~your favorite poems~

lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

i would love to read everyone's favorite poems~~please post some! :) ...here's one of mine~~~~~~~~~~~by W.H. Auden, from "four weddings and a funeral"~~~~~~~







Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.



Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.



He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.



The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.:yh_flower
john8pies
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Post by john8pies »

Yes, I love that one , too. I won`t quote my fave poems in full but absolutely anything at all by the Jesuit priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins, I find really interesting and compelling. Look him up on the net if you don`t know who I mean.
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BTS
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Post by BTS »

Good Idea LC!!!!!!!!!

Thanx



I love Robert Service and his down to earth poems.

I want to introduce him to the younger generation then a poem that says a lot about my life in general.



Robert Service





Jan. 16, 1874 - Sept. 11, 1958



The following obituary appeared in the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph of Sept. 16, 1958:



A GREAT POET died last week in Lancieux, France, at the age of 84.



He was not a poet's poet. Fancy-Dan dilletantes will dispute the description "great."



He was a people's poet. To the people he was great. They understood him, and knew that any verse carrying the by-line of Robert W. Service would be a lilting thing, clear, clean and power-packed, beating out a story with a dramatic intensity that made the nerves tingle.



And he was no poor, garret-type poet, either. His stuff made money hand over fist. One piece alone, The Shooting of Dan McGrew, rolled up half a million dollars for him. He lived it up well and also gave a great deal to help others.



"The only society I like," he once said, "is that which is rough and tough - and the tougher the better. That's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people."



He found that kind of society in the Yukon gold rush, and he immortalized it.



Too bad there are not more poets like Service, and fewer who seem to be talking to themselves in wispy symbolisms that resemble nothing so much as the maunderings of 3 a.m. drunks at a bar.





The Men That Don't Fit In



There's a race of men that don't fit in,

A race that can't stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain's crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

And they don't know how to rest.



If they just went straight they might go far;

They are strong and brave and true;

But they're always tired of the things that are,

And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,

What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

Is only a fresh mistake.



And each forgets, as he strips and runs

With a brilliant, fitful pace,

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones

Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

Forgets that his prime is past,

Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,

In the glare of the truth at last.



He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him,

And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

He was never meant to win;

He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;

He's a man who won't fit in.

"If America Was A Tree, The Left Would Root For The Termites...Greg Gutfeld."
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spot
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Post by spot »

Great man, Robert Service. Drove an Ambulance in World War 1. Had to escape from Poland when World War 2 broke out. A Scots englishman. Ronald Reagan's favorite poet. His domestic poems discussing his life in France are amazing.

If you like Auden, lady, you might know this already, but if not it's very good:

W. H. Auden:

"The Two" (or "The Witnesses")

You are the town and we are the clock.

We are the guardians of the gate in the rock.

The Two.

On your left and on your right

In the day and in the night,

We are watching you.

Wiser not to ask just what has occurred

To them who disobeyed our word;

To those

We were the whirlpool, we were the reef,

We were the formal nightmare, grief

And the unlucky rose.

Climb up the crane , learn the sailor's words

When the ships from the islands laden with birds

Come in.

Tell your stories of fishing and other men's wives:

The expansive moments of constricted lives

In the lighted inn.

But do not imagine we do not know

Nor that what you hide with such care won't show

At a glance.

Nothing is done, nothing is said,

But don't make the mistake of believing us dead:

I shouldn't dance.

We're afraid in that case you'll have a fall.

We've been watching you over the garden wall

For hours.

The sky is darkening like a stain,

Something is going to fall like rain

And it won't be flowers.

When the green field comes off like a lid

Revealing what was much better hid:

Unpleasant.

And look, behind you without a sound

The woods have come up and are standing round

In deadly crescent.

The bolt is sliding in its groove,

Outside the window is the black remov-

ers' van.

And now with sudden swift emergence

Come the woman in dark glasses and humpbacked surgeons

And the scissors man.

This might happen any day

So be careful what you say

Or do.

Be clean, be tidy, oil the lock,

Trim the garden, wind the clock,

Remember the Two.
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

i do like Auden's style and turn of phrase. there are so many wonderful poets, and much depends on your frame of mind as you seek to find an appropriate one. i hope more people will post their favorites here. i love Shakespeare and the sonnets, the classics which England gave us. :yh_flower ~~~~also love this one, reminds me of my New England home~~~Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening - Robert Frost



Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.
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spot
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Post by spot »

I think you should put up "the road less travelled" too, lady. Who knows what sort of collection we might build in this thread, if we keep it going?



