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Best Famous Money Poems

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

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by Edward Lear | |

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.


by Syl Cheney-Coker | |

Blood Money

Along the route of this river,
with a little luck, we shall chance upon
our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile
reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra
growing fiery mornings from our discontent
Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,
not honor pristine and profound.
In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips those cups filled with ethnic offerings that saps the blood of all human good.
Having no other country to call my own except for this one full of pine needles on which we nail our children's lives, I have put off examining this skull, savage harvest, the swollen earth, until that day when, all God's children, we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.
And remorse not being theirs to feel, I offer an inventory of abuse by these men, with this wretched earth on my palms, so as to remind them of our stilted growth the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.


by | |

Money And The Mare


"Lend me thy mare to ride a mile.
"
"She is lamed, leaping over a stile.
"
"Alack! and I must keep the fair!
I'll give thee money for thy mare.
"
"Oh, oh! say you so?
Money will make the mare to go!"


More great poems below...

by | |

Old Chairs To Mend


If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend;
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;
I never would cry old chairs to mend.

If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;
I never would cry old clothes to sell.



by | |

Sing A Song Of Sixpence

 

Sing a song of sixpence,
   A pocket full of rye;
Four-and-twenty blackbirds
   Baked in a pie!
When the pie was opened
   The birds began to sing;
Was not that a dainty dish
   To set before the king?
The king was in his counting-house,
   Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor,
   Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,
   Hanging out the clothes;
When down came a blackbird
   And snapped off her nose.


by | |

Young Lambs To Sell


If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell;
Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell;
I never would cry young lambs to sell.



by Ehsan Sehgal | by Ehsan Sehgal. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23345/Beloveds_Heart' st_title='Beloved's Heart'>|

Beloved's Heart

"Love for beloved can not be exchanged like money everywhere, it belongs to only the kingdom of beloved's heart, un-exchangeable.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Tupac Shakur | |

Nothing Can Come Between Us

Lets not talk of money
let us 4 get the world
4 a moment lets just reveal
in our eternal comadery
in my heart i know
there will never be a day
that i don't remember
the times we shared
u were a friend
when i was at my lowest
and being a friend to me
was not easy or fashionable
regardless of how popular
I became u remain
my unconditional friend
unconditional in it's truest sense
did u think i would forget
did u for 1 moment dream
that I would ignore u
if so remember this from here 2 forever
nothing can come between us 


by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar

 Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—the gondola
stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—goats and
monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
BURBANK crossed a little bridge Descending at a small hotel; Princess Volupine arrived, They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea Passed seaward with the passing bell Slowly: the God Hercules Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree Beat up the dawn from Istria With even feet.
Her shuttered barge Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way: A saggy bending of the knees And elbows, with the palms turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye Stares from the protozoic slime At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time Declines.
On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs.
The boatman smiles, Princess Volupine extends A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand To climb the waterstair.
Lights, lights, She entertains Sir Ferdinand Klein.
Who clipped the lion’s wings And flea’d his rump and pared his claws? Thought Burbank, meditating on Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.


by Margaret Atwood | |

You Take My Hand

 You take my hand and
I'm suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and 
why am I fascinated

We waltz in slow motion
through an air stale with aphrodisms
we meet behind the endless ptted palms
you climb through the wrong windows

Other people are leaving
but I always stay till the end
I paid my money, I
want to see what happens.
In chance bathtubs I have to peel you off me in the form of smoke and melted celluloid Have to face it I'm finally an addict, the smell of popcorn and worn plush lingers for weeks


by Charles Causley | |

What Has Happened To Lulu?

What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?
There’s nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll
And by its side a shoe.
Why is her window wide, mother, The curtain flapping free, And only a circle on the dusty shelf Where her money box used to be? Why do you turn your head, mother, And why do tear drops fall? And why do you crumple that note on the fire And say it is nothing at all? I woke to voices late last night, I heard an engine roar.
Why do you tell me the things I heard Were a dream and nothing more? I heard someone cry, mother, In anger or in pain, But now I ask you why, mother, You say it was a gust of rain.
Why do you wonder around as though You don’t know what to do? What has happened to Lulu, mother? What has happened to Lu?


by Ben Jonson | |

On a Robbery


VIII.
 ? ON A ROBBERY.
  
RIDWAY robb'd DUNCOTE of three hundred pound,
    Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die ;
But, for this money, was a courtier found,
    Begg'd Ridway's pardon :  Duncote now doth cry,
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,
    ? The courtier is become the greater thief.
?


by Ben Jonson | |

On Lieutenant Shift


XII.
 ? ON LIEUTENANT SHIFT.
  
SHIFT, here in town, not meanest among squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Marsh-Lambeth, and White-friars,
Keeps himself, with half a man, and defrays
The charge of that state, with this charm, god pays.

