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Posted: 10/9/2004 5:50:59 PM EDT
C'mon... we all know that there are poems that we like because they incite some kind of comradery, courage, pride, etc. in us. So, post your favorites and "Git 'er done."

Song of the Soldiers
by Charles G. Halpine

Comrades known in marches many,
Comrades, tried in dangers many,
Comrades, bound by memories many,
Brothers let us be.
Wounds or sickness may divide us,
Marching orders may divide us,
But whatever fate betide us,
Brothers of the heart are we.

Comrades, known by faith the clearest,
Tried when death was near and nearest,
Bound we are by ties the dearest,
Brothers evermore to be.
And, if spared, and growing older,
Shoulder still in line with shoulder,
And with hearts no thrill the colder,
Brothers ever we shall be.

By communion of the banner,
Crimson, white, and starry banner,
By the baptism of the banner,
Children of one Church are we.
Creed nor faction can divide us,
Race nor language can divide us
Still, whatever fate betide us,
Children of the flag are we.

AND -----------

Song of Marions Men
by William Cullen Bryant

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again.
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp
A moment and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 5:54:19 PM EDT

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 5:57:24 PM EDT
There once was a man from Nantucket...

Actually Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 5:57:37 PM EDT
by James Foley

O'Leary, from Chicago, and a first-class fightin' man,
For his father was from Kerry, where the gentle art began:
Sergeant Dennis P. O'Leary, from somewhere on Archie Road,
Dodgin' shells and smellin' powder while the battle ebbed and flowed.

And the captain says: "O'Leary, from your fightin' company
Pick a dozen fightin' Yankees and come skirmishin' with me;
Pick a dozen fightin' devils, and I know it's you who can."
And O'Leary, he saluted like a first-class fightin' man.

O'Leary's eye was piercin' and O'Leary's voice was clear:
"Dimitri Georgoupoulos!" And Dimitri answered "Here!"
Then "Vladimir Slaminsky! Step three paces to the front,
For we're wantin' you to join us in a little Heinie hunt!"

"Garibaldi Ravioli!" Garibaldi was to share;
And "Ole Axel Kettleson!" and "Thomas Scalp-the-Bear!"
Who was Choctaw by inheritance, bred in the blood and bones,
But set down in army records by the name of Thomas Jones.

"Van Winkle Schuyler Stuyvesant!" Van Winkle was a bud
From the ancient tree of Stuyvesant and had it in his blood;
"Don Miguel de Colombo!" Don Miguel's next of kin
Were across the Rio Grande when Don Miguel went in.

"Ulysses Grant O'Sheridan!" Ulysses' sire, you see,
Had been at Appomattox near the famous apple-tree;
And "Patrick Michael Casey!" Patrick Michael, you can tell,
Was a fightin' man by nature with three fightin' names as well.

"Joe Wheeler Lee!" And Joseph had a pair of fightin' eyes;
And his granddad was a Johnny, as perhaps you might surmise;
Then "Robert Bruce MacPherson!" And the Yankee squad was done
With "Isaac Abie Cohen!" once a lightweight champion.

Then O'Leary paced 'em forward and, says he: "You Yanks, fall in!"
And he marched 'em to the captain. "Let the skirmishin' begin."
Says he, "The Yanks are comin', and you beat 'em if you can!"
And saluted like a soldier and first-class fightin' man!
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:00:55 PM EDT
And when he gets to heaven
St Peter he will tell
Another soldier reporting sir
I've served my time in Hell.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:01:55 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:14:14 PM EDT by EricE]
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:12:30 PM EDT
The Man He Killed
by Thomas Hardy

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because--
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like--just as I--
Was out of work--had sold his traps--
No other reason why.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:13:12 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:14:34 PM EDT by EricE]
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:13:17 PM EDT
Trying to pull this one from memory so this might not be exactly right.

Three men shared death upon a hill
but only one man died.
The other two - a thief and God Himself
made rendezvous.

