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The Pirate Whip

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The Pirate Whip is a remix of The Weekend Whip , the theme song for Ninjago: Masters of Spinjitzu . It was used in the intro for Season 6: Skybound .

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Monday morning and we're getting started - it's on, you know

And we wanna see you whip and shout it - we rock, you roll

They say, "go slow"

And everything just stands so still

We say, "go go!"

You're gonna see us rip into it

Just jump up, kick back, whip around and spin

(And then we jump back, do it again)

Ninja , Go! Ninja, Go!

Come on, come on and do the Weekend Whip

Wednesday mornin' and we soon discover

We gotta push our game

We slept through Thursday just to get it over

The whip's a day away

You're gonna see us rip into it, just

(Rip into it, just)

Jump up, kick back. whip around and spin

And then we jump back, do it again

Ninja, Go! Ninja, Go!

Come on, come on, we're gonna do it again

We just jump up, kick back, whip around and spin

What shall we do with the pirates , ninja?

What shall we do with the pirates?

What shall we do with the pirates, ninja?

What shall we do?

What shall we do? What shall we do?

Jump up, kick back, whip around and spin

Ninja! Ninja!

Jump up, kick back, whip around and spin!

Oh way oh way oh, oh oh oh oh oh

• The lines "What shall we do with the pirates, ninja?" are a parody of " What shall we do with the drunken sailor? "
• This is the first remix of The Weekend Whip to have re-recorded lyrics.
• While the released version uses electric guitar in the intro, the version used in the TV series uses a different instrument, possibly the sitar.
• This is the only one of The Weekend Whip's remixes to contain a first verse not beginning with "It's time for training and we're getting started."
• According to Dan Castady, this was the first Weekend Whip remix to be remixed by the band themselves. [1]
• This song was featured at the beginning of the product animations for the Skybound sets.

References [ ]

• ↑ https://youtu.be/Z5EI8yWkELM?t=273
• 3 Season 1 (Dragons Rising)

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Ghostride the Whip

Family force 5.

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Family Force 5 (often abbreviated FF5, formerly known as The Phamily and The Brothers) is a Christian crunk rock band from Atlanta, Georgia. They consist of Solomon "Soul Glow Activatur" Olds, Jacob "Crouton" Olds, Joshua "Fatty" Olds, Nathan "Nadaddy" Currin, and Derek "Chap Stique" Mount. They have released four studio albums, Business Up Front/Party in the Back, Dance or Die, Family Force 5 Christmas Pageant, and III, as well a bonus edition album, Business Up Front/Party in the Back Diamond Edition,a remix album, Dance or Die with a Vengeance, and an EP III.V. more »

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Written by: D MOUNT, JACOB OLDS, JOSHUA OLDS, L OLDS, SOLOMON OLDS

Lyrics © MOON AND MUSKY MUSIC

Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind

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Know any other songs by family force 5 don't keep it to yourself, image credit, the web's largest resource for, music, songs & lyrics, a member of the stands4 network, watch the song video, more tracks from the album, dance or die with a vengeance.

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• #3 Rip It Up
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• #6 Party Foul
• #7 D-I-E 4 Y-O-U
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• #9 The First Time
• #10 Wake the Dead
• #11 Radiator
• #12 Ghostride the Whip

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• Locksley Lyrics
• Be In Love Album
• The Whip Lyrics

Locksley - The Whip Lyrics

Artist: Locksley

Album: Be In Love

Genre: Rock

Whoa oh-oh, oh oh oh, oh-oh oh-oh X8 She's coming home to me because she said I'm lonely darling please But instead of waiting, I go flying off to you Why? Oh well just because Whoa oh-oh, oh oh oh, oh-oh oh-oh X4 I writhe when you're gone, so I wait at your door You pull up in some guy's car around four I punch him, kiss then carry you inside Why? Oh well just because Whoa, oh-oh, oh oh oh, oh-oh oh-oh X4 Oh baby do you like me that way? There's something 'bout you that makes me want to say I don't mind, I don't mind, I don't mind Oh baby I like you that way She's coming home to me because she said I'm lonely darling please But instead of waiting, I go flying off to you Why? Well just because Well it's 'cos I love you And I love those crazy things you make me do I don't mind if you want me to I do, well baby 'cos I love you Whoa oh-oh, oh oh oh, oh-oh oh-oh I love you X3 Whoa oh-oh, oh oh oh, oh-oh oh-ohh

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New poetry: Woman of Winter is as relevant to 21st-century women as it is true to spirit of original

Vona groake gives her idiosyncratic voice to the ‘dramatic, articulate, wounded and resistant female protagonist’ in her new version of the lament of the old woman of beare.

The tomb of Art Ó Laoghaire: If ever a woman spoke across the centuries in tones of authentic love, that is Eibhlin Dubh in her lament for her murdered husband Art Ó Laoghaire in 1773

“My interest in the story is partly topographical,” says John Fitzgerald in his introduction to his new translation of The Lament for Art O’Leary (Gallery, €11.95). Fitzgerald grew up near Macroom, his feet familiar with the ground covered by the main players, his ear attuned to subtleties of the local accent.

Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill’s great keen for her murdered husband has been widely translated yet every version of the Lament “tells a different story”. Fitzgerald’s “desire to transfer the grief at the heart of the Caoineadh through the three-stressed line” was sparked by Seamus Heaney’s observation of how the Lament’s “three-stressed line” inspired his translation of Sophocles’ Burial at Thebes.

Primary school was where Fitzgerald first heard the Caoineadh read in the “captivating west-Muskerry baritone” of his teacher, John Brown. His palpable excitement drives this fresh, powerful version, evoking those local accents. According to Angela Bourke, the keen is similar to a rap and Fitzgerald’s version feels exactly like that, physically on its feet, the speaker rocking back and forth on the three-stressed line, gathering momentum as the poem builds from the insistent “you” at the end of every line in the first stanza, echoing the original “thú”.

