Quotes about grimy, page 8
Five-Per-Cent
Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern,
And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn.
For in some procreative way that isn't very clear,
Ten thousand pounds will breed, they say, five hundred every year.
So as I have a healthy hate of economic strife,
I mean to stand aloof from it the balance of my life.
And yet with sympathy I see the grimy son of toil,
And heartly congratulate the tiller of the soil.
I like the miner in the mine, the sailor on the sea,
Because up to five hundred pounds they sail and mine for me.
For me their toil is taxed unto that annual extent,
According to the holy shibboleth of Five-per-Cent.
So get ten thousand pounds, my friend, in any way you can.
And leave your future welfare to the noble Working Man.
He'll buy you suits of Harris tweed, an Airedale and a car;
Your golf clubs and your morning Times, your whisky and cigar.
He'll cosily install you in a cottage by a stream,
With every modern comfort, and a garden that's a dream>
Or if your tastes be urban, he'll provide you with a flat,
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poem by Robert William Service
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Was It You?
"Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay
And your pen behind your ear;
Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?
For I'm overdrawn, I fear."
Then you look at me in a manner bland,
As you turn your ledger's leaves,
And you hand it back with a soft white hand,
And the air of a man who grieves. . . .
"Was it you, young Jones, was it you I saw
(And I think I see you yet)
With a live bomb gripped in your grimy paw
And your face to the parapet?
With your lips asnarl and your eyes gone mad
With a fury that thrilled you through. . . .
Oh, I look at you now and I think, my lad,
Was it you, young Jones, was it you?
"Hullo, young Smith, with your well-fed look
And your coat of dapper fit,
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poem by Robert William Service
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An Old Doll
Low on her little stool she sits
To make a nursing lap,
And cares for nothing but the form
Her little arms enwrap.
With hairless skull that gapes apart,
A broken plaster ball,
One chipped glass eye that squints askew,
And ne'er a nose at all -
No raddle left on grimy cheek,
No mouth that one can see -
It scarce discloses, at a glance,
What it was meant to be.
But something in the simple scheme
As it extends below
(It is the 'tidy' from my chair
That she is rumpling so) -
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poem by Ada Cambridge
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What You Don't See Is Not Necessarily Not There
I
Take out the caked grimy faucet plug
Let those unseen crawlies dive and duck
under the rust-ridden slime
stuck to phlegm and saliva globs
dried blood and flaky semen
shot through with crap
The seen and the unseeable
The sane and the goneforsaken
This glob of virus a syruppy eggdash
got rid of in a hurry
close your thoughts
to the raw genital-vaginal whiff of public lavatories
the brothel closets' stained sticky sheets
the stink and the dirt and the stinging hell
that comes from under
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poem by T. Wignesan
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The Homeless Heart
'I could tell you had a homeless heart, from the start, ' she said 'had been beat down in your life and left somewhere for double dead- road-side in some ravine outside Grimy Town...
I sense these things.' she said.
He said:
'Not far wrong. Now as to you I feel you been dragged through the mud, yourself experiencin' head-scratching hurts and harms, and your skiff is leeward and now adrift.' he said moving a bit closer to her, smelling of diesel, a smell she liked.
'You not far wrong, ' she said.
'And I can see your trust level dip-stick is very low. for men like me.' He said
'Very low.' she said.
'So what can man like me then offer a woman like you? And vici versa.' he said. 'Seems natural for us to powwow and cozy up, nothing carnal you understand, but understanding can come of it.'
'I don't know' she said, 'hurt and hurt added together seems to me just adds up to more pain.'
“Could be, ” he said “You could be right. But then I was always taught to believe in miracles, you? ”
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Old School List
In a wild moraine of forgotten books,
On the glacier of years gone by,
As I plied my rake for order's sake,
There was one that caught my eye:
And I sat by the shelf till I lost myself.
And roamed in the crowded mist,
And heard lost voices and saw lost looks,
As I pored on an Old School List.
What a jumble of names! there were some that I knew,
As a brother is known: to-day
Gone I know not where, nay I hardly care,
For their places are full: and, they--
What climes they have ranged: how much they're changed!
Time, place and pursuits assist
In transforming them: stay where you are: adieu!
You are all in the Old School List.
There are some who did nothing at school, much since:
And others much then, since naught:
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poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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The Man from Waterloo (With kind Regards to Banjo)
It was the Man from Waterloo,
When work in town was slack,
Who took the track as bushmen do,
And humped his swag out back.
He tramped for months without a bob,
For most the sheds were full,
Until at last he got a job
At picking up the wool.
He found the work was rather rough,
But swore to see it through,
For he was made of sterling stuff—
The Man from Waterloo.
The first remark was like a stab
That fell his ear upon,
’Twas—‘There’s another something scab
‘The boss has taken on!’
They couldn’t let the towny be—
They sneered like anything;
They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’
In words that end in ‘ing.’
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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Fall of Man
The Fall of Man.
We study the Holocaust at school.
“The Catastrophe, ”
the Jews have deemed it
in their language.
I write, “Shoah” on the board.
We watch a video.
They gasp at the pictures, the horror.
Nancy Bowman
ever the patriot, affirms:
“I’m glad I live when and where I do. We would never let something like that
happen nowadays.”
I flip on CNN when I get home:
The knobs of knees and forearms
cut angles from the thick, dusty air;
the inner thighs—
the part we American women
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poem by Jae Jae
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Adolescent Bridal Spiders Webbing The Doorway
Adolescent bridal spiders webbing the doorway
with laughter and tumescent sex,
waiting for the hilarious rain.
Waitresses with overly bleached hair
and melting chocolate roots. Young men in wife-beaters
orbiting their pheromones like shepherd moons.
The air is a Venus fly trap saturated
with the violet wavelengths of an unexpurgated murder.
Sheet lightning rooting in the nervous system
of teenagers dogpaddling in the heat without a lifeboat
between the iodine logo of the antiseptic bank
and the unpainted stairs with their garish fire-doors
that ascend into hell like most of the local ghettoes
dancing with their fans to cool off,
or drinking beer in the parking lots,
or passing spliffs to potted plants on the fire-escapes.
Exorbitant flesh sticky with sweat and deodorant,
And the heritage streetlamps haloed
in a frenzy of mesmerized insects
like comets falling into the epiphanous sun at midnight.
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poem by Patrick White
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Accordion
Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;
Of viol or of lute some make a song.
My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme,
You've been my friend and comforter so long.
Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more;
You've given heaps of people lots of fun;
You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor . . .
Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.
I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole;
From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.
The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole
Have echoed to your impish melody.
I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead;
I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon;
I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled,
To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.
I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe,
And the hula-hula graces in the glade.
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poem by Robert William Service
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