Three crosses still are bourn on Calvary's hill
where sin still lifts them high.
Upon the one - sag, broken men
who cursing, die.

Another holds the praying thief
or those, who penitent as he
Still find the Christ beside them
on the tree.

I believe the poem is by Miriam LeFevre - but again I could be wrong.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:14:32 PM EDT
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, bit too long to post here.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:16:54 PM EDT
Poor Willy, poor Willy
Poor Willy ain't no more
What Willy thought was H 2 O
Was really H 2 S O 4
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:18:55 PM EDT
Here I sit broken hearted
came to shit but only farted.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:19:31 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:23:57 PM EDT by ajm1911]
Commentary against tyranny

Prendimiento de Antoñito El Camborio

Antonio Torres Heredia,
hijo y nieto de Camborios,
con una vara de mimbre
va a Sevilla a ver los toros.
Moreno de verde luna
anda despacio y garboso.
Sus empavonados bucles
le brillan entre los ojos.
A la mitad del camino
cortó limones redondos,
y los fue tirando al agua
hasta que la puso de oro.
Y a la mitad del camino,
bajo las ramas de un olmo,
guardia civil caminera
lo llevó codo con codo.

El día se va despacio,
la tarde colgada a un hombro,
dando una larga torera
sobre el mar y los arroyos.
Las aceitunas aguardan
la noche de capricornio
y una corta brisa, ecuestre,
salta los montes de plomo.
Antonio Torres Heredia,
hijo y nieto de Camborios,
vienes sin vara de mimbre
entre los cinco tricornios.

Antonio, ¿quién eres tú?
Si te llamaras Camborio,
hubieras hecho una fuente
de sangre con cinco chorros.
Ni tú eres hijo de nadie,
ni legítimo Camborio.
¡ Se acabaron los gitanos
que iban por el monte solos!
Están los viejos cuchillos
tiritando bajo el polvo.
A las nueve de la noche
lo llevan al calabozo,
mientras los guardias civiles
beben limonada todos.
Y a las nueve de la noche
le cierran el calabozo,
mientras el cielo reluce
como la grupa de un potro.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:20:42 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:21:48 PM EDT by mtechgunman]
Here i sit all broken hearted,
Tried to shit, but only farted,
later i thought i try my luck,
tried to fart, and shit my pants.

don't think this is the correct line.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:21:27 PM EDT
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.

- Robert Service
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:21:40 PM EDT
I love the shit that I can't read
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:21:58 PM EDT
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:22:38 PM EDT
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:22:53 PM EDT
Do you wonder why that rifle
Is hanging in my den?
You know I rarely take it down
But I touch it now and then.

It's rather slow and heavy
By standards of today
But not too many years ago
It swept the rest away.

It's held its own in battles
Through snow, or rain, or sun
And I had one just like it,
This treasured old M-1.

It went ashore at Bougainville
In Nineteen Forty-Three.
It stormed the beach at Tarawa
Through a bullet-riddled sea.

Saipan knew its strident bark,
Kwajelein, its sting.
The rocky caves of Peleliu
Resounded with its ring.

It climbed the hill on Iwo
With men who wouldn't stop
And left our nation's banner
Flying on the top.

It poked its nose in Pusan,
Screamed an angry roar
And took the First Division
From Chosin Reservoir.

Well, time moves on
And things improve
With rifles and with men,
And that is why the two of us
Are sitting in my den.

But sometimes on a winter night,
While thinking of my Corps,
I know that if the bugle blew
We'd be a team once more.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:23:08 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:24:28 PM EDT by ajm1911]
F<ck it, I'm captain of my life.

