Quotes about growl, page 12
Siesta Time
The lioness was much more wise
Than two cubs in her charge,
For one of them had droopy eyes
As sleep was looming large...
His little head was heading south
And Mum was smirking now,
A crooked smile across her mouth,
A frown upon her brow...
The other cub was somewhat still,
Propped up with sturdy limbs,
But pretty soon he'd lose the will
Just as the sunshine dims...
But sleepy head was sinking fast,
His jaw upon the rocks,
His eyelids heavy at half mast,
Like gormless Goldilocks!
Mum shook her head yet didn't growl,
He had to learn one day,
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poem by Denis Martindale
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Who Am I? I Am!
who am i?
whose voice do you hear
when i growl?
whose face do you see
when i moan?
i am the train
that hasnt come
for twenty years,
the tracks left to whimper
like a deserted bride.
i am the lock rusted,
and the key that is lost.
i am the cross of silver
on the neck of the corpse.
i am the soldier come home
to no home at all.
i am the father burying
his only son.
i am the vote not cast,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatrey
Mere Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Our Whiskey
I think of a little red dog that I knew,
Who when young was so bold and so frisky;
I think of her now as I pen these few lines,
I'm thinking of course of our whiskey.
I remember the first time I met her,
On a visit one day to my Mum's;
She went for my heels when she saw me,
And it looked like we'd never be chums.
But in time she got used to my presence,
And she treated me just like the rest;
And I, in my turn, came to love her,
Yes our whiskey was one of the best.
When the window-men called every fortnight,
She would bark, 'cause it's in a dog's blood;
She would growl as she showed all her milky-white teeth,
She'd have torn them apart if she could.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Gullible, The Bear
A Dachshund who was long of hair
met in the forest an old bear.
The bear was sitting on a log
and held in his huge paws a frog.
The hound adored all frogs and toads
and always scanned the fields and roads
for something green that blended in,
it gave him a contented grin.
'What did you have in mind, Big Bear? '
Hound asked, his voice now full of flair.
'Frog legs', the bear said, 'are for me,
my snack to have with the green tea.'
'How could you eat the spark of life? !
He may have children and a wife!
Do you not know, you big bad mug
that I could make from you a rug? '
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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Americanisation
Britannia needs no Boulevards,
No spaces wide and gay:
Her march was through the crooked streets
Along the narrow way.
Nor looks she where, New York's seduction,
The Broadway leadeth to destruction.
Britannia needs no Cafes:
If Coffee needs must be,
Its place should be the Coffee-house
Where Johnson growled for Tea;
But who can hear that human mountain
Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?
She needs no Russian Theatre
Where Father strangles Mother,
In scenes where all the characters
And colours kill each other--
Her boast is freedom had by halves,
And Britons never shall be Slavs.
[...] Read more
poem by G.K. Chesterton
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The Simplest Of Things...
there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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How the Camel Got His Hump
The Camel's hump is an ugly lump
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.
Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump--
Cameelious hump--
The hump that is black and blue!
We climb out of bed with a frouzly head,
And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
At our bath and our boots and our toys;
And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know' there is one for you)
When we get the hump--
Cameelious hump--
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Camels Hump
The Camel's hump is an ugly lump
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.
Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump-
Cameelious hump-
The hump that is black and blue!
We climb out of bed with a frouzly head,
And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
At our bath and our boots and our toys;
And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know' there is one for you)
When we get the hump-
Cameelious hump-
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Mosquito's Bite
To tell a story I wield my pen,
Of a poacher who waited outside a den,
He cocked his gun and took his aim,
To shoot an animal he knew was lame.
The pug marks on the mud,
Revealed that it hobbled,
And instantly the poacher knew
That many a time it had stumbled.
Time flew by, the jungle became darker,
The night grew older, the huntsman became wearier.
From inside the den, he heard a soft growl,
And hoped that the tiger would soon be on the prowl.
Out of its home, the predator was on his way,
But little did he know that now he was the prey.
The gunner fired with deadly precision,
At the tiger in his sight,
But at that instant, from a mosquito,
His trigger finger took a bite.
The shot awakened the entire jungle,
But it did not hit its mark,
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poem by Shashwat Chaterji
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