Epitaph, by Lascelles Abercrombie

Sir, you shall notice me: I am the Man;

I am Good Fortune: I am satisfied.

All I desired, more than I could desire,

I have: everything has gone right with me.

Life was a hiding-place that played me false;

I croucht ashamed, and still was seen and scorned:

But now I am not seen. I was a fool,

And now I know what wisdom dare not know:

For I know Nothing. I was a slave, and now

I have ungoverned freedom and the wealth

That cannot be conceived: for I have Nothing.

I lookt for beauty and I longed for rest,

And now I have perfection: nay, I am

Perfection: I am nothing, I am dead.
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

even as a very young girl this poem had a profound impact on me~~~Invictus

by William Ernest Henley; 1849-1903






Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.
lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

please do join in everyone, this could be a lovely little anthology of our favorites :)
Tan
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Post by Tan »

My favorite favorite poet is Robert Frost. Some of his greatest: Nothing Gold Can Stay, Mending Wall, Acquainted with the Night, and :

The Road not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,



And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.
Tan
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Post by spot »

All but two of the poets so far in this thread have been Americans who were born (with the exception of Robert Frost) in England. Auden certainly lived there long enough to qualify. I remember him moving back to Oxford for the last couple of years of his life, to rooms in Christchurch, but before then he'd lived in America since the 1940s. Anne Bradstreet, who wrote this poem, is no different.

It was written in Andover, Massachusetts: Upon my Son Samuel his going for England, November 6, 1657. Sea voyages were unsafe then, and for centuries after, and the poem is essentially a prayer. It's very simple and clean, and filled with the Puritan certainty that took the Pilgrims to Boston in the first place. I think she's started to be spoken of on American literature courses, having the virtue of being not only the first real poet to write in America, but also a woman. I've tidied the spelling into a 21st century norm, for which I may never be forgiven.



Thou mighty God of Sea and Land,

I here resign into Thy hand

Thy Son of prayers, of vows, of tears,

The child I stay'd for many years.

Thou heard'st me then, and gav'st him me;

Hear me again, I give him Thee.

He's mine, but more, O Lord, Thine own,

For sure thy Grace on him is shown.

No friend I have like Thee to trust,

For mortal helps are brittle dust.

Preserve, O Lord, from storms and wrack,

Protect him there, and bring him back;

And if Thou shalt spare me a space,

That I again may see his face,

Then shall I celebrate thy Praise,

And Bless Thee for't e'en all my Days.

If otherwise I go to Rest,

Thy Will be done, for that is best;

Persuade my heart I shall him see

For ever happefie'd with Thee.
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nvalleyvee
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Post by nvalleyvee »

Anything by Sylvia Plath. I'm still feeling that angst.
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

nvalleyvee wrote: Anything by Sylvia Plath. I'm still feeling that angst.you're not getting away with that, post one! xoxox OK the poet police says don't post on this thread unless you bring a poem with you!! ;)
lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

i was born in the house of this poem. joyce kilmer lived next door. the night my Dad died i picked up a book of poetry, and it fell open to this. my Dad had shown me the house once. there are no accidents. i read this poem at his funeral. ....



House with Nobody in it

a poem by Joyce Kilmer































Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track

I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.



I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;

That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.

I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.



This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,

And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;

But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.



If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid

I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be

And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.



Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,

Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.

But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone

For the lack of something within it that it has never known.



But a house that has done what a house should do,

a house that has sheltered life,

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,

A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.



So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,

Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,







For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.









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Post by spot »

I'd never heard the name Joyce Kilmer before, nor seen that poem. It's very atmospheric. Like most people I've seen his poem Trees (Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree). Until now, I'd thought the author of that was Ogden Nash-like and a writer of quips, not poems. It shows how easy it is to make wrong assumptions.

I found the following poem today at http://www.nd.edu/~ndmag/au2003/brogan.html while straying around the Internet looking at the traces Joyce Kilmer left behind. A volunteer, he died in France near the end of the First World War. His family website, http://www.risingdove.com/Kilmer/1_4JKpapers.asp shows, among other things, a poem (not the one below) by Charles L. O'Donnell which he carried with him while serving overseas. O'Donnell, too, was a serving volunteer in that war.