Canción del Pirata

Con diez cañones por banda,
viento en popa a toda vela,
no corta el mar, sino vuela,
un velero bergantín:
bajel pirata que llaman,
por su bravura el Temido,
en todo mar conocido
del uno al otro confín.
La luna en el mar riela,
en la lona gime el viento,
y alza en blando movimiento
olas de plata y azul;
y ve el capitán pirata,
cantando alegre en la popa,
Asia a un lado; al otro, Europa;
y allá a su frente, Estambul.
«Navega, velero mío,
sin temor;
que ni enemigo navío,
ni tormenta, ni bonanza,
tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,
ni a sujetar tu valor.
Veinte presas
hemos hecho
a despecho
del inglés,
y han rendido
cien naciones
sus pendones
a mis pies.»
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
que es mi Dios la libertad,
mi ley la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.
«Allá muevan feroz guerra
ciegos reyes
por un palmo más de tierra;
que yo tengo aquí por mío
cuanto abarca el mar bravío,
a quien nadie impuso leyes.
Y no hay playa
sea cualquiera,
ni bandera
de esplendor
que no sienta
mi derecho
y dé pecho
a mi valor.»
Que es mi barco mi tesoro...
«A la voz de ¡Barco viene!
es de ver
cómo vira y se previene
a todo trapo escapar;
que yo soy el rey del mar,
y mi furia es de temer.
En las presas
yo divido
lo cogido
por igual;
sólo quiero
por riqueza
la belleza
sin rival.»
Que es mi barco mi tesoro...
«¡ Sentenciado estoy a muerte!
Yo me río;
no me abandone la suerte
y al mismo que me condena
colgaré de alguna entena,
quizá en su propio navío.
Y si caigo,
¿qué es la vida?
Por perdida
ya la di,
cuando el yugo
del esclavo
como un bravo
Que es mi barco mi tesoro...
«Son mi música mejor
el estrépito y temblor
de los cables sacudidos,
del negro mar los bramidos
y el rugir de mis cañones.
Y del trueno
al son violento
y del viento
al rebramar
yo me duermo
por la mar.»
Que es mi barco mi tesoro,
que es mi Dios la libertad,
mi ley la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:23:15 PM EDT
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, 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.

John McCrae

Oh captain, my captain, our fearful trip is done.
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won.
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all are cheering.
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring.

Walt Whitman

Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dreads us near!
On them shall come at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
upon the hollow wind.

Bryant, "Song of Marion's Men" (about the guerrilla Francis Marion during the American

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" He said;
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd -
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred E. Tennyson

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:24:18 PM EDT
Smart ass
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:25:31 PM EDT
And here's one a girl I briefly dated wrote for me (still sometimes wish I'd stuck with her...):

Each night I lie awake, aware
Your breath is missing from my hair;
The shoulder that should hold your head
Is empty like my lonely bed,
My cat appears with feline grace
To take my missing lover's place.
My arm unbidden settles round
The satisfying warmth its found.
She soothes my fingers with her fur;
She stops my sighing with her purr,
And ever gracious lets me pose
Half-dreaming kisses on her nose.
And while I watch with drowsy awe
She smooths her whiskers with one paw
To hide her self-contented grin,
Then claims my breast to rest her chin.
Thus having staked a daily claim,
She'll yield not for fickle flame.
Says clearly her determined face,
My absent lover's lost his place.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:26:18 PM EDT

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:30:30 PM EDT
Now hollow fires burn out to black,
And lights are guttering low.
Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
And leave your friends, and go.

Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,
Look not left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
There's nothing but the night.
---A.E. Houseman, "A Shropshire Lad"

So we'll go no more a'roving,
So late into the night,
Thought the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself must rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a'roving,
By the light of the moon.---"So We'll Go No More A'Roving," Lord Byron
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:31:06 PM EDT
Wrote this myself back in 2003 right before the Iraq War...

