Our favourite poems....

[TheGreenGoblin]

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
William Carlos Williams - 1883-1963


According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

[G~Man]

You know you opened a can of worms right......

The Farting Contest

I'll tell you a story that is sure to please,
Of a great farting contest at Burton-on-Tees
Where all the best asses paraded the field,
To compete in a contest for various shields.

Some tighten their asses and fart up the scale,
To compete for a cup and a gallon of ale.
While others whose asses are biggest and strongest,
Compete in the section for loudest and longest.

Now this years event had drawn quite a large crowd,
And the betting was even on Mrs. MacLeod.
For it had appeared in the evening edition,
That this lady's ass was in perfect condition.

Now, old Mrs. Jones had a perfect backside,
Half a forest of hairs with a wart on each side.
And she fancied her chances of winning with ease,
Having trained on a diet of cabbage and peas.

The Vicar arrived and ascended the stand,
And thus he addressed this remarkable band.
"The contest is on as is shown in the bills,
We've precluded the use of injections and pills."

Mrs. Bindle arrived amid roars of applause,
And promptly proceeded to pull off her drawers,
For though she'd no chance in the farting display,
She'd the prettiest bottom you'd see this day.

Now, young Mrs. Pothole was backed for a place,
Though she'd often been placed in the deepest disgrace
By dropping a fart that had beaten the organ,
And the poor Vicar, old Jonathon Morgan.

The ladies lined up at the signal to start,
And winning the toss, Mrs. Jones took first fart
The people around stood in silence and wonder,
While her wireless announced gale warnings and thunder.

Now, Mrs. MacLeod reckoned nothing of this,
She'd had some weak tea and was all wind and pride.
So she took up her place and her ass opened wide,
But unluckily *****... and was disqualified.

Then young Mrs. Pothole was called to the front,
And started by doing a wonderful stunt.
She took a deep breath and clenching her hands,
She blew the whole roof off the popular stands.

That left Mrs. Bindle, who shyly appeared,
And smiled at the clergy who lustily cheered.
And though it was reckoned her chances were small,
She let out a winner, outfarting them all.

With hands on her hips, she stood farting alone,
And the crowd stood amazed at the sweetness of tone.
And the clergy agreed without hindrance or pause,
And said, 'First, Mrs. Bindle... now pull up your drawers!'

But with muscles well tensed and legs full apart,
She started a final and glorious fart.
Beginning with 'Chopin' and ending with 'Wing'
She went right up the scale to 'God Save the King'.

She went to the rostrum with maidenly gait,
And took from the panel, a set of gold plate.
Then she turned to the Vicar with sweetness sublime
And smilingly said, 'Come up and see me some time!'

[bob2s]

The back yard dunny. An icon of old Australia. Nothing flash about it, torn up newspaper on a nail, redbacks and the occasional snake, one we had out west was a long drop, as a youngster we were frightened of falling in. Of a night you had to get the snakes off the concrete path, as they tried to get some warmth on a cool night. From Westprint Friday five.



They were funny looking buildings, that were once a way of life,
If you couldn't sprint the distance, then you really were in strife.
They were nailed, they were wired, but were mostly falling down,
There was one in every yard, in every house, in every town.

They were given many names, some were even funny,
But to most of us, we knew them as the outhouse or the dunny.
I've seen some of them all gussied up, with painted doors and all,
But it really made no difference, they were just a port of call.

Now my old man would take a bet, he'd lay an even pound,
That you wouldn't make the dunny with them turkeys hangin' round.
They had so many uses, these buildings out the back,"
You could even hide from mother, so you wouldn't get the strap.

That's why we had good cricketers, never mind the bumps,
We used the pathway for the wicket and the dunny door for stumps.
Now my old man would sit for hours, the smell would rot your socks,
He read the daily back to front in that good old thunderbox.

And if by chance that nature called sometime through the night,
You always sent the dog in first, for there was no flamin' light.
And the dunny seemed to be the place where crawlies liked to hide,
But never ever showed themselves until you sat inside.