As the sense of grief and loss builds, the assonance and alliteration so vital to the original Irish is released in exhilarating waves, “your sword ennobled you, your gold-roped hat, /fine leather boots/and double-fold coat,/all fashioned abroad for you.” Short prescriptive lines express urgency, strong verbs piled high add to the sense of mobility, “rise up at this moment, /put on your fine suit of the clearest white bolt,/fix your black beaver,/pull up your gauntlets/and straighten your whip”. Fitzgerald’s unmistakable, strong Cork accent works here like a charm beside Jack B Yeats’s original watercolours which first appeared in Frank O’Connor’s translation almost a century ago.

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Vona Groarke, whose acclaimed version of The Lament for Art O’Leary was published by Gallery in 2007, gives her idiosyncratic voice to another “dramatic, articulate, wounded and resistant female protagonist” in Woman of Winter (Gallery, €15), her new version of The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare. Responding to the poem’s deep engagement “with how the world is to be experienced through the body … specifically, through the body of a woman whose social standing has been compromised as she has aged”, Groarke extends this “forensic examination” of the ageing body, “now I’m worn thin as threadbare cloth my bare-bone life pokes through”.

The “bony arms” of Kuno Meyer’s original translation are likened to “whins in winter”, a tactile image that falls beautifully alliterative on the ear, setting up the rich sense of texture which characterises Groarke’s translation, “The green coat over Drummain /looks better than my dun brown./ And the fine-spun over its early fields is more pleasing than my coarse grain.”

This vivid tactility is complemented by Isabel Nolan’s delightful black and white drawings, inspired by images from old handwritten manuscripts. “After food/another hunger; after light another dark./ And no point tussling with either, no, /when you’ve had joy of both.”

Woman of Winter is as relevant to the 21st-century woman as it is true to the spirit of the original lament, its pitiless, richly assonantal voice commanding trust with its honest dissection of a “cramped, parched room” and it brings its own bittersweet light to an unexpectedly consoling lyrical conclusion, “the day I loved and the day I didn’t;/ not long, either of them,/now I look back;/not long at all in the end//but lovely too, sweet as the sea/ on a May afternoon/when the tide,/coming in just as far as it comes,/ slips away off, quietly.”

Daragh Breen’s Birds of November (Shearsman, £10.95) begins with a sea bird asking “its own ghost/what death is like”, its “dead-self” enabled by “its disparate selves/to dis-remember which was/ life and which was death,/floating in this Purgatory of mud.” Breen’s haunting voice is at home in the autumnal, purgatorial landscape, his heady flights earthed by precise, concrete observations.

St Brendan’s memory “mottled like a trout” throws up an image of ‘a fatty pair of trotters/… laid out on the silver platter” of a market stall tray, one limply and slightly layered/over the other, like Christ’s feet, nailed and fastened to the Cross”. (Navagatio). Imagery reflects earth in the heavens, The Milky Way compared to a “tangled thorn tree” in The Lamb of God Enters a Handball Alley in Connemara where “Trailing a clogged-spittle of afterbirth…the ewe nudges the wet mess of her lamb”. Animal and human selves blur, masks are a key component, both startling and true:

Garlanded with rubber ventilators

the fog of their lung-snouts

echoing in their ears,

newly shod with trench foot

and just one more death away from madness

a sudden owl mistakes all those

staring back from their long open grave

for brethren. (Mustard Gas)

In the title poem “A black rose blooms/suddenly and briefly’ above a fir tree as crows appear to remove masks before disappearing. Highly visual, deeply metaphysical, Breen’s use of the mask is at its most piercing in Carved Turnip, evoking the strange dissolve at moment of death:

The female dog that we had to take

to be put to sleep

stumbled about the vet’s small room

looking for an exit

while wearing a mask of my face

as we crouched and watched

and I tried to hold my breath

so that it didn’t extinguish her candle.

The astonishingly beautiful poems in Maya Popa’s Wound is the Origin of Wonder (Picador, £10.99) stem from Popa’s mediation on “Wonder, from the Old English wundor…thought to be a cognate with the German wunde or wound.” Complex and precise, Popa’s lyrics circle around grief in all its manifestations, “Like August stars, we offer/temporary light, our lives measured//in latitudes of loss…

…the humble vase broken by Marcel Proust re-glued,

imbued with preciousness. He believed that grief develops the mind. What is

the mind if not that surface upon which the world can be endlessly rebroken?

(After A Vase Broken By Marcel Proust)

Popa writes on large public griefs such as the pandemic in Pestilence and They Are Building A Field Hospital or climate change in Letter To Noah’s Wife, “Lately, only lately, it is late, tucking/our families into the safeties of the past./ My children, will they exist by the time/it’s irreversible? Will they live/astonished at the thought of ice/ not pulled from the mouth of a machine?” In All Inner Life Runs At Some Delay, Popa references Rumi, “The wound is where the light enters us”, concluding “There shines the face of the beloved/ like a headlamp in the dark.”

Popa’s poems move easily from larger events to the deeply personal, illuminated by an original light like no other, her glowing gaze switched on from the tremendous opening poem, Dear Life, “I can’t undo all I have done to myself,/what I have let an appetite for love do to me.//I have wanted all the world, its beauties/ and its injuries; some days,/I think that is punishment enough.” Popa’s pin-sharp lyrics teach us how “wundor” might emerge from pain, “Dear life: I feel that hook today most keenly// Would you loosen the line – I’ll listen//if I ask you,//if you are the sort of life I think you are.”

Martina Evans

Martina Evans, a contributor to The Irish Times, is a poet, novelist and critic

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