By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrays
Himself :  his whole revenue is, god pays.

The quarter-day is come ; the hostess says,
She must have money : he returns, god pays.

The tailor brings a suit home : he it says,
Look's o'er the bill, likes it : and says, god pays.

He steals to ordinaries ; there he plays
At dice his borrow'd money : which, god pays.

Then takes up fresh commodities, for days ;
Signs to new bonds ; forfeits ; and cries, god pays.

That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads essays,
Takes physic, tears the papers : still god pays.

Or else by water goes, and so to plays ;
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage : god pays.

To every cause he meets, this voice he brays :
His only answer is to all, god pays.

Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays
Thus ; and for his lechery, scores, god pays.

But see !  the old bawd hath serv'd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore.
?She hath paid him.


[ AJ Notes:
   l.
9    He it says, he it assays, i.
e.
, tries it on.
   l.
11  Steals to ordinaries, goes to taverns.
   l.
16  Physic, medicine.
   l.
23  In his trim, in his own fashion, i.
e.
, she has given him
           a taste of his own medicine.
   l.
24  Pocky, diseased.
]


by A R Ammons | |

Called Into Play

 Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St.
Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those.
.
.
.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

The Bean-Stalk

 Ho, Giant! This is I!
I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!
La,—but it's lovely, up so high!

This is how I came,—I put
Here my knee, there my foot,
Up and up, from shoot to shoot—
And the blessed bean-stalk thinning
Like the mischief all the time,
Till it took me rocking, spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little dirty city
In the light so sheer and sunny
Shone as dazzling bright and pretty
As the money that you find
In a dream of finding money—
What a wind! What a morning!—

Till the tiny, shiny city,
When I shot a glance below,
Shaken with a giddy laughter,
Sick and blissfully afraid,
Was a dew-drop on a blade,
And a pair of moments after
Was the whirling guess I made,—
And the wind was like a whip

Cracking past my icy ears,
And my hair stood out behind,
And my eyes were full of tears,
Wide-open and cold,
More tears than they could hold,
The wind was blowing so,
And my teeth were in a row,
Dry and grinning,
And I felt my foot slip,
And I scratched the wind and whined,
And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,
With my eyes shut blind,—
What a wind! What a wind!

Your broad sky, Giant,
Is the shelf of a cupboard;
I make bean-stalks, I'm
A builder, like yourself,
But bean-stalks is my trade,
I couldn't make a shelf,
Don't know how they're made,
Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—
La, what a climb!


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Fontaine Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!

 I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with life through Agents, drinking
 one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the
 rain.
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog Whispering to the wing of the plane.
"Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst For a mouthful of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in —peace.
And while the eyes of the past condemn, The eyes of the present narrow into assignation.
And— worst— The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Recuerdo

 WE were very tired, we were very merry­
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable­ But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry­ We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.


by Julie Hill Alger | |

Pictures of Home

  In the red-roofed stucco house
of my childhood, the dining room 
was screened off by folding doors 
with small glass panes.
Our neighbors the Bertins, who barely escaped Hitler, often joined us at table.
One night their daughter said, In Vienna our dining room had doors like these.
For a moment, we all sat quite still.
And when Nath Nong, who has to live in Massachusetts now, saw a picture of green Cambodian fields she said, My father have animal like this, name krebey English? I told her, Water buffalo.
She said, Very very good animal.
She put her finger on the picture of the water buffalo and spoke its Khmer name once more.
So today, when someone (my ex- husband) sends me a shiny picture of a church in Santa Cruz that lost its steeple in the recent earthquake there's no reason at all for my throat to ache at the sight of a Pacific-blue sky and an old church three thousand miles away, because if I can only save enough money I can go back there any time and stay as long as I want.
-Julie Alger


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS!

 MY trust in nothing now is placed,

Hurrah!
So in the world true joy I taste,

Hurrah!
Then he who would be a comrade of mine
Must rattle his glass, and in chorus combine,
Over these dregs of wine.
I placed my trust in gold and wealth, Hurrah! But then I lost all joy and health, Lack-a-day! Both here and there the money roll'd, And when I had it here, behold, From there had fled the gold! I placed my trust in women next, Hurrah! But there in truth was sorely vex'd, Lack-a-day! The False another portion sought, The True with tediousness were fraught, The Best could not be bought.
My trust in travels then I placed, Hurrah! And left my native land in haste.
Lack-a-day! But not a single thing seem'd good, The beds were bad, and strange the food, And I not understood.
I placed my trust in rank and fame, Hurrah! Another put me straight to shame, Lack-a-day! And as I had been prominent, All scowl'd upon me as I went, I found not one content.
I placed my trust in war and fight, Hurrah! We gain'd full many a triumph bright, Hurrah! Into the foeman's land we cross'd, We put our friends to equal cost, And there a leg I lost.
My trust is placed in nothing now, Hurrah! At my command the world must bow, Hurrah! And as we've ended feast and strain, The cup we'll to the bottom drain; No dregs must there remain! 1806.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

AUTHORS.

