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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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Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Dorchester Giant

 THERE was a giant in time of old,
A mighty one was he; 
He had a wife, but she was a scold, 
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;
And he had children three.
It happened to be an election day, And the giants were choosing a king; The people were not democrats then, They did not talk of the rights of men, And all that sort of thing.
Then the giant took his children three, And fastened them in the pen; The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be still!" And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill Rolled back the sound again.
Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums, As big as the State-House dome; Quoth he, "There's something for you to eat; So stop your mouths with your 'lection treat, And wait till your dad comes home.
" So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout, And whittled the boughs away; The boys and their mother set up a shout.
Said he, "You're in, and you can't get out, Bellow as loud as you may.
" Off he went, and he growled a tune As he strode the fields along 'Tis said a buffalo fainted away, And fell as cold as a lump of clay, When he heard the giant's song.
But whether the story's true or not, It isn't for me to show; There's many a thing that's twice as queer In somebody's lectures that we hear, And those are true, you know.
.
.
.
.
.
.
What are those lone ones doing now, The wife and the children sad? Oh, they are in a terrible rout, Screaming, and throwing their pudding about, Acting as they were mad.
They flung it over to Roxbury hills, They flung it over the plain, And all over Milton and Dorchester too Great lumps of pudding the giants threw; They tumbled as thick as rain.
.
.
.
.
.
Giant and mammoth have passed away, For ages have floated by; The suet is hard as a marrow-bone, And every plum is turned to a stone, But there the puddings lie.
And if, some pleasant afternoon, You'll ask me out to ride, The whole of the story I will tell, And you shall see where the puddings fell, And pay for the punch beside.


Written 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.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

To G. M. W. And G. F. W.

 Whenas—(I love that “whenas” word—
 It shows I am a poet, too,)
Q.
Horace Flaccus gaily stirred The welkin with his tra-la-loo, He little thought one donkey’s back Would carry thus a double load— Father and son upon one jack, Galumphing down the Tibur Road.
II Old is the tale—Aesop’s, I think— Of that famed miller and his son Whose fortunes were so “on the blink” They had one donk, and only one; You know the tale—the critic’s squawk (As pater that poor ass bestrode)— “Selfish! To make thy fine son walk!” Perhaps that was on Tibur Road? III You will recall how dad got down And made the son the ass bestride:— The critics shouted with a frown: “Shame, boy! pray let thy father ride!” Up got the dad beside the son; The donkey staggered with the load “Poor donk! For shame!” cried every one That walked the (was it?) Tibur Road.
IV You know the end! Upon their backs Daddy and son with much ado Boosted that most surprised of jacks,— He kicked, and off the bridge he flew; “He! haw!” A splash! A gurgling sound— A long, last watery abode— In Anio’s stream the donk was drowned— (If this occurred on Tibur Road.
) V Let Donkey represent the Odes; The Miller represent G.
M.
; The Son stand for G.
F.
; the loads Of Critics—I will do for them.
Now, then, this proposition made, (And my bum verses “Ah’d” and “Oh’d!”).
What Q.
E.
D.
can be displayed Anent this “On the Tibur Road”? VI First, Horry’s dead and he don’t care, So cancel him, and let him snore; His Donkey has been raised in air So oft he’s tough and calloused o’er; Our Miller—dusty-headed man— Follows the best donk-boosting code: Our Son—dispute it no one can— Sings gaily down the Tibur Road.
VII This, then, must be this Critic’s scream:— The donk was boosted well and high, And, ergo! falling in the stream, Isn’t and ain’t and can’t be dry; Nor is your book.
Which is to say It is no gloomy episode— You’ve made a dead donk sweetly bray, And joyful is the Tibur Road.


More great poems below...

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Father

 He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame; 
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
They thought him just little short of God; Oh you should have heard the way they said his name – ‘Father.
’ There seemed to be a loving little prayer In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.
’ Though the man was never heard of anywhere, As a hero, yet somehow understood He was doing well his part and making good; And you knew it, by the way his children had Of saying ‘Father.
’ He gave them neither eminence nor wealth, But he gave them blood untainted with a vice, And opulence of undiluted health.
He was honest, and unpurchable and kind; He was clean in heart, and body, and in mind.
So he made them heirs to riches without price – This father.
He never preached or scolded; and the rod – Well, he used it as a turning pole in play.
But he showed the tender sympathy of God.
To his children in their troubles, and their joys.
He was always chum and comrade with his boys, And his daughters – oh, you ought to hear them say ‘Father.
’ Now I think of all achievements ‘tis the least To perpetuate the species; it is done By the insect and the serpent, and the beast.
But the man who keeps his body, and his thought, Worth bestowing on an offspring love-begot, Then the highest earthly glory he was won, When in pride a grown-up daughter or a son Says ‘That’s Father.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by Charles Webb | |

