Quotes about ribald, page 2
Holes In The Tapestry
Like a maudlin brooding
yarns unwoven for the bones
exhumed from the cold stones
I confabulate with the night
and her ashen moiré locks
falling like strings unfettered
from her enigmatic bleakness
fingers interlacing, knotting
vying for the lost linkage
of the sequestered nocturnes
And there is nothing more alone
in rivaling loneliness
stuck in a crossroad of footsteps
chasing their tapping heels
and the slithering pavement
only coiled to a vertigo
of ribald blatancy unfolded
from the clutters of perchance
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Drunkard's Vision
A public parlour in the slums,
The haunt of vice and villainy,
Where things are said unfit to hear,
And things are done unfit to see;
’Mid ribald jest and reckless song,
That mock at all that’s pure and right,
The drunkard drinks the whole day long,
And raves through half the dreadful night.
And in the morning now he sits,
With staring eyes and trembling limb;
The harbour in the sunlight laughs,
But morning is as night to him.
And, staring blankly at the wall,
He sees the tragedy complete—
He sees the man he used to be
Go striding proudly up the street.
He turns the corner with a swing,
And, at the vine-framed cottage gate,
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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Boola-Boola Maid
In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt a Boola-boola maid;
For her hand young men would ask her, But she always was afraid.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was living in the shade Of a spreading Yum-yum tree;
And - when the day was done At the setting of the sun, She would make this melodee:
As this ditty she was cooing, Came a Boola-boola man;
And he lost no time in wooing; For he punched her on the pan.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was terribly afraid So he punched her on the eye;
And - then he laugh'd with glee As beneath the Yum-yum tree He - heard that maiden cry:
Then with shrieks of ribald laughter, Said the Boola-boola man;
"If it's only socks you're after, I will do the best I can.
I have handed you a pair, And I've plenty more to spare," So he socked her on the nose;
And a woeful maid was she, As beneath the Yum-yum tree, This - lamentation 'rose:
Now the wedding tom-tom's over, for this Boola-boola maid;
And when ev'ning shadows hover, She no longer is afraid.
For she weasrs a palm-leaf pinny And she rocks a pickaninny In the shade of the Yum-yum tree,
And she's happy with her he-man, Though she still dreams of a She-man, As she sings this song with glee:
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poem by Robert William Service
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Things and the Man
(In Memoriam, Joseph Chamberlain)
1904
"And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren and they hated him yet the more." -- Genesis xxxvii. 5.
Oh ye who hold the written clue
To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
Look! To your knee your baby brings
The oldest tale since Earth began --
The answer to your worryings:
"Once on a time there was a Man."
He, single-handed, met and slew
Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely 'mid his doubting crew --
"In all the loneliness of wings " --
He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Give Us Barabbas
There was a man-a Jew of kingly blood,
But of the people-poor and lowly born,
Accused of blasphemy of God, He stood
Before the Roman Pilate, while in scorn
The multitude demanded it was fit
That one should suffer for the people, while
Another be released, absolved, acquit,
To live his life out virtuous or vile.
'Whom will ye have-Barabbas or this Jew?'
Pilate made answer to the mob, 'The choice
Is yours; I wash my hands of this, and you,
Do as you will.' With one vast ribald voice
The populace arose and, shrieking, cried,
'Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!'
And He of Nazareth was crucified-
Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.
And down these nineteen centuries anew
Comes the hoarse-throated, brutalized refrain,
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poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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The Field of Glory
War shook the land where Levi dwelt,
And fired the dismal wrath he felt,
That such a doom was ever wrought
As his, to toil while others fought;
To toil, to dream -- and still to dream,
With one day barren as another;
To consummate, as it would seem
The dry despair of his old mother.
Far off one afternoon began
The sound of man destroying man;
And Levi. sick with nameless rage,
Condemned again his heritage,
And sighed for scars that might have come,
And would, if once he could have sundered
Those harsh, inhering claims of home
That held him while he cursed and wondered.
Another day, and then there came,
Rough, bloody, ribald, hungry, lame,
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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Old Town Types No. 13 - Larrikin Luke
Luke Gale, the larrikin lad, dwelt in Larrikin Lane,
A low street, a by-street, right at the edge of the town;
King of the boys and hobbledehoys - a vulgar youth, and vain,
Winning from all respectable folk a very respectable frown.
But, oh, to see him on Saturday nights, dolled in his nobbiest duds,
Doing the weekly Saturday rounds; impudent, out for larks
Eyeing the girls at the Saturday shops
Coming for candy and acidy drops,
While Luke and his henchmen leaned on posts, passing inane remarks.
Larrikin Luke knew how to dress; short, black-braided coat,
Big, black, felt hat, low and broad of brim;
Shirt, white and collarless quite, narrow tie at the throat
Neatly drawn thro' a quandong ring; vest low-cut and trim.
But, pride of his wardrobe, badge of his clan, flapping about his feet,
Black pants - wonderful pants, by a snake-skin belt girt low,
Belled at the bottoms and tight on the thighs;
A curly fringe combed down to his eyes;
Thimble heels to his shiny shoes, laced right down to the toe.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Ses Mots Sont Ici II
Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests
Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below
Ses mots sont ici [vertical acrostic from 1st Line S of has] [French – his/her words are here]
Susan Sellers SS [1 vertical external and 2 diagonal bottom up acrostics keyed as above to the 1st line S of has]
Palimpsest:
A manuscript on which more than one text is written with
earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.
Ses Mots Sont Ici II
Sweet friend has Time Time conquered in your heart,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ashes on the Slide
When Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago,
How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!
Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright,
Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight
As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill
Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.
Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed!
Sleds at that time I 'd have you know were paragons of speed!
And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then
We 'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again;
But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside
When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!
The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums,
And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs,
And tell you: 'When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew
The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!
The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide;
And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!'
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poem by Eugene Field
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Vive Anarchy
With the lifting of the curtain,
Distance, dim, but grimly certain,
Breaks my vision of a city, populous and great,
To my senses, sorrow-sated,
Senses sad and satiated, Faintly comes the thunder peal of treasured wrong and hate
Broken down,
Beaten down,
By awakened people and the iron arm of Fate.
Pallid forms, by famine shrunken,
Helots, harlots, ribald, drunken,
Wine and blood-wet, onward thro' the torchlit highways sweep,
Through a city disunited,
Through a city flame ignited,
To the sound of song and trumpet and the cannon's deep
Distant boom,
Through the gloom,
While the fire fiends madly leaps from tower to temple steep.
Reinforced from slum and alley,
By this wild and weird reveille,
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poem by Edwin James Brady
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