Who influenced whom, I wonder? This woodland poem of O'Donnell's is so like the voice of Robert Frost, above, who used a similar setting. Joyce Kilmer and trees are so inseparable that there's a Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina.

Jacqueline Vaught Brogan's article which I referenced first is well worth reading in full, I found it fascinating.



At Notre Dame, by Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, CSC

So well I love these woods I half believe

There is an intimate fellowship we share;

So many years we breathed the same brave air,

Kept spring in common, and were one to grieve

Summer's undoing, saw the fall bereave

Us both of beauty, together learned to bear

The weight of winter. When I go other where -

An unreturning journey - I would leave

Some whisper of a song in these old oaks,

A footfall lingering till some distant summer

Another singer down these paths may stray -

The destined one a golden future cloaks -

And he may love them, too, this graced newcomer,

And may remember that I passed this way.
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Post by spot »

These are not quite a hundred years old, and English, and meant to amuse. Poetry is a good medium for humor, it's great for reading aloud to children especially if you can perform while reading.





George, Who played with a Dangerous Toy, and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions.

by Hilaire Belloc



When George's Grandmamma was told That George had been as good as gold,

She promised in the afternoon To buy him an Immense BALLOON.

And so she did; but when it came, It got into the candle flame,

And being of a dangerous sort Exploded with a loud report!

The lights went out! The windows broke! The room was filled with reeking smoke.

And in the darkness shrieks and yells Were mingled with electric bells,

And falling masonry and groans, And crunching, as of broken bones,

And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all, The house itself began to fall!

It tottered, shuddering to and fro, Then crashed into the street below-

Which happened to be Savile Row.

When help arrived, among the dead Were Cousin Mary, Little Fred,

The Footmen (both of them), the Groom, The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,

The Chaplain, and the Still-Room Maid. And I am dreadfully afraid

That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef, Will now be permanently deaf-

And both his aides are much the same; While George, who was in part to blame,

Received, you will regret to hear, A nasty lump behind the ear.

Moral:

The moral is that little boys

Should not be given dangerous toys.





Hildebrand, Who was frightened by a Passing Motor, and was brought to Reason.

by Hilaire Belloc



"Oh murder! What was that, Papa!" "My child, It was a Motor-Car, A most Ingenious Toy!

Designed to Captivate and Charm Much rather than to arouse Alarm In any English Boy.

"What would your Great Grandfather who Was Aide-de-Camp to General Brue, And lost a leg at Waterloo, And Quatre-Bras and Ligny too! And died at Trafalgar!-

What would he have remarked to hear His Young Descendant shriek with fear, Because he happened to be near

A Harmless Motor-Car!

But do not fret about it! Come! We'll off to Town And purchase some!"
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

delightful Spot! :)
koan
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Post by koan »

Anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hoe and then)they

said their nevers and they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt for forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

-- e.e. cummings
lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

IF





If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;

If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same:.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;



If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"



If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling
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Post by Bothwell »

Got to be the war poets

The Soldier by Rupert Brooke



If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.



And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.



and the most heart wrenching of them all.

Anthem For A doomed Youth by Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

And just to lighten it up a bit, a poem by the great Spike Milligan, possibly the most underrated childrens poet.

On the Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong

Where the Cows go Bong!

And the Monkeys all say Boo!

Theres a Nang Nong Ning

Where the trees go Ping!

And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo

On the Nong Ning Nang

All the Mice go Clang!

And you just cant catch em when they do!

So its Ning Nang Nong!

Cows go Bong!

Nong Nang Ning!

Trees go Ping!

Nong Ning Nang!

The mice go Clang!

What a noisy place to belong,Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong
"I have done my duty. I thank God for it!"
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spot
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Post by spot »

Right then, homies, let's posse.



"When in public poetry should take off its clothes and wave to the nearest person in sight; it should be seen in the company of thieves and lovers rather than that of journalists and publishers." (Brian Patten (b. 1946), British poet. "Prosepoem Towards a Definition of Itself.")





Talking Turkeys, by Benjamin Zephaniah

from http://www.benjaminzephaniah.com/rhymin.html

Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas

Cos' turkeys just wanna hav fun

Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked

An every turkey has a Mum.

Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,

Don't eat it, keep it alive,

It could be yu mate, an not on your plate

Say, Yo! Turkey I'm on your side.

I got lots of friends who are turkeys

An all of dem fear christmas time,

Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it

An humans are out of dere mind,

Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys

Dey all hav a right to a life,

Not to be caged up an genetically made up

By any farmer an his wife.

