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Best Famous Dad Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Dad poems. This is a select list of the best famous Dad poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Dad poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of dad poems.

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by Philip Larkin | |

This Be The Verse

 They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.


by Marilyn L Taylor | |

Again

 The children are back, the children are back—
They’ve come to take refuge, exhale and unpack;
The marriage has faltered, the job has gone bad,
Come open the door for them, Mother and Dad.
The city apartment is leaky and cold, The landlord lascivious, greedy and old— The mattress is lumpy, the oven’s encrusted, The freezer, the fan, and the toilet have rusted.
The company caved, the boss went broke, The job and the love-affair, all up in smoke.
The anguish of loneliness comes as a shock— O heart in the doldrums, O heart in hock.
And so they return with their piles of possessions, Their terrified cats and their mournful expressions Reclaiming the bedrooms they had in their teens, Clean towels, warm comforter, glass figurines.
Downstairs in the kitchen the father and mother Don’t say a word, but they look at each other As down the hill comes Jill, comes Jack.
The children are back.
The children are back.


by Shel Silverstein | |

Anteater

 "A genuine anteater,"
The pet man told me dad.
Turned out, it was an aunt eater, And now my uncle's mad!


by Sophie Hannah | |

Your Dad Did What?

 Where they have been, if they have been away,
or what they've done at home, if they have not -
you make them write about the holiday.
One writes My Dad did.
What? Your Dad did what? That's not a sentence.
Never mind the bell.
We stay behind until the work is done.
You count their words (you who can count and spell); all the assignments are complete bar one and though this boy seems bright, that one is his.
He says he's finished, doesn't want to add anything, hands it in just as it is.
No change.
My Dad did.
What? What did his Dad? You find the 'E' you gave him as you sort through reams of what this girl did, what that lad did, and read the line again, just one 'e' short: This holiday was horrible.
My Dad did.


by Tony Harrison | |

Turns

 I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair: You're every bit as good as that lot are!) All the pension queue came out to stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) , his cap turned inside up beside his head, smudged H A H in purple Indian ink and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks migh think he wanted charity for dropping dead.
He never begged.
For nowt! Death's reticence crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap to busk the class that broke him for the pence that splash like brackish tears into our cap.


by Tony Harrison | |

Long Distance II

 Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn't just drop in.
You had to phone.
He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call.


by Wilfred Owen | |

The Last Laugh

 'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed, The Bullets chirped - 'In vain! vain! vain!' Machine-guns chuckled, 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!' And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed, - 'O Mother, Mother! Dad!' Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud Leisurely gestured, - 'Fool!' And the falling splinters tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned.
Love-languid seemed his mood, Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned; Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned; And the Gas hissed.


by Robert William Service | |

Benjamin Franklin

 Franklin fathered bastards fourteen,
 (So I read in the New Yorker);
If it's true, in terms of courtin'
 Benny must have been a corker.
To be prudent I've aspired, And my passions I have mastered; So that I have never sired A single bastard.
One of course can never know; But I think that if I had It would give me quite a glow When a kiddie called me 'Dad.
' Watching toddlers at their play, Parentage I'd gladly claim, But their mothers smiling say: 'You're not to blame.
' Ben founded the Satevepost, And for that I much respect him; But fourteen is quite a host Paternally to elect him.
'Fatherhood is not a crime,' Deemed fat Ben, 'there could be others .
.
.
Darlings, I had not the time To wed your mothers.
'


by Robert William Service | |

The Alcázar

 The General now lives in town;
He's eighty odd, they say;
You'll see him strolling up and down
The Prada any day.
He goes to every football game, The bull-ring knows his voice, And when the people cheer his name Moscardo must rejoice.
Yet does he, in the gaiety Of opera and ball, A dingy little cellar see, A picture on a wall? A portrait of a laughing boy Of sixteen singing years .
.
.
Oh does his heart dilate with joy, Or dim his eyes with tears? And can he hear a wistful lad Speak on the telephone? "Hello! How is it with you, Dad? That's right - I'm all alone.
They say they'll shoot me at the dawn If you do not give in .
.
.
But never mind, Dad - carry on: You know we've got to win.
" And so they shot him at the dawn.
No bandage irked his eyes, A lonely lad, so wistful wan, He made his sacrifice.
he saw above the Citadel His flag of glory fly, And crying: "long live Spain!" he fell And died as heroes die.


by Robert William Service | |

Poor Kid

 Mumsie and Dad are raven dark
 And I am lily blonde.
''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark, 'You do not correspond.
' And yet they claim me as their own, Born of their flesh and bone.
To doubt their parenthood I dread, But now to girlhood grown, The thought is haunting in my head That I am not their own: If so, my radiant bloom of youth Would wither in the truth.
'Twould give me anguish deep to know A fondling babe was I; And that a maid in wedless woe Left me to live or die: I'd rather Mother lied and lied To save my pride.
I love them both and they love me; I am their all, they say.
Yet though the sweetest home have we, To know I'm theirs I pray.
If not, please dear ones, never tell .
.
.
The truth would be of hell.


