Groans

(GROANS) Please!

(groaning)

Grunting, Groaning

Lot of fuss about nothing.

Subdued moaning in the passages.

Do you hear me whimpering?

Repent! And I got to moaning' Save me.

Don't worry. He's still groaning.

The soldier groaned with pain.

Do you have to whimper about it?

When I wiggle my hips

You mourn over a pair of old shoes.

Let her promise to atone Let her shiver, let her moan

Because I've heard a fly in pain.

Your lips are slightly parted, as if you were about to speak, or moan, or scream.

You hear the pitterpatter and rustle, soughing and sighing...

Yes, like having a sick whale in the backyard. Kept me awake too.

No grunting, no coughing, no wheezing, no talking to yourselves, no farting.

And I fancy on rainy nights, I would hear that old devil George moaning.

Of whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks ...

First a surprise party, which i abhor, and then that sloppy, sentimental speech.

Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns,

Yet I could see soiled nappies, and I could see that some of the children were distressed, but the only noise was a low, continuous moan.

I moaned about it, I hesitated, I went on and on and on to my long suffering wife, and eventually I decided to resign from the British Foreign Service.

As they went from the first building to the second, each of them passed a man who was bent over and moaning, clearly in need. The question is Did they stop to help?

So I did and stood amazed every week when these brilliant, grown up poets laughed with me and groaned their sympathy and clapped and told me, Hey, I really felt that too.

Singer of songs.

We sat there all day picking cotton, without complaining, without crying, while they sang things like Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan and Wade in the water, and I done done, This little light of mine.

You don't chant an om.

My heart keeps singing Keeps singing

They aren't minstrels.

Let me croon it for you.

Osama bin Laden, Bard of Terror

The 10 Tapping Troubadours?

But, in addition, I hear a chorus of discontent with the United Nations, drowning out the mournful voices of the impoverished, the marginalized and the diseased and dying, who, sadly, seem not to be getting the chance they so rightly deserve.

Natalie Merchant sings old poems to life

And she sang I mean her whole body sang.

In the words of that immortal bard, Samuel J. Snodgrass

To Scott.

The Taliban now run their own schools.

How beautiful to hear it sung with such sadness!

Singer of songs? But what work did you do?

No, thank you. I'm very familiar with Il trovatore.

A city tour at Zadar reveals remains of a Roman forum and a sea organ which plays music like the moan of a caged sea monster, through pipes set in the stone fabric of the promenade and open to the water.