WAR TRAIN (sung to the tune of "Peace Train" by Cat Stevens)

Now I've been pissed off lately, thinking about Iraq again
And I believe it could be, something right has begun

Oh I've been hopeful lately, dreaming about the world as free
And I believe it could be, some day it's going to be

Cause out on the edge of Iraq, there rides a war train
Oh war train take out Saddam, give them back their home again

Now I've been hopeful lately, thinking about the world as free
And I believe it could be, something good is about to be

Oh war train sounding louder
Here comes the war train
Come on now war train
Yes, war train mighty power

Everyone jump upon the war train
Come on take out Hussein

Get your bombs together, go bring the Marines too
Cause it's time to kick ass, that's what we're gonna do

Now come and raise your voice now, and shout with glee
Cuz we're getting nearer, soon you will all be free

Now I've been angry lately, thinking about Saddam Hussein
Why must he go on killing, let's put a bullet in his brain

Cause out on the edge of Iraq, there rides a war train
Oh war train take out Saddam, give them back their home again

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:35:19 PM EDT
W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:44:03 PM EDT
"Isn't it strange that princes and kings
And clowns that caper in sawdust rings
And common people like you and me
Are builders of eternity?

Each is given a bag of tools,
A shapeless mass, a book of rules
And each must make, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block or a stepping stone."

R.L. Sharpe

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:45:40 PM EDT
How 'bout a limeric:

There once was a woman named Alice
Who used a dynamite stick for a phallus
They found her vagina in North Carolina
And bits of her tits down in Dallas
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:49:18 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:57:32 PM EDT by M1-Matt]
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.


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 onto 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 took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

"When I was one-and-twenty..."
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky;
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

Fading light, dims the sight,
And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright.
From afar, drawing nigh, falls the night.
Thanks and praise,for our days,'
Neath the sun, 'neath the stars, neath the sky;
As we go, this we know, God is nigh.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 6:50:41 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 6:53:02 PM EDT by IamtheNRA]

Originally Posted By Dilbert_556:
How 'bout a limeric:

There once was a woman named Alice
Who used a dynamite stick for a phallus
They found her vagina in North Carolina
And bits of her tits down in Dallas

There once was a lady from Wheeling
Who suddenly had a strange feeling
She laid on her back
And opened her crack
And pissed all over the ceiling

There was a man from Provincetown, Mass
Who had testicles made out of brass
He banged them together
To play "Stormy Weather"
And lightning shot out of his ass

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 7:07:42 PM EDT
The Mansions of the Lord

From We Were Soldiers

To fallen soldiers let us sing

Where no rockets fly nor bullets wing

Our broken brothers let us bring

To the Mansions of the Lord

No more bleeding, no more fight

No prayers pleading through the night

Just divine embrace, eternal light

In the Mansions of the Lord

Where no mothers cry and no children weep

We will stand and guard though the angels sleep

Through the ages safely keep

The Mansions of the Lord
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 7:15:36 PM EDT
Rat shit
Bat shit
Dirty old twat
69 assholes tied in a knot
Lizard shit

Hunter drinking irish whisky.....
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 7:24:57 PM EDT

Comfy chair dispair
Bulging springs make my ass hurt
There is no justice.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 7:36:54 PM EDT
Robert Frost

- The woods are lovley dark and deep, but I have miles to go before I sleep....


Link Posted: 10/9/2004 7:41:55 PM EDT

Originally Posted By Redcap:

Comfy chair dispair
Bulging springs make my ass hurt
There is no justice.

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:18:08 PM EDT
The Men Who Sail Below

Now each of us, from time to time, have gazed upon the sea,
and watched the warships pulling out, to keep the country free.
And most of us have read a book, or heard a lousy tale,
about the men who sail these ships, through lightning wind and hale.

But there is a place within each ship, that legend fails to teach
it's down below the water line, and takes a awful toll,
a red hot metal living hell, those sailors call the hole.
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go round,
a place of fire, noise and heat, that beats your spirit down.
Where boilers make a hellish heat, with blood of angry steam,
and moulded gods without remorse are nightmares in your dreams

Where threat from the fires roar, is like living in doubt,
that any minute, would with scorn, escape and crush you out,
where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell.
Those men who keep the fires lit and make the engines run,
are strangers to the world of night, and rarely see the sun.

They have no time for man no beast, no tolerance for fear,
their aspect pays no living thing the tribute of a tear.
For there's not much that men can do, that these one's haven't done,
below the decks, deep in the hole, to make those engines run.
And every hour of every day they keep the watch in hell,
for if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell.

