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Little Willie

When Willie was a little boy,
No more than five or six,
Right constantly he did annoy
His mother with his tricks.
Yet not a picayune cared I
For what he did or said,
Unless, as happened frequently,
The rascal wet the bed.
Closely he cuddled up to me,
And put his hands in mine,
Till all at once I seemed to be
Afloat in seas of brine.
Sabean odors clogged the air,
And filled my soul with dread,
Yet I could only grin and bear
When Willie wet the bed.

'Tis many times that rascal has
Soaked all the bedclothes through,
Whereat I'd feebly light the gas

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poem by Eugene Field
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A Rainy Day On The Farm

How sweet it is to see the new-sown cornfield fresh and even,
With blades just springing from the soil that only ask a shower
from heaven.
Then, while kindly rains are falling, indolently to rejoice,
Till some worthy neighbor calling, cheers you with his hearty voice.
Well, with weather such as this, let us hear, Trygaeus tell us
What should you and I be doing? You're the king of us good fellows.
Since it pleases heaven to prosper your endeavors, friend, and mine,
Let us have a merry meeting, with some friendly talk and wine.
In the vineyard there's your lout, hoeing in the slop and mud--
Send the wench and call him out, this weather he can do no good.
Dame, take down two pints of meal, and do some fritters in your way;
Boil some grain and stir it in, and let us have those figs, I say.
Send a servant to my house,--any one that you can spare,--
Let him fetch a beestings pudding, two gherkins, and the pies of hare:
There should be four of them in all, if the cat has left them right;
We heard her racketing and tearing round the larder all last night,
Boy, bring three of them to us,--take the other to my father:
Cut some myrtle for our garlands, sprigs in flower or blossoms rather.
Give a shout upon the way to Charinades our neighbor,

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poem by Aristophanes
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In September

IN wood-hollows mate the swallows,
On the house-tops sparrows marry;
Where's the laggard that would tarry
When the Spring is up and doing,
And the doves of Love are cooing?
O the lovers she discovers
Heart and heart together linking!
'Tis of them, perchance, you're thinking;
In this moment's rich completeness
Tasting over bygone sweetness.
Nay, you gladden not, but sadden
At the sight of such surrender
To Love's impulse, warm and tender,
As yon couple, mingling kisses,
Show — nor dream that aught amiss is.
Who supposes summer roses —
When the bee no longer settles
On their satin-surfaced petals,
Young no more, nor sweet, nor tender, —
View with scorn their pirate's splendour!

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Birthplace Of My Poetry

Unknown to me this event was to be
the beginning of God working in me.
For in Wales a seed was sown you see
that would help me find the victory.

There we three contented ourselves to dine
talking and sharing some cheese and wine.
We even spoke about the three types of love
eros, phile and agape from God above.

And then when browsing in the village shop
a small ceramic pot caused me to look and stop.
'To the one I love, ' was inscribed in blue
'If I could choose again, I'd still choose you.'

Yes, I thought, I would still choose my Dot
So I bought it there and then on the spot.
That's what I did as a present my love for you
the irony of it all is that Suki bought one too!

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poem by Royston
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Spots Through the Ages

Romance goes out of everything in these days of ill grace,
And even old John Barleycorn grows 'standardised' apace;
Once henchman of gay gallantry, a kindlier part he played.
Scene: Tavern door. A saucy wench. A merry, ruffling blade.
He stops. She smiles. Arm round her waist. 'Could Eve be more divine?
See, a kiss, my pretty sweetling. Then, I pray, a stoup of wine.'

'Twas in a 'silver' tassie' that Rab Burns pledged his lass
(The current one, 'tis understood). But days grows drab, alas.
Scene: London pub. Tiles. Glittering glass: and there, behind the bar,
A brass-haired goddess, proud, aloof from this meek gutter child.
'A pot o' four-'arf, thank yeh, miss. An' please to dror it ild.'

The scene shifts to Australia, 'where a man can raise a thirst.'
(See Kipling). From 'long-sleevers' now they drained the stuff acurst.
Back of beyond, by Clancy's run they've a had a six months' drought.
Scene: Old bush shanty. Summer. Flies. Six shearers 'cutting out.'
A shirt-sleeved, whiskered barman. Says Bill: 'By gum, it's 'ot!
Breast up, blokes. Name yer gargle. Rybuck, boss; mine's a pot.'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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This Will Unstabilize The Very Core of Our Foundations

Why is having a baby today,
Out of wedlock such a bombshell?
People are sleeping and living on city streets.
Poverty is experienced by those living in urban centers.
There is racism.
Bigotry and blatant hate.
There are those who deny others a right to live their lives!
Apartheid exists all over the place.
Wars are created based on lies!
Sex and the act of it is sold on prime time TV.
'Are you experiencing erectile dysfunction? '
Have you heard today's music?
Have you heard the language coming out of the mouths,
Of these disrespecting children?
Why is having a baby today,
Out of wedlock such a bombshell?
Such a shock?

Oooohhh...
I see!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Old Town Types No. 23 - Little Miss Mix

In a rather tiny building at the bottom of the street,
With a green door and a window small and very neat,
With its shock of beads and button-cards, cottons, bones and braid,
Miss Mix, the village dressmaker, plied a modest trade.
The front shop, with its counter, was a miniature affair,
And trivial the business that was conducted there.
But the back room - the workroom - 'Hours from Nine to Six' -
Was a vestal shrine whose priestess was little Miss Mix.

Tho' man had never gazed within, the sanctum held, 'twas known,
A wealth of female mysteries, for female eyes alone:
Dress-dummies, skirt-stands, a host of fashion fads,
Hip improvers, buckram shapes, curious bustle-pads.
But Mr Mole, who owned a store, and sold things ready-made,
Was oft-times strangely bitter over Miss Mix and her trade.
'A tittle-tattle factory!' said he. 'A gossip-shop!
With its babbling cotton-biters. Why, the thing had ought to stop.'

And many another male declared that Mr Mole was right -=
Chiefly husbands - for the charges of Miss Mix were never light.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Last Sonnets At Paris

I

Chins that might serve the new Jerusalem;
Streets footsore; minute whisking milliners,
Dubbed graceful, but at whom one's eye demurs,
Knowing of England; ladies, much the same;
Bland smiling dogs with manes—a few of them
At pains to look like sporting characters;
Vast humming tabbies smothered in their furs;
Groseille, orgeat, meringues à la crême—
Good things to study; ditto bad—the maps
Of sloshy colour in the Louvre; cinq-francs
The largest coin; and at the restaurants
Large Ibrahim Pachas in Turkish caps
To pocket them. Un million d'habitants:
Cast up, they'll make an Englishman—perhaps.

II

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poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Bonehead Bill

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.
I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.
I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack --
The man I killed last night.

I wonder if account o' me
Some wench will go unwed,
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?
Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.

I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?

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poem by Robert William Service
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The Confession

‘I'm ill, I'm ill, ' said Rockingham,
‘I'm ill, ' then took to his bed,
He tossed and turned in his fever there
As the visions danced in his head.
He couldn't tell if the world outside
Was real, or a crazy dream,
But muttered into the night, instead
Of some of the things he'd seen.

His wife, Marie, was a surly wench
She said, ‘I'll not be a nurse!
I'll not be tied to a sick man's bed
And left the room, with a curse.
She called the maid and she told her: ‘Sit!
And mop at the old man's brow,
I'll be abroad in the coach and six,
If he dies, go milk the cow! '

The fever turned to delerium
As he tossed and turned all night,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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