Turkeys just wanna play reggae

Turkeys just wanna hip-hop

Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying,

'I cannot wait for de chop',

Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV,

Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain

In many ways like yu an me.

I once knew a turkey called...Turkey

He said "Benji explain to me please,

Who put de turkey in christmas

An what happens to christmas trees?",

I said "I am not too sure turkey

But it's nothing to do wid Christ Mass

Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be

An business men mek loadsa cash'.

Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas

Invite dem indoors fe sum greens

Let dem eat cake an let dem partake

In a plate of organic grown beans,

Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas

An spare dem de cut of de knife,

Join Turkeys United an dey'll be delighted

An yu will mek new friends 'FOR LIFE'.
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scenerio
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Post by scenerio »

hello everyone.

i cant believe no one has posted thisone yet it is one of my favories

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

it gives me chills every time i read it(~~~~~~~~wooooo~~~~~) :D
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

...Love Sonnet XI, by Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

And I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

by Cristina Rossetti.... Remember



Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.
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spot
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Post by spot »

The Latest Decalogue, by Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)



Thou shalt have one God only; who

Would be at the expense of two?

No graven images may be

Worshipped, except the currency:

Swear not at all; for, for thy curse

Thine enemy is none the worse:

At church on Sunday to attend

Will serve to keep the world thy friend:

Honour thy parents, that is, all

From whom advancement may befall;

Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive

Officiously to keep alive:

Do not adultery commit;

Advantage rarely comes of it:

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,

When it's so lucrative to cheat:

Bear not false witness; let the lie

Have time on its own wings to fly:

Thou shalt not covet, but tradition

Approves all forms of competition.
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beyelzu
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Post by beyelzu »

The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot

(just the first few lines from memory)

Let us go then you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table.

Let us go through certain half deserted streets

The muttering retreats of restless nights in one night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells

Streets that follow like a tedious argument of inisdious intent.

To lead you to an overwhelming question

Oh do not ask what is it,

Let us go and make our visit.

.....

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and wept

Though I have seen my head grown slightly bald brought in upon a platter

I am no prophet and here's no great matter

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker

I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker and in short

I was afraid



Prufock is rocking good.
koan
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Post by koan »

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond





somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands





e. e. cummings
beyelzu
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Post by beyelzu »

ee cummings is a god.
scenerio
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Post by scenerio »

beyelzu wrote: ee cummings is a god.
no no no :mad:

ladycop said your supposed to write a poem ;)

( he is very good though) :rolleyes:
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

scenerio wrote: no no no :mad:



ladycop said your supposed to write a poem ;)

( he is very good though) :rolleyes:LOL...it's fine to comment, i think we have a nice collection going here. i hope more are forthcoming.......:)
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spot
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Post by spot »

scenerio wrote: ladycop said your supposed to write a poem ;) My turn, my turn. We have to write them ourselves?

This poetry forum's a sin

I wouldn't let half of it in

but those I hate most

are instantly toast

and left in my recycle bin.

A poetry forum enforcer

deleted all kids' verse and Chaucer,

saying clean stuff was tame

and old stuff too lame,

the ones that she liked were much coarser.
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Post by lady cop »

Spot you're a poet! :)
scenerio
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Post by scenerio »

lady cop wrote: Spot you're a poet! :)
O-S-M-R

good boy spot (ha :wah: ha)

very good spot why not enter it in the poetry contest,

it would give some people a run for their money.
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Post by spot »

Well, maybe we could write some more between us. I'm not sure Limericks are proper poems though.

This one is. It's by James Dickey, and I've hesitated several times about posting it. I decided to because it's so vivid and it impressed me.

OK, I can't actually bring myself to post it, the imagery isn't suitable for some of the younger posters in the Garden. I'll link to it, simply because it really is an amazing and little-known poem.

James Dickey [1923-1997] was an American author and poet known for his mastery of free verse. After his military service as a pilot in World War II and the Korean War he began to teach, first at Rice University in Texas, then at the University of Florida, which he left over attempts to censor his work. He then entered a career in advertising where he was "selling his soul to the devil in the daytime and buying it back at night." Dickey won the National Book Award in Poetry in 1965, and is well known for his 1970 novel Deliverance.

The poem, "The Sheep-Child", is at http://www.swans.com/library/art7/xxx059.html
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Post by BTS »

I listened to this when I was a kid on an old 33 1/3 album of Stuart Hamblin my dad had.



