Quotes about cobbler, page 3
Not to discriminate
A cobbler, a tailor or a builder,
Is superior than you in his skills,
Like a lawyer, a doctor or a teacher.
But you slight the former group when you deal.
02.05.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The old aping youth
As an actor, you can don any roles:
A lover, a cobbler or a robber;
Don't act as a youth, a half of your age.
You are awkward irritate our eyes.
20.09.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Knocking Shop (Fun Poem 117)
I have a little place
I call my knocking shop,
my little den of iniquity
where I go
and bang away all day.
However, it’s not what you’re thinking
and it’s not rude or crude
as I’m a little cobbler
and I bang away
on my shoes all day.
29 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 45
A kind old man in Baghdad
Gave his daughter to a cobbler.
The cruel little man so bit her
That blood flowed from the daughter’s lips.
Next morning the father saw her thus
And going to the bridegroom asked him:
‘O mean wretch, what teeth are these?
Chewest thou thus her lips? They are not leather.
I do not say these words in jest,
Leave joking off and enjoy her seriously.
If ill humour becomes fixed in a nature
It will not leave it till the time of death.’
Ten Minutes
Her ten minutes sneaked
Through the hole of iron needle
In the hand of the cobbler,
Who sat like a spider
At a nook of the city.
She was broken on the chappals;
‘Wait’, word stumbled over the rum stink.
Passers by give her tribute
With their glances; and the beauty
Blushed with the hot sun.
She stooped her proud head,
Which swung intermittently
Towards the east and west,
To check if some acquaintance
Was dropping a belittling eye.
For Miss Seena is rich and noble,
But with a little money.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Princess, Orphan and The Cobbler's Daughter
On the dancing floor
He sees his skinny figure
Under the dim lights
In front of a mirror
And he scared of the fast beat
Because of his broken shoes!
In the semi darkness
He tries to slip away from the hall
But the princess never release her hand?
And he thinks how a princess loves an orphan
Unless in a dream?
But he's happy at least a dance with a princess
Though it's a dream?
In the morning when he enters the cobbler's slum
To mend his shoes, he sees his beautiful daughter
O that face resembles the last night's princess!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Cleats
The way I walk these days the tips
of my soles and the edge of my heels
wear out too fast for a man with children.
So I tell Rocco, cobbler nonpareil,
'Tack on four steel cleats,
two in front, two in back'
so I can walk home between
two full shopping bags
and whatever pride I can summon.
All four blocks of concrete,
I'll keep those cleats from clicking.
Decades ago I wore cleats
as big as doubloons;
I struck them so hard sparks
flew from the sidewalk.
[...] Read more
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Rainbow comes after the rain
take me long to a daylight walk,
with every sweat
fall under my knee and cease me nothing
than a whisper of the wind,
for i shall then hold my teardrop
kiss my hand of cool quizzed of cobbler
hunter fool
chances come in forces of dust and drag
every moist to lead of what
is meant to be one in you Lord as you fire me
always in your
great wisdom and focus the
sweeten haven in the quest of your
own heart
let me become the paradigm shift
of what the end
begin to dusk and find what brings my day
comes a lasting remark of your
[...] Read more
poem by Antonio Liao
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A poor Cobbler's courageous Son
The barefooted handsome boy who mends shoes on a filthy street corner.
Passers by; Some they whisper that he should join the film industry.
A Varsity girl stops; 'Hey! Prince you don't go to school nowadays? '
'No, My papa was paralyzed and I help him.' The boy said.
'I love you Prince.'
'Oh! What a beautiful sentence is that?
But I am scared Princess.
When my Papa was drunk
He used to play the Mandolin
And sings in the night.
Love has mesmerized wings
in the unrestricted serene sky
And fragile souls swim and drown
in the Milky way.'
* I dedicate this to an innocent Cobbler who vanished during the ethnic violence in Sri Lanka.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Our Street
In our street, the main street
Running thro' the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:
Bag men and basket men,
Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.
The butcher is a funny man,
He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
I think he's often sick;
The fruiterer's a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?"
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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