by Robert William Service | |

The Ape And God

 Son put a poser up to me
That made me scratch my head:
"God made the whole wide world," quoth he;
"That's right, my boy," I said.
Said son: "He mad the mountains soar, And all the plains lie flat; But Dad, what did he do before He did all that? Said I: "Creation was his biz; He set the stars to shine; The sun and moon and all that is Were His unique design.
The Cosmos is his concrete thought, The Universe his chore.
.
.
" Said Son: "I understand, but what Did He before?" I gave it up; I could not cope With his enquiring prod, And must admit I've little hope Of understanding God.
Indeed I find more to my mind The monkey in the tree In whose crude form Nature defined Our human destiny.
Thought I: "Why search for Deity In visionary shape? 'Twould better be if we could see The angel in the ape.
Let mystic seek a God above: Far wiser he who delves, To find in kindliness and love God in ourselves.
"


by Robert William Service | |

My Ancestors

 A barefoot boy I went to school
 To save a cobbler's fee,
For though the porridge pot was full
 A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool,
 And counted each bawbee.
We reft our living from the soil, And I was shieling bred; My father's hands were warped with toil, And crooked with grace he said.
My mother made the kettle boil As spinning wheel she fed.
My granny smoked a pipe of clay, And yammered of her youth; The hairs upon her chin were grey, She had a single tooth; Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say, For I would speak the truth.
You of your ancestry may boast,-- Well, here I brag of mine; For if there is a heaven host I hope they'll be in line: My dad with collie at his heel In plaid of tartan stripe; My mammie with her spinning wheel, My granny with her pipe.


by Robert William Service | |

Belated Conscience

 To buy for school a copy-book
 I asked my Dad for two-pence;
He gave it with a gentle look,
 Although he had but few pence.
'Twas then I proved myself a crook And came a moral cropper, I bought a penny copy-book And blued the other copper.
I spent it on a sausage roll Gulped down with guilt suggestion, To the damnation of my soul And awful indigestion.
Poor Dad! His job was hard to hold; His mouths to feed were many; Were he alive a millionfold I'd pay him for his penny.
Now nigh the grave I think with grief, Though other sins are many, I am a liar and a thief 'Cause once I stole a penny: Yet be he pious as a friar It is my firm believing, That every man has been a liar And most of us done thieving.


by Robert William Service | |

Tom

 That Tom was poor was sure a pity,
 Such guts for learning had the lad;
He took to Greek like babe to titty,
 And he was mathematic mad.
I loved to prime him up with knowledge, A brighter lad I never knew; I dreamed that he would go to college And there be honoured too.
But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you To keep the kettle on the boil; No longer can I clothe and feed you, Buy study books and midnight oil.
I carry on as best I'm able, A humble tailor, as you know; And you must squat cross-legged a table And learn to snip and sew.
" And that is what poor Tom is doing.
He bravely makes the best of it; But as he "fits" you he is knowing That he himself is a misfit; And thinks as he fulfils his calling, With patient heart yet deep distaste, Like clippings from his shears down-falling, --He, too, is Waste.


by Robert William Service | |

The Buyers

 Father drank himself to death,--
 Quite enjoyed it.
Urged to draw a sober breath He'd avoid it.
'Save your sympathy,' said Dad; 'Never sought it.
Hob-nail liver, gay and glad, Sure,--I bought it.
' Uncle made a heap of dough, Ponies playing.
'Easy come and easy go,' Was his saying.
Though he died in poverty Fit he thought it, Grinning with philosophy: 'Guess I bought it.
' Auntie took the way of sin, Seeking pleasure; Lovers came, her heart to win, Bringing treasure.
Sickness smote,--with lips that bled Brave she fought it; Smiling on her dying bed: 'Dears, I bought it.
' My decades of life are run, Eight precisely; Yet I've lost a lot of fun Living wisely.
Too much piety don't pay, Time has taught it; Hadn't guts to go astray; Life's a bloody bore today,-- Well, I've bought it.


by Robert William Service | |

Pavement Poet

 God's truth! these be the bitter times.
In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes, And hold my battered hat for dimes.
And then a copper collars me, Barking: "It's begging that you be; Come on, dad; you're in custody.
" And then the Beak looks down and says: "Sheer doggerel I deem your lays: I send you down for seven days.
" So for the week I won't disturb The peace by singing at the curb.
I don't mind that, but oh it's hell To have my verse called doggerel.


by Jonathan Swift | |

Oysters

 Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.


by Natasha Trethewey | |

Flounder

 Here, she said, put this on your head.
She handed me a hat.
you 'bout as white as your dad, and you gone stay like that.
Aunt Sugar rolled her nylons down around each bony ankle, and I rolled down my white knee socks letting my thin legs dangle, circling them just above water and silver backs of minnows flitting here then there between the sun spots and the shadows.
This is how you hold the pole to cast the line out straight.
Now put that worm on your hook, throw it out and wait.
She sat spitting tobacco juice into a coffee cup.
Hunkered down when she felt the bite, jerked the pole straight up reeling and tugging hard at the fish that wriggled and tried to fight back.
A flounder, she said, and you can tell 'cause one of its sides is black.
The other is white, she said.
It landed with a thump.
I stood there watching that fish flip-flop, switch sides with every jump.


by Eugene Field | |

To a Usurper

 Aha! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,--
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who've ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he'll be his mamma's beau
When he's a "gweat, big man"!

You stingy boy! you've always had
A share in mamma's heart;
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,--
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He'd be his mamma's beau.
Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma's heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty.
And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma's does through mine! 1885.


by Thomas Hardy | |

Epitaph On A Pessimist

 I'm Smith of Stoke aged sixty odd
I've lived without a dame all my life
And wish to God
My dad had done the same.