The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert W. Service



There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.



Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

Where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam

'Round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold

Seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way

That he'd "sooner live in hell".



On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way

Over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold

It stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze

Till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one

To whimper was Sam McGee.



And that very night, as we lay packed tight

In our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead

Were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,

"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you

Won't refuse my last request."



Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;

Then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold

Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread

Of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,

You'll cremate my last remains."



A pal's last need is a thing to heed,

So I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn;

But God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day

Of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all

That was left of Sam McGee.



There wasn't a breath in that land of death,

And I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,

Because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:

"You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you

To cremate those last remains."



Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,

And the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,

In my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,

While the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --

O God! how I loathed the thing.



And every day that quiet clay

Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent

And the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,

But I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,

And it hearkened with a grin.



Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,

And a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice

It was called the "Alice May".

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,

And I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,

"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."



Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,

And I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around,

And I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --

Such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,

And I stuffed in Sam McGee.



Then I made a hike, for I didn't like

To hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,

And the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled

Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak

Went streaking down the sky.



I do not know how long in the snow

I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about

Ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:

"I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .

Then the door I opened wide.



And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,

In the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile,

And he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear

You'll let in the cold and storm --

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,

It's the first time I've been warm."



There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.
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lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

very evocative and nice...i like the Christmas allusion.
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nvalleyvee
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Post by nvalleyvee »

nvalleyvee wrote: Anything by Sylvia Plath. I'm still feeling that angst.


I apologize. I do NOT still feel the angst. I don't really understand what I was thinking 35 years ago. I will find a poem though. I hope you all can laugh at me as hard as I'm laughing a myself right now.
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Post by nvalleyvee »

Thanks LC for making me think!!!!!
The growth of knowledge depends entirely on disagreement..........Karl R. Popper
lady cop
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Post by lady cop »

nvalleyvee wrote: Thanks LC for making me think!!!!!don't know what i said or did, but this poetry thread is really lovely. i really like all of them, and hope for more. it's so comforting to read them.
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Post by nvalleyvee »

By William Williams:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

OK I can't find one.
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Post by nvalleyvee »

lady cop wrote: you're not getting away with that, post one! xoxox OK the poet police says don't post on this thread unless you bring a poem with you!! ;)


It was a while ago.
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Post by spot »

Two linked poets:

Wendy Cope, "Another Unfortunate Choice":

I think I am in love with A. E. Housman,

Which puts me in a worse than usual fix.

No woman ever stood a chance with Housman

And he's been dead since 1936.



A small portion of A. E. Housman's "A Shropshire Lad":

XXXIV

THE NEW MISTRESS

"'Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?

You may be good for something, but you are not good for me.

Oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here.'

And that was all the farewell when I parted from my dear.



"I will go where I am wanted, to a lady born and bred

Who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red;

She will not be sick to see me if I only keep it clean:

I will go where I am wanted for a soldier of the Queen.



"I will go where I am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind;

He may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind:

He gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap,

And I never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap.



"I will go where I am wanted, where there's room for one or two,

And the men are none too many for the work there is to do;

Where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick;

And the enemies of England they shall see me and be sick."



XLIV

Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?

Oh that was right, lad, that was brave:

Yours was not an ill for mending,

'Twas best to take it to the grave.



Oh you had forethought, you could reason,

And saw your road and where it led,

And early wise and brave in season

Put the pistol to your head.



Oh soon, and better so than later

After long disgrace and scorn,

You shot dead the household traitor,

The soul that should not have been born.



Right you guessed the rising morrow

And scorned to tread the mire you must:

Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,

But men may come to worse than dust.



Souls undone, undoing others,--

Long time since the tale began.

You would not live to wrong your brothers:

Oh lad, you died as fits a man.



Now to your grave shall friend and stranger

With ruth and some with envy come:

Undishonoured, clear of danger,

Clean of guilt, pass hence and home.



Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking;

And here, man, here's the wreath I've made:

'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking,

But wear it and it will not fade.



XXVII

"Is my team ploughing,

That I was used to drive

And hear the harness jingle

When I was man alive?"



Ay, the horses trample,

The harness jingles now;

No change though you lie under

The land you used to plough.

"Is football playing

Along the river shore,

With lads to chase the leather,

Now I stand up no more?"



Ay, the ball is flying,

The lads play heart and soul;

The goal stands up, the keeper

Stands up to keep the goal.

