The Official Poem Thread

[sluffy]

Another classic from the 'Bard of Salford' -

Try reading this poem out aloud!



THE PEST

the pest pulled up, propped his pushbike at a pillar box, pulled his 'peen, paused at a post and pissed.

'piss in the proper place' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian, and presently, this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain.

the pandemonium prompted the police, who patrolled the precinct in pandacars, to pull up and peruse the problem, while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs.

'arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place' pleaded the peeved people, practically palpitating.

the powerful police picked up the pest: pronounced him a poof, a pansy, a punk rocker, a pinko, a poodle poker. they picked him up, pummeled his pelvis, punctured his pipes, played ping-pong with his pubic parts, and packed him in a place of penal putrifaction.

the period in prison prooved pitiless. the pendulous pressure of a painless personality purge prompted the pest to ponder upon progessive politics... and a workable prognosis.

he put pen to paper and provatively and persuasively propogated his personal political premise -- pity: a police provacateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge. the police provacateur was promoted, and the pest was presented with the pulitzer peace prize... posthumously.




John Cooper Clarke

[Bruce Rioja]

eloquent feck aint he

Do you know a Salfordian? It couldn't have been written better.

[communistworkethic]

no i just like looking at tits

[enfieldwhite]

How will I know?
How can I ever understand the way to be?
The seeds of doubt begin to grow
Into the tree,
Which speaks, and yet cannot be heard.

''You're closed to me''
The hidden meaning,
Implication of a wrong.
The truth uncovered in a song.
You close your eyes
and find the answers held inside.

Where go we now?
Our different ways
Will always find the single path.
Lacrimations shed in aftermath.
And we shall die before revealing true intents.

[Montreal Wanderer]

Managers

I wonder if we’ll ever see
A ‘boss’ as short as Sammy Lee,
Causing me to ponder that
He seems as short as Sam is fat.

[Dave Sutton's barnet]

Nice thread idea Sluffster. My personal favourite version of "First they came..." is Half Man Half Biscuit's, but I haven't got the lyrics to hand... I'll ponder my own favourites, too. (I always preferred Exposure to Dulce Et Decorum Est...)

[TANGODANCER]

Lot of people think this is Kipling. It's actually J. Milton Hayes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

[Dujon]

OK, this is a bit parochial but what the heck:

_______________________________________

The Man from Snowy River
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson
_______________________________________

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

[sluffy]

The story about this poem goes something like this -

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, in the early 1970's it was believed that she had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through her meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

Since that time the poem as been passed around hospitals and nursing homes and apparently the poem is now used in the training of people who deal with the elderly.



What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.....
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill....
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten ...with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at twenty -- my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman ...and nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years ....all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
...Not a crabby old woman; look closer ...see ME!!

[Dave Sutton's barnet]

Here's one that, being the big soft get that I am, I had read at my wedding - by my mate the BWFC fan and playwright Les Smith, whose next play And Did Those Feet is about the White Horse Final... anyway...

He wishes for the cloths of heaven -- W.B. 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.

[communistworkethic]

there was an old man from north shore
who was the same shape behind as befoe
he didn't know where
to sit on a chair
so he just rolled about on the floor

[Moral Eclipse]

Here's one that, being the big soft get that I am, I had read at my wedding - by my mate the BWFC fan and playwright Les Smith, whose next play And Did Those Feet is about the White Horse Final... anyway...

He wishes for the cloths of heaven -- W.B. 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.

Reading through this thread, I was ready to post this myself.

[sluffy]

About time for a bit of Shakespear me thinks.

Our current form puts me in mind of Richard III's soliloquy (soliloquy means solo speech) - which as I understand it means something like if Richard can't win pretty (he was supposed to be deformed in real life - according to Shakespeare anyway) then he might as well be the bad guy and win ugly - well a win is a win after all!


Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this son of York

All the clouds that were upon our house

In the deep bosom of ocean buried.

Now we our brows bound with victorious wreaths,

Our bruised arms hung for monuments,

Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visag'd War hath smooth'd this wrinkled front;

And now, in stead of mounting barbed steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a chamber

To a lascivious lute.

But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissenbling nature,

Deform'd unfinish'd sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them-

Why, I in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to see my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover

To entertain these fair well-spoken days.

I am determined to prove a villian

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

[communistworkethic]

not a poem though is it?

[Bruce Rioja]

not a poem though is it?

No, and nor should it be confused with Black's January Sale - Now is the Winter of our discount tents!

[communistworkethic]

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides with the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.
Blessed is he who in the name of charity and good will shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness,
for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.
And I will strike down upon those with great vengeance and with furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.
And you will know that my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee

[Bruce Rioja]

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides with the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.
Blessed is he who in the name of charity and good will shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness,
for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.
And I will strike down upon those with great vengeance and with furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.
And you will know that my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee

I trust that you learned that particular passage from Pulp Fiction rather than The Bible.

[communistworkethic]

it's not in the bible

[Bruce Rioja]

it's not in the bible

Well Jules said that it was, and that he'd got it memorized. Ezekiel 25:17 or summat, and if you think I'm arguing with that big bastard then you can thing again!!!!

[communistworkethic]

only the last 2 lines are in Ezekial and then slightly different wording, the whole piece is another Tarrantino homage to japanese film.