 OVER the meadows, and down the stream,

And through the garden-walks straying,
He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;

His throbbing heart brooks no delaying.
His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy! Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye! The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth: "I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth; My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower, And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour.
But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour! 'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!" And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.
The one his pleasures around him strews, That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose; The other would fain make them all subscribe, 1776.
*


by A S J Tessimond | |

The Children Look At The Parents

 We being so hidden from those who
Have quietly borne and fed us,
How can we answer civilly
Their innocent invitations?

How can we say "we see you
As but-for-God's-grace-ourselves, as
Our caricatures (we yours), with
Time's telescope between us"?

How can we say "you presumed on
The accident of kinship,
Assumed our friendship coatlike,
Not as a badge one fights for"?

How say "and you remembered
The sins of our outlived selves and
Your own forgiveness, buried
The hatchet to slow music;

Shared money but not your secrets;
Will leave as your final legacy
A box double-locked by the spider
Packed with your unsolved problems"?

How say all this without capitals,
Italics, anger or pathos,
To those who have seen from the womb come
Enemies? How not say it?


by Li Bai | |

Bringing in the Wine

See how the Yellow River's water move out of heaven.
Entering the ocean,never to return.
See how lovely locks in bright mirrors in high chambers, Though silken-black at morning, have changed by night to snow.
.
.
.
Oh, let a man of spirit venture where he pleases And never tip his golden cup empty toward the moon! Since heaven gave the talent, let it be employed! Spin a thousand of pieces of silver, all of them come back! Cook a sheep, kill a cow, whet the appetite, And make me, of three hundred bowls, one long drink! .
.
.
To the old master, Tsen, And the young scholar, Tan-chiu, Bring in the wine! Let your cups never rest! Let me sing you a song! Let your ears attend! What are bell and drum, rare dishes and treasure? Let me br forever drunk and never come to reason! Sober men of olden days and sages are forgotten, And only the great drinkers are famous for all time.
.
.
.
Prince Chen paid at a banquet in the Palace of Perfection Ten thousand coins for a cask of wine, with many a laugh and quip.
Why say, my host, that your money is gone? Go and buy wine and we'll drink it together! My flower-dappled horse, My furs worth a thousand, Hand them to the boy to exchange for good wine, And we'll drown away the woes of ten thousand generation!


by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

The Artist

 The Artist and his Luckless Wife 
They lead a horrid haunted life, 
Surrounded by the things he's made 
That are not wanted by the trade.
The world is very fair to see; The Artist will not let it be; He fiddles with the works of God, And makes them look uncommon odd.
The Artist is an awful man, He does not do the things he can; He does the things he cannot do, And we attend the private view.
The Artist uses honest paint To represent things as they ain't, He then asks money for the time It took to perpetrate the crime.


by Arthur Hugh Clough | |

There Is No God the Wicked Sayeth

 "There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing.
" "There is no God," a youngster thinks, "or really, if there may be, He surely did not mean a man Always to be a baby.
" "There is no God, or if there is," The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny If He should take it ill in me To make a little money.
" "Whether there be," the rich man says, "It matters very little, For I and mine, thank somebody, Are not in want of victual.
" Some others, also, to themselves, Who scarce so much as doubt it, Think there is none, when they are well, And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath The shadow of the steeple; The parson and the parson's wife, And mostly married people; Youths green and happy in first love, So thankful for illusion; And men caught out in what the world Calls guilt, in first confusion; And almost everyone when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him.


by Philip Larkin | |

Toads

 Why should I let the toad work
 Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
 And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils 
 With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
 That's out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits: Lecturers, lispers, Losels, loblolly-men, louts- They don't end as paupers; Lots of folk live up lanes With fires in a bucket, Eat windfalls and tinned sardines- they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet, Their unspeakable wives Are skinny as whippets - and yet No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough To shout Stuff your pension! But I know, all too well, that's the stuff That dreams are made on: For something sufficiently toad-like Squats in me, too; Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck, And cold as snow, And will never allow me to blarney My way of getting The fame and the girl and the money All at one sitting.
I don't say, one bodies the other One's spiritual truth; But I do say it's hard to lose either, When you have both.