours and unexpected turns, might make a trip with them less routine. The necessity of finding a rhyme may jolt the mind out of its ruts, force it to turn wildly across the fields in some more exhilarating direction. Force it out of the world of reason into the world of mystery, magic, and imagination, in which relationships between sounds may be as exciting as a Great Idea.

That weekend my people brought home a big eared gray scrawny kit. He was so loud and annoying that I did not like him one bit.

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

The Days were a clan that mighta lived long But Ben Day’s head got screwed on wrong That boy craved dark Satan’s power So he killed his family in one nasty hour Little Michelle he strangled in the night Then chopped up Debby: a bloody sight Mother Patty he saved for last Blew off her head with a shotgun blast Baby Libby somehow survived But to live through that ain’t much a life —SCHOOLYARD RHYME, CIRCA 1985

The garden was full of sorrow Songbirds and unusual winds whistled a rhyme Clouds caused to appear and cast down darkness For this was the first day the sun didn't shine

Toilet paper unrolled and slithered then wrapped around my tummy. That paper tried to roll me up into an Egyptian mummy.

When we step in the name of love, we cannot rhyme if we don't have the same RHYTHM, and we cannot have the same rhythm if we are not listening to the same BEAT. It takes someone who understands the rhythm and melody of your "heartbeat" to dance to it.

Wherever you go in the next catastrophé Be it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ry Do not fear that your stay will be solit’ry Countless souls share your fate, you’ll have company!

Witches, he thought. Always rhyming.

Words like wistfully and sublime are penned into prose and rhyme. As night gives way to dawn, life gives way to time

Yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp, Sethera, lethera, hovera, covera, dik; Yan-a-dik, tan-a-dik, tethera-dik, pethera-dik, bumfit, Yan-a-bumfit, tan-a-bumfit, tethera-bumfit, pethera-bumfit, figgit.

You ask me why I don't speak Not a word at will But write so much worth well over a mill' Well I value words like I value kisses A sober one, a closer one penetrates the heart Darling it's how it mends it

You can get lost in any library, no matter the size. But the more lost you are, the more things you'll find.

And of all glad words of prose or rhyme, The gladdest are Act while there yet is time

A rhyme doesn't make a song.

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Call me the rap assassinator / rhymes rugged and built like Schwarzenegger

Children seem naturally drawn to poetry - it's some combination of the rhyme, rhythm, and the words themselves.