When warships meet to have a war, upon an angry sea,
the men below just grimly smile at what their fate may be.
Turned too below, like men fore-doomed, who wear no battle cry,
it's well assumed that if they're hit, the men below will die.
Foe every day's a war down there, when the gauges all read red,
six hundred pounds of heated steam will kill you mighty dead.

So if you ever write their song or try to tell their tale,
the very words will make you hear, a fired furnace wall.
And people as a general rule, don't hear of men of steel,
so little's heard about this place, just inches from the keel.
But I can sing about this and try to make you see,
the hardened life of men down there, cause one of them is me.

I've seen these sweat soaked heroes fight, in superheated air,
to keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they're there.
And thus they'll fight for ages on, till warships sail no more,
amid the boilers mighty heat and turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out, to meet a warlike foe,
remember faintly if you can "the men who sail below"

Author Unknown
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:21:14 PM EDT
From bondage to spiritual faith;
From spiritual faith to great courage;
From courage to liberty;
From liberty to abundance;
From abundance to selfishness;
From selfishness to complacency;
From complacency to apathy;
From apathy to dependency;
From dependency back into bondage.

The Decline and Fall of the Athenian Republic
Alexander Fraser Tyler (1748 - 1813)
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:27:16 PM EDT
Don't rejoice in his death you men
For the World stood up and stopped the Bastard
but the bitch that bore him is in heat again

Bertlot Brecht
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:35:02 PM EDT

LIFE is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink,
there all fountains are poisoned.

To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see
the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean.

They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth
up to me their odious smile out of the fountain.

The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and
when they called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned
they also the words.

Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp
hearts to the fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when
the rabble approach the fire.

Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands:
unsteady, and withered at the top, doth their look make the

And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only
turned away from the rabble: he hated to share with them
fountain, flame, and fruit.

And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and
suffered thirst with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the
cistern with filthy camel drivers.

And many a one who hath come along as a destroyer, and as
a hailstorm to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into
the jaws of the rabble, and thus stop their throat.

And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to
now that life itself requireth enmity and death and

But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question:
WHAT? is the rabble also NECESSARY for life?
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:41:18 PM EDT
Robert Frost:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 9:59:15 PM EDT
We Wear the Mask by Paul Lawrence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile;
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 10:08:36 PM EDT
celery raw develops the jaw,
but celery stewed is more quietly chewed.

-- e.e. cummings
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 10:19:02 PM EDT
My favorite is Charge of the Light Brigade butsince that one is taken how about this:

High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 10:27:49 PM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/9/2004 10:29:02 PM EDT by BillofRights]
Sumo2000- you beat me by 2 minutes. The best flying poem ever written. The author was killed in a midair collision, a short time after he wrote that home to his mom.
Link Posted: 10/9/2004 11:11:11 PM EDT
Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
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.

Rudyard Kipling

The Benefactors
Ah! What avails the classic bent
And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
That actually occurred?

And what is Art whereto we press
Through paint and prose and rhyme--
When Nature in her nakedness
Defeats us every time?

It is not learning, grace nor gear,
Nor easy meat and drink,
But bitter pinch of pain and fear
That makes creation think.

When in this world's unpleasing youth
Our godlike race began,
The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,
Gave man control of man;

Till, bruised and bitten to the bone
And taught by pain and fear,
He learned to deal the far-off stone,
And poke the long, safe spear.

So tooth and nail were obsolete
As means against a foe,
Till, bored by uniform defeat,
Some genius built the bow.

Then stone and javelin proved as vain
As old-time tooth and nail;
Till, spurred anew by fear and pain,
Man fashioned coats of mail.

Then was there safety for the rich
And danger for the poor,
Till someone mixed a powder which
Redressed the scale once more.

Helmet and armour disappeared
With sword and bow and pike,
And, when the smoke of battle cleared,
All men were armed alike. . . .

