Quotes about squirm, page 8
The Germ
I took to khaki at a word,
And fashioned dreams of wonder.
I rode the great sea like a bird,
Chock full of blood and thunder.
I saw myself upon the field
Of battle, framed in glory,
Compelling stubborn foes to yield
As captives to my sword and shield—
This is another story.
We sat about in sun and sand,
We broke old Cairo's images,
Met here and there a swarthy band
In little, friendly scrimmages,
And here it is I start to kid
No Moslem born can hit me.
The Germ then that had long laid hid
Came out of Pharaoh's pyramid,
And covertly he bit me.
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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A Psalm Of Fortitude
Are you, like me, a peevish brat,
With feelings extra-fine?
Are you disposed to whip the cat
When misadventure lays your flat?
Then paste this memo in your hat —
A Man Should Never Whine.
The axiom is no safeguard rare,
Nor talisman divine;
For, deaf to bounce as well as prayer,
Grim Fate will never turn a hair.
But still the principle is there —
A Man Should Never Whine.
When 'Answers' spurns your doggerel lay
(He often baskets mine)
And balks you of renown and pay,
Squirm not, but laugh, and darkly say,
'Ha! tyrant! there will come a day!'
A Bard Should Never Whine.
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poem by Joseph Furphy
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The Man Who Could Write
Shun -- shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink
Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't;
Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink
Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't.
There may be silver in the "blue-black" -- all
I know of is the iron and the gall.
Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen,
Is a dismal failure -- is a Might-have-been.
In a luckless moment he discovered men
Rise to high position through a ready pen.
Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore -- "I,
With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high."
Only he did not possess when he made the trial,
Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L--l.
[Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows,
Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Tie the Knot Tightly
"Launching our from the ship--
ha, ha! courtship--
Oh the misty matrimonial sea,
Let the cable hang lightly,
but tie the knot tightly."
So the hoary sailors tell me.
As we are just launching our nuptial canoes,
Enroute for some haven, we know not what,
Old mariner' views
'twere wrong to refuse;
So oblige us with a workmanlike knot.
And tie the knot tightly, good pastor!
Invent one that will not come loose;
For tho' sad, it is true that people slip thro',
Or squirm and wriggle out of the noose.
"To love and to cherish"
"We will!" they reply.
"Till vital pow'rs perish"
"Of course, or course;
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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Football Match
I.
O wild kaleidoscopic panorama of jaculatory arms and legs.
The twisting, twining, turning, tussling, throwing, thrusting,
throttling, tugging, thumping, the tightening thews.
The tearing of tangled trousers, the jut of giant calves protuberant.
The wriggleness, the wormlike, snaky movement and life of it;
The insertion of strong men in the mud, the wallowing, the stamping with thick shoes;
The rowdyism, and élan, the slugging and scraping, the cowboy Homeric ferocity.
(Ah, well kicked, red legs! Hit her up, you muddy little hero, you!)
The bleeding noses, the shins, the knuckles abraded:
That's the way to make men! Go it, you border ruffians, I like ye.
II.
Only two sorts of men are any good, I wouldn't give a cotton hat for no other --
The Poet and the Plug Ugly. They are picturesque. O, but ain't they?
These college chaps, these bouncing fighters from M'Gill and Toronto,
Are all right. I must have a fighter, a bully, somewhat of a desperado;
Of course, I prefer them raw, uneducated, unspoiled by book rot;
I reckon these young fellows, these howling Kickapoos of the puddle, these boys,
Have been uneducated to an undemocratic and feudal-aristocratic extent;
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Bench-Legged Fyce
Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
From his predisposition to chronic repose;
But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat -
Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!
Mos' dorgs hez some forte - like huntin' an' such,
But the sports o' the field didn't bother him much;
Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to be
On peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me;
Used to fiddle an' squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"
When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!
He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be;
His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim -
When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup
Wuz as tall settin' down as he wuz standin' up!
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poem by Eugene Field
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A Romantic Night
You come in and sit down while looking around
I tell you don’t be afraid just relax for this is your night
I’ve prepared all day for this one perfect night
Topped with music, food, wine and a flickering candle light
We eat, drink, laugh, and talk just for starters
I began to gaze into your stars stolen from the sky eyes
As you lay in my arms looking up at me in utter surprised
I stand you up and slowly walk you into my room
I began to undress you piece by piece
While the aroma of the room puts you at ease
I tell you to lie down flat on your stomach
Then your fantasy's and fascinations’ begin to run wild
Now I have a strong appetite for your love and I want it now
Yet the moment is not now so I tell myself to slow down
So I begin giving you a full body massage
Not just any massage I mean really caressing your every curve
Tonight I’m your servant and I’m ready to serve
I smell and inhale a deep breath of air from your hair
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poem by Daniel Chapman
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My Father Moved Through Dooms Of Love
34
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
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poem by E. E. Cummings
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The Tale of Custard The Dragon
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
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poem by Ogden Nash
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The Jubilee Sov'reign
On Jubilee Day the Ramsbottoms
Invited relations to tea,
Including young Albert's grandmother-
An awkward old . . party, was she.
She'd seen Queen Victoria's accession
And `er wedding to Albert (the Good)
But she got quite upset when young Albert
Asked `er `ow she'd got on in the Flood.
She cast quite a damper on't party,
But she warmed up a bit after tea,
And gave Albert a real golden sovereign
She'd been saving since last Jubilee.
It `ad picture of Queen on't one side
And a dragon fight on the reverse,
And it smelled of camphor and cobwebs
Through being so long in `er purse.
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poem by Marriott Edgar
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