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My Cousin From Pall Mall

There’s nothing so exasperates a true Australian youth,
Whatever be his rank in life, be he cultured or uncouth,
As the manner of a London swell. Now it chanced, the other day,
That one came out, consigned to me—a cousin, by the way.

As he landed from the steamer at the somewhat dirty pier,
He took my hand; and lispingly remarked, ‘How very queer!
I’m glad, of course, to see you—but you must admit this place,
With all its mixed surroundings, is a national disgrace.’

I defended not that dirty pier, not a word escaped my lips;
I pointed not—though well I might—to the huge three-masted ships;
For, although with patriotic pride my soul was all aglow,
I remembered Trollope’s parting words, ‘Victorians do not blow.’

On the morrow through the city we sauntered, arm in arm;
I strove to do the cicerone—my style was grand and calm.
I showed him all the lions—but I noted with despair
His smile, his drawl, his eye-glass, and his supercilious air.

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Patchett Martin
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Big River

Well I taught that weeping willow how to cry cry cry,
Taught the clouds how to cover up a clear blue sky.
Tears I cried for that woman are gonna flood you big river,
And Im a gonna sit right here until I die.
I met her accidentally in st. paul, minnesota,
She tore me up everything I heard her drawl, that southern drawl.
Well I heard my dream went back downstream, cavortin in davenport,
And I follow you big river when you called.
Well I followed her down to st. louie, later on down the river,
Trader said shes been here, but shes gone, boy, shes gone.
Well I followed her down to memphis, but she just walked off the bus,
She raised a few eyebrows and she went on down alone.
Well Ive gotten on down to baton rouge, river queen roll on,
Take that woman down to new orleans, new orleans.
I give up, Ive had enough, followed my blues on down to the gulf,
She loves you big river more than me.

song performed by Grateful Dead
Added by Lucian Velea
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The White Cliffs

I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.

II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,

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poem by Alice Duer Miller
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What a funny thing life is

What a funny thing life is,
So painful, busy and drawl
Greeted only by the ending
Into that dark pit we must fall

poem by Jennifer Doran
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How sick the plaintive violin

how sick the plaintive violin
even more so when long long-drawn
its drawl how plaintive is, how sick:
even when less slow it is drawn
the plaintive notes still flow, still sick
and in the night, the long dark night
still plays the plaintive violin.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Clarence Darrow

This is Darrow,
Inadequately scrawled, with his young, old heart,
And his drawl, and his infinite paradox
And his sadness, and kindness,
And his artist sense that drives him to shape his life
To something harmonious, even against the schemes of God.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Old Boy's Movies

I worship boys
in old movies.
Cool swaggers, careful quiffs
the slouching leather jacket
the swinging, lazy hips.
I love the girls
the cars, the slang
the cigarettes and whiskey
I dream of heroes, rock 'n' roll
and dancing through the fifties.
I love the sneer and the cool drawl
the milkshakes and the diner
the music and the shopping mall.
But rock is dead it seems, long dead
a legend and an icon now,
and in its wake -
-
-
-
I worship boys

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poem by Jack Turner
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The turtle and the frog

Said the turtle to the frog
'I wish that I could climb that log'
the frog said in his deepest drawl
'at least you know that you won't fall! '


THE FLY
The fly was busy buzzing round'
then quickly landed on the ground
and as I raised my hand to swat
the fly said..'gimme' all you got! '

In doing what the fly just said
I came down hard upon his head
I raised my hand to see the mess
but all I found was one fly-less

There doesn't seem to be much thrill
in swating flies that don't stand still!

poem by Michael Hubbert
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Vermillion- Robed Pericarpium!

As dawn’s amber-hush operas, cast orb’s subdued flames over purple hills,
As bejeweled dew’s still visitations, as amethyst- sapphire rays’ part painted canopies,
As defiant anthers spark floral fires, preside over marriage of taping vines,
As stifled water dreams in a rainbow, joins quick –silver rolling streams,
As among ambrosial saffron fruits, tinted birds mutter hosanna, runaway petals sprinkle,
As drawl of indigo skies; primrose west seeks auroral light, fireflies sparkle,
Thus he generously splashes colors, where his silence is still a noise,
To mutely appreciate, not participate, in vermillion –robed pericarpium, await his voice
[12 words=1 versex8]
Seema.joglekar-6thNov-11

poem by Seema joglekar
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An American

An American,
she thought he was,
the hair cut
and the style of clothes

gave her a clue,
at least that
and the drawn out
drawl like he was drawing

the words
from a deep well.
Her father called him a Yank,
didn’t take to him at all,

wouldn’t even speak
when he said, Hello Sir,
all kind of polite,
thoughtful and well bred,

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poem by Terry Collett
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