"Is my girl happy,

That I thought hard to leave,

And has she tired of weeping

As she lies down at eve?"



Ay, she lies down lightly,

She lies not down to weep,

Your girl is well contented.

Be still, my lad, and sleep.

"Is my friend hearty,

Now I am thin and pine,

And has he found to sleep in

A better bed than mine?"



Yes, lad, I lie easy,

I lie as lads would choose;

I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,

Never ask me whose.







XLV

If by chance your eye offend you,

Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:

'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,

And many a balsam grows on ground.

And if your hand or foot offend you,

Cut it off, lad, and be whole;

But play the man, stand up and end you,

When your sickness is your soul.
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Post by LoveMama »

My favorite poet..has always been the American, Robert Frost. He did move to England for sometime with his wife and children but later in life returned to New Hampshire where this particular poem was written

In the mid fifties I enrolled in a class in College called...Speech Interpretation. Our major assignment was to an oral presentation to the class of our favorite poem.........and to pretend that you were the author and this was the first time anyone would have read or heard the message of the poem. I chose "Birches" by Robert Frost.

Here is the poem...and by the way, I got an "A+" for the presentation.

Birches

WHEN I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.

Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows--

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It's when I'm weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

xxxxxoooo

mama......
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Post by spot »

Phoebe Cary (1824 - 1871) American Poet



WHEN lovely woman wants a favor,

And finds, too late, that man won't bend,

What earthly circumstance can save her

From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,

The last experiment to try,

Whether a husband or a lover,

If he have feeling, is, to cry!
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Post by lady cop »

....In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.



We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.
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Post by spot »

lady cop wrote: ....In Flanders FieldsIf you ever see a copy of http://imdb.com/title/tt0064754/ "Oh! What a Lovely War" in a video rental shop, lady, you'd do well to watch it. I guarantee tears. The imagery of that poem is all there.
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Post by lady cop »

oh good, make me cry! ........thanks, i will look for it.
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Post by spot »

Sarah N. Cleghorn (1876–1959), U.S. poet

THANKS to St. Matthew, who had been

At mass-meetings in Palestine,

We know whose side was spoken for

When Comrade Jesus had the floor.

"Where sore they toil and hard they lie,

Among the great unwashed, dwell I: -

The tramp, the convict, I am he;

Cold-shoulder him, cold-shoulder me."

The Dives' doom, with thoughtful eye,

He did tomorrow prophesy: -

"The Kingdom's gate is low and small;

The rich can scarce wedge through at all."

"A dangerous man," said Caiaphas,

"An ignorant demagogue, alas!

Friend of low women, it is he

Slanders the upright Pharisee."
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Post by spot »

There's a famous seaside town called Blackpool that's noted for fresh air and fun,

And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert, all dressed in his best; quite a swell

With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle, the finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the Ocean, the waves they were fiddling and small,

There was no wrecks and nobody drownded, fact nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement they paid and went to the zoo

Where they'd lions and tigers and camels and old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace, his nose were all covered with scars

He lay in a somnolent posture with the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions, how they was ferocious and wild

To see Wallace lying so peaceful, well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller, not showing a morsel of fear,

Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle and shoved it in Wallace's ear.

You could see the lion didn't like it for, giving a kind of a roll,

He pulled Albert inside the cage with him and swallowed the little lad whole

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence and didn't know what to do next

Said "Mother! Yon lion's et Albert" and Mother said "Well, I am vexed!"

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom, quite rightly when all's said and done

Complained to the Animal Keeper that the lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it, he said "What a nasty mishap

Are you sure it's your boy he's eaten?" Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!"

The manager had to be sent for. He came and he said "What's to do?"

Pa said "Yon lion's et Albert, and him in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller, I think it's a shame and a sin

For a lion to go and eat Albert, and after we've paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble, he took out his purse right away

Saying "How much to settle the matter?" and Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

But Mother had turned a bit awkward when she thought where her Albert had gone

She said "No! someone's got to be summonsed", so that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the Police Station, in front of the Magistrate chap

They told him what happened to Albert and proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion that no one was really to blame

And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing - "And thank you, sir, kindly," said she

"What waste all our lives raising children to feed ruddy lions? Not me!"
Nullius in verba|||||||||||
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lady cop
Posts: 14744
Joined: Wed Nov 24, 2004 1:00 pm

~your favorite poems~

Post by lady cop »

now THAT was amusing! :)

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