Enthusiasm

  "Don't overdo it," Dad yelled, watching me
Play shortstop, collect stamps and shells,
Roll on the grass laughing until I peed my pants.
"Screw him," I said, and grabbed every cowry I could find, hogged all the books I could From Heights Library, wore out the baseball Diamond dawn to dusk, and—parents in Duluth— Gorged on bountiful Candy dusk to dawn.
Not until a Committee wrote of my poems, "Enthusiasm should be tempered," Did I change my song.
I write now The way I live: calm and sober, steering Toward the Golden Mean.
The Committee Was right to withhold funds.
I'd have bought A hundred box turtles with lemon-speckled shells, Flyfished for rainbows six months straight, Flown to the Great Barrier Reef and dived Non-stop among pink coral and marble cones, Living on chocolate malts, peaches, and barbecue.
I'd have turned into a ski bum, married Ten women in ten states, written nothing Poetry would glance at twice, instead Of rising at 5:00 as I do now, writing 'Til noon about matters serious and deep, Teaching 'til 6:00, eating a low-fat meal High in fiber and cruciferous vegetables, Then bed by 9:00, alarm clock set Five minutes late: my one indulgence of the day.


Written by Charles Webb | |

Silent Letters

  Treacherous as trap door spiders,
they ambush children's innocence.
"Why is there g h in light? It isn't fair!" Buddha declared the world illusory as the p sound in psyche.
Sartre said the same of God from France, Olympus of silent letters, n'est -ce pas? Polite conceals an e in the same way "How are you?" hides "I don't care.
" Physics asserts the desk I lean on, the brush that fluffs my hair, are only dots that punctuate a nullity complete as the g sound in gnome, the c e in Worcestershire.
Passions lurk under the saint's bed, mute as the end of love.
They glide toward us, yellow eyes gleaming, hushed as the finality of hate, malice, snake.
As easily predict the h in lichen, choral, Lichtenstein, as laws against throttling rats, making U-turns on empty streets.
Such nonsense must be memorized.
"Imagine dropkicking a spud," Dad said.
"If e breaks off your toe, it spoils your potato.
" Like compass needles pointing north, silent letters show the power of hidden things.
Voiced by our ancestors, but heard no more, they nudge our thoughts toward death, infinity, our senses' inability to see the earth as round, circling the sun in a universe implacable as "Might Makes Right," ineffable as tomorrow's second r, incomprehensible as imbroglio's g, the e that finishes inscrutable, imponderable, immense, the terrifying k in "I don't know.
"


Written by Charles Webb | |

Suitcase

 Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.
There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct "U.
S.
Trunk Company.
" The frame is wood— big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather, its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful.
Much too expensive," she told Dad, and kissed him.
The lining is pink, quilted acetate.
Three sides have pouches with elastic tops— stretched out now, like old underwear.
I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.
(I could have choked the baggage handler.
) The handle—blue plastic doorknocker— is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta, U.
S.
Air (which crunched the hole, flying the suitcase back from Houston).
I'd gone there to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood relics before my sister gave them to Good Will.
"Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full.
"I won't need luggage, the next place I go.
"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

A Bush Christening

 On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
 And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
 One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.
" But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, "What the divil and all is this christenin'?" He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened— "'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!" Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the "praste" cried aloud in his haste, "Come out and be christened, you divil!" But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) "I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him.
" "Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy—don't hurt him or maim him, 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name— Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?" Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout— "Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!" As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky"! And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.
P.
, And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened Maginnis!


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Bush Christening

 On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, 
And men of religion are scanty, 
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, 
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.
' But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, `What the divil and all is this christenin'?' He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- `'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste, `Come out and be christened, you divil!' But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) `I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.
' `Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- `Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!' As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'! And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.
P.
, And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!


Written by William Topaz McGonagall | |

The Rattling Boy from Dublin

 I'm a rattling boy from Dublin town,
I courted a girl called Biddy Brown,
Her eyes they were as black as sloes,
She had black hair and an aquiline nose.
Chorus -- Whack fal de da, fal de darelido, Whack fal de da, fal de darelay, Whack fal de da, fal de darelido, Whack fal de da, fal de darelay.
One night I met her with another lad, Says I, Biddy, I've caught you, by dad, I never thought you were half so bad As to be going about with another lad.
Chorus Says I, Biddy, this will never do, For to-night you've prov'd to me untrue, So do not make a hullaballoo, For I will bid farewell to you.
Chorus Says Barney Magee, She is my lass, And the man that says no, he is an ass, So come away, and I'll give you a glass, Och, sure you can get another lass.
Chorus Says I, To the devil with your glass, You have taken from me my darling lass, And if you look angry, or offer to frown, With my darling shillelah I'll knock you down.
Chorus Says Barney Magee unto me, By the hokey I love Biddy Brown, And before I'll give her up to thee, One or both of us will go down.
Chorus So, with my darling shillelah, I gave him a whack, Which left him lying on his back, Saying, botheration to you and Biddy Brown,-- For I'm the rattling boy from Dublin town.
Chorus So a policeman chanced to come up at the time, And he asked of me the cause of the shine, Says I, he threatened to knock me down When I challenged him for walking with my Biddy Brown.
Chorus So the policeman took Barney Magee to jail, Which made him shout and bewail That ever he met with Biddy Brown, The greatest deceiver in Dublin town.
Chorus So I bade farewell to Biddy Brown, The greatest jilter in Dublin town, Because she proved untrue to me, And was going about with Barney Magee.


Written 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.
'