Best 36 quotes in «rhyming quotes» category

the poet like an acrobat climbs on rime to a high wire of his own making.

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

You know, the music business is like the Lotto. Just put your numbers down and sometimes they hit, and sometimes they don't. There's just no rhyme or reason.

There was a rumor that Jesse Jackson was going to go over there to talk with the Taliban, apparently they were having trouble rhyming the word Jihad.

You take stuff from different places, and sometimes you stick a line in because it rhymes, not because it makes sense.

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.

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

He looked from His heavens and saw it was good, the toes and the crows all looked like they should. The bunny was quick, the finch bright as a daisy, the owl flew at night, and the tortoise was lazy.

All shadows of clouds the sun cannot hide like the moon cannot stop oceanic tide; but a hidden star can still be smiling at night's black spell on darkness, beguiling

Astray from a deep sleep chronic as I write by phonics, like insomnia I will always live the onyx night for revealing, and, upon it, still I'll steal the bright light of day right away just to keep building at speeds hypersonic.

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.

Down vith children! Do them in! Boil their bones and fry their skin! Bish them, sqvish them, bash them, mash them! Brrreak them, shake them, slash them, smash them! Offer chocs vith magic powder! Say “Eat up!” then say it louder. Crrram them full of sticky eats, Send them home still guzzling sveets. And in the morning little fools Go marching off to separate schools. A girl feels sick and goes all pale. She yells, “Hey look! I've grrrown a tail!” A boy who's standing next to her Screams, “Help! I think I'm grrrowing fur!” Another shouts, “Vee look like frrreaks! There's viskers growing on our cheeks!” A boy who vos extremely tall Cries out, “Vot's wrong? I'm grrrowing small!” Four tiny legs begin to sprrrout From everybody rrround about. And all at vunce, all in a trrrice, There are no children! Only MICE!

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

In the beginning God made the seas, the mountains, the heavens, and buffalo knees. He made lilies, and dew drops, and snail shells, and roses, and dippers, and yappers, and snappers, and noses.

I am the impossibility of desiring the person you pity. And the petal of the Easter lily—

I've finally decided to write about profit for a change But before I really started I already started to feel lame Baby what's it to a beast who manely to money remains untamed

It demands desire of Zulykha Loyalty of Angels Vehemence of devils And patience of Prophet You may too need God's mouth To reveal rhyming letters

I've played Romeo for Juliet (But in depth) It's vignettes of silhouettes (And then read) And watched Russian roulette, yeah red Soviet Yet doing it simultaneously While dropping down shed oubliettes Turned around and took truth to the head that Love is the ugliest thing too beautiful for death

I wonder at the starry pattern in the sky Are they little pieces of moon which want to fly..?

She looked in the cupboards to get some ideas. "I've got it!" she shrieked. "I'll make Bat Ear Tortillas!

Moom' and 'tomb' actually rhyme, which is something Dickinson hardly ever did, preferring near-rhymes such as 'mat/gate', 'tune/sun,' and 'balm/hermaphrodite.

Mondays taste like split-pea soup, Tuesdays taste like gobbledygook, Wednesdays taste like licorice, Thursdays taste like deep-fried fish, Fridays taste like the color red, Saturdays taste like gingerbread, Sundays taste like chicken breast, But birthdays! Birthdays taste the best! Birthdays taste like chocolate cake, Balloons, presents, and sirloin steak.

Stretched and skewed Tap of the 8-ball and the cue Scratches fall through They are the scars of you

Silver bullets and a stake in the heart But the cross still awakens my heart I'm the freak of nature that's all Darling it's not the way that you are

Walk and love We're walking in love For the walk of love

Those who pose, suppose that everything goes the way of the dodos. Yet, I've met, some who bet on luck like a cashed check, that is, before a major wreck.

This is almost always the case: A piece of art receives its f(r)ame when found offensive.

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!

Constantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs above the heads of his audience, the poet, like an acrobat, climbs on rhyme to a high wire of his own making.

Everything that Traffic ever did, I'd give Steve a complete lyric, titled, written out with the verse, the bridge, the shape and rhyme and then Steve had to figure out how the meter of the words would fit musically.

Money gives me pleasure all the time.

I'm usually homeboys with the same ni**as I'm rhyming wit/But this is hip-hop and them ni**as should know what time it is/And that goes for Jermaine Cole, Big KRIT, Wale/Pusha T, Meek Millz, A$AP Rocky, Drake/Big Sean, Jay Electron', Tyler, Mac Miller/I got love for you all but I'm tryna murder you ni**as/Tryna make sure your core fans never heard of you ni**as/They dont wanna hear not one more noun or verb from you ni**as

Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.

I have a lot of interest in interior rhyming; not just rhyming at the end of the lines, but playing around with rhymes within the lines, playing with where the syllabic emphases in the sentences are, lining those up at strange moments in the line of the song. I’m not sure if that comes across or not.

In high school, we studied a lot of poetical forms. I was really interested in the math that was involved and the strange live break ups. That gave me a great amount of respect for a rhymed stanza.

Now between the meanings of words and their sounds there is ordinarily no discoverable relation except one of accident; and it is therefore miraculous, to the mystic, when words which make sense can also make a uniform objective structure of accents and rhymes.