There was no such thing as Sorbent, no tissues there at all,
Just squares of well-read newspaper, a hangin' on the wall.
If you had some friendly neighbours, as neighbours sometimes are,
You could sit and chat to them, if you left the door ajar..

When suddenly you got the urge, and down the track you fled,
Then of course the magpies were there to peck you on your head.
Then the time there was a wet, the rain it never stopped,
If you had an urgent call, you ran between the drops.

The dunny man came once a week, to these buildings out the back,
And he would leave an extra can, if you left for him a zac.
For those of you who've no idea what I mean by a zac,
Then you're too young to have ever had, a dunny out the back.

[TheGreenGoblin]

You know you opened a can of worms right......

One runs for the dunny, ignores the farts and takes one's chances...

Let's just hope that the thread doesn't descend to the level of The Engineer's Song.

[Stoneboat]

From the bard o' Scotland. Allegedly.



Tae a fart
Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie,
Lurks in yer bellie after a feastie,
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
There starts to stir an enormous wind.

The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
Start working like a gentle breeze
But soon the pudding wi' the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place

Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
a'body's gonnae hae tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
it's like a bullet oot a rifle

Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try tae stop the leakin' air
Shift yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Pray tae god it disnae reek

But a' the efforts go asunder
Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder
Ricochets arrond the room
Michty me! a sonic boom

God almighty it fairly reeks
A' hope a' huvnae ***** ma breeks
Tae the bog a' better scurry
Whit the hell, it's no ma worry

A'body roon aboot me choakin'
One or two are nearly boakin'
I'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile

It wis him! I shout and glower
Alas too late, he's just keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger! They shout and stare
I'm no that welcome any mair

Where e're ye go let yer wind gang free
That sounds jist the joab fir me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party
Ower the sake o' one wee farty.


Chaucer also had some wise words...

Sumer is icomen in
Lhude sing cuccu.
Winter is icomen in
Lhude sing Goddam!

[CharlieOneSix]

That's life.......

My days of youth are over
My torch of life burned out.
What used to be my sex appeal
Is now my water spout.

Time was when of its own accord
'Twould proudly from my trousers spring,
But now I've got a full time job
To find the blessed thing.

It used to be amazing
The way it would behave
As early every morning
It stood and watched me shave.

But as old age approaches
It fair gives me the blues
To see it hang its withered head
And watch me clean my shoes.

[TheGreenGoblin]

Ulysses
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

[bob2s]

The Sergeant Major

His whole life lay before him, with family and army mates
But sadly, long before his time, he arrived at the pearly gates
So, he asked St Peter, “I only have one fear
Before I take one step inside, do they have Sergeant Majors here?”

St Peter replied “Well yes we do, but we make them toe the line
You have no cause for worry, everything will work out fine
They can be a nuisance, the way they rant and rage
That’s why in this place, they have their own cage”.

“You’ll find no barber shops up here, no short back and sides
We don’t have rules or orders, just a few rough guides
No one here will yell at you, or stand you to attention
And there is no such thing, as CB or detention,”

“All your meals are served on time, no needle parades at all
They call this place paradise, so you just have a ball
You are always free, to do what you want to do
And one point to remember, you’ll never have to queue”.

The young lad seemed a bit confused, it was too good to be true
“Are you sure Sergeant Majors are locked away, just like some army zoo?”
They made my short life hell on earth and I have little doubt
They’ll be seeking vengeance, if someone lets them out”.

Then he heard a distant thunder, booming without affection
There were poor souls fleeing, in each and every direction
He spied a far off figure and it caused him great alarm
Spitting fire and fury, with a pace stick, under his arm

The youngster cried, “I’m outta here, there is one thing you can’t hide
I know that rank anywhere, “ I thought you were on my side”.
St Peter said.” My child you’re wrong and I will make a wager
That imposter is God himself, He just thinks he’s a Sergeant Major”.

By Tomas ‘Paddy’ Hamilton
20 February 2019
R.I.P. Windsor Davies, Battery Sergeant Major Williams (It Ain’t Half Hot Mum)

[OFSO]

"From small beginnings mighty ends:
From calling rebel generals friends
From being taught at public schools,
To think the common people fools
Spain bleeds, and Britain wildly gambles
To bribe the butcher in the shambles."