And when ten million such were slain
To please one crazy king,
Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,
Grew weary of the thing;

And, at the very hour designed,
To enslave him past recall,
His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mind
Turned and abolished all.

All Power, each Tyrant, every Mob
Whose head has grown too large,
Ends by destroying its own job
And works its own discharge;

And Man, whose mere necessities
Move all things from his path,
Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,
And deprecates their wrath!

Link Posted: 10/9/2004 11:24:44 PM EDT
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Link Posted: 10/10/2004 12:40:02 AM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/10/2004 5:38:37 AM EDT by PennvilleBill]
Technically not a poem per se, but rather lyrics to a song:


A month of nights
A year of days.......
Octobers drifting into Mays.
I set my sail as the tide rolled in
And I cast my fate to the wind.

There never was
There'd never be
A place in time for men like me.....
Who laugh the dark
And drink the day
And let their wildest dreams blow away........

So now I'm home
I'm wise and smart.
But I'm just a man
With half a heart.
I wonder how it might've been
Had I not cast my fate to the wind.......


The Hell Bound Train

A Texas cowboy on a bar room floor
had drunk so much he could drink no more.
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
to dream he rode the Hell Bound Train.

The engine with blood was red and damp
and brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp.
An Imp for coal was shoveling bones
while the furnace rang with endless groans.
The boiler was filled with Lager and beer
and the devil himself was the engineer.

The passengers made a motley crew.
church member, atheist, gentile and jew.
Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags
handsome young ladies and withered old hags.
Yellow men, black men, red, brown and white
and chained together, a horrible sight.
While rained dashed on at an awful pace
and a hot wind wind scorced their hands and face.

Wilder and wilder the country grew
as faster and faster the engine flew.
Louder and louder the thunder crashed
brighter and brighter the lightening flashed.
Hotter and hotter the air became
till the clothes were burnt from each quiverering frame.
And in the distance there raised a yell:
"Gents" croaked the devil, the next stop's Hell!!

Then, oh!! how the passengers shrieked with pain
and begged the devil to stop the train.
But he capered about and sang with glee,
and laughed and joked at their agony.

"My faithful friends, you have done my work
and the devil can never a pay day shirk"
You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor,
and the starving brother, you turned from the door.

You have laid up gold where the canker rusts
and gave free vent to your fleshly lusts.
You have justice scourned and corruption sown
so the devil himself must claim his own.

You have drunk and rioted, murdered and lied
and mocked at God in your hell-born pride.
You have paid full fares so I will carry you through
for it is only right you get your just due.

The laborer always expects his hire,
so I will land you safe in my lake of fire.
Where your flesh shall roast in the flames that roar
and my imps torment you for evermore."

The cowboy awoke with an awful cry
his clothes were soaked and his hair on high.
He prayed as he never prayed until that hour,
to be saved from the drink and Satan's power.
And his vows and prayers were not made in vain,
for he bought no passage on the Hell-Bound Train."
Link Posted: 10/10/2004 12:47:00 AM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/10/2004 12:48:36 AM EDT by PennvilleBill]
Not trying to hi-jack this thread but I've got a question: I remember several years ago reading a poem -- but I can't remember the title or who wrote it. All I can remember is the last 5 lines:

Here lies he
Where he longs to be.
Home is the sailor
Home form the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Does this ring any bells? Can anyone help me out? I'd really be much obliged........

Link Posted: 10/10/2004 12:57:27 AM EDT
If I were a doggy,

and you were a flower.

I'd lift my leg,

and give you a shower!

Link Posted: 10/10/2004 7:03:54 AM EDT

Originally Posted By PennvilleBill:
Not trying to hi-jack this thread but I've got a question: I remember several years ago reading a poem -- but I can't remember the title or who wrote it. All I can remember is the last 5 lines:

Here lies he
Where he longs to be.
Home is the sailor
Home form the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Does this ring any bells? Can anyone help me out? I'd really be much obliged........

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Google. Know it, love it, live it.
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