Edgel Rickworth, International Brigades, Spanish Civil War

[Phewins]

Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown,
For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down;
And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear: “A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”

Rudyard Kipling

[Hydromet]

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold
And the end of his knob turns blue,
When it bends in the middle like a twelve string fiddle
He'll tell you a tale of two.

So buy me a beer and pull up a chair
And a tale to you I'll tell
Of Dead Eye dick and Mexico Pete
And a whore called Eskimo Nell

Now Dead Eye Dick and Mexico Pete came down from the Rio Grande
Dead Eye Dick with his great king prick, and Pete with his gun in hand.

...and sadly, that is all I can remember, until the last stanza

So come with me, across the sea
To the land where spunk is spunk.
Not a pissweak stream of lukewarm cream
But a solid, frozen chunk.

[TheGreenGoblin]

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold
And the end of his knob turns blue,
When it bends in the middle like a twelve string fiddle
He'll tell you a tale of two.

So buy me a beer and pull up a chair
And a tale to you I'll tell
Of Dead Eye dick and Mexico Pete
And a whore called Eskimo Nell

Now Dead Eye Dick and Mexico Pete came down from the Rio Grande
Dead Eye Dick with his great king prick, and Pete with his gun in hand.

...and sadly, that is all I can remember, until the last stanza

Gather 'round, all ye horney!
Gather 'round and hear my story!
When a man grows old, and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue,
When it bends in the middle
Like a one string fiddle
He can tell you a tale or two
So pull up a seat, and buy me one neat
And a tale to you I will tell,
About Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete,
And a harlot named Eskimo Nell.

When Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Go forth in search of fun,
It's Dead-Eye Dick that swings the prick,
And Mexican Pete the gun.
When Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Are sore, depressed and sad,
It's always a **** that bears the brunt,
But the shooting's not so bad.
Now Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Lived down by Dead Man's Creek,
And such was their luck that they'd had no ****
For nigh on half a week.
Oh, a moose or two, and a caribou,
And a bison cow or so,
But for Dead-Eye Dick with his kingly prick,
This **** was mighty slow.
Dick pound on his cock with a huge piece of rock
And said, "I want to play!"
It's been almost a week at this **** creek,
With no **** coming my way.
So, do or dare, this horny pair
Set off for the Rio Grande,
Dead-Eye Dick with his kingly prick,
And Pete with his gun in hand.
Then as they blazed their noisy trail,
No man, their path withstood.
Many a bride, her husband's pride,
A pregnant widow stood
They reached the strand of the Rio Grande
At the height of a blazing noon,
And to slake their thirst and do their worst
They sought Black Mike's saloon
And as they pushed the great doors wide
Both pricks and gun flashed free
"According to sex, you bleeding wrecks
You either drink or **** with me"
When a man grows old, and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue,
And the hole in the middle refuses to piddle,
I'd say he was ****, wouldn't you?

So come with me, across the sea
To the land where spunk is spunk.

Not a pissweak stream of lukewarm cream
But a solid, frozen chunk.

Bawdy bunch the Canucks...

[Stoneboat]

Bawdy bunch the Canucks...

A bunch a the boys were whoopin' it up
In one a them Yukon halls,
And the kid that handled the music box
Was stealthily scratchin' his balls.

The Fargo Kid had his hand on the box
Of the lady that's known as Lou.
While down on the floor, on top of a whore
Lay the Dangerous Dan McGrew.

Blank, blank...

He made his way through the flea-bitten mob
With his hand on the crotch of his pants.
He looked like a man with a right dose of syph,
Or a touch of the St. Vitus Dance.

He made his way through the flea-bitten mob,
And seated himself on a keg.
His balls hung low and swung to and fro
Every time he moved his leg.

And at that point memory fails. Great poem though, by Robert W. Service, allegedly.

[fin]

There are seemingly variations, since GuyLombardo (and his Royal Canadian s )recorded a g-rated version