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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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Made in Sheffield by Steven Cooke Its Early Morning, a mist descends into the valley. Not a Mist, from some love poem, but a fog forged in graft. No sun shines here, for there is no welcome. For here lies the Crucible of the World, No bird song, only furnace dust, And a dead river. For this is Sheffield Steel. The grime covered buses arrive for Morning shift, Windows grey with smoke, For breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service, A dripping crust and a flask of tea or two. One by one, they descend, A goliath of manhood, Raw Power, Natures finest creation An elephant gun would not bring these men down. A pot of tea, another fag, then into the mill Into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno, Armed only with Leather Aprons and tongs, First job, a tank Barrel, They work as a team, A sacred bond, forged in years of graft Pure Strength twisting, the writhing white hot ingot, In a rhythm, nay a dance, with a twenty ton hammer. The Grace of Men in harmony with Machine, A right of Passage, their inheritance. But this is also a dance with the devil, One crack and shards of death rain upon them, No escape, Just a Bed in Tinsley Cemetery, Plenty of company there. Dinner time approaches, the apprentice brings dinner Half a loaf of bread, dug out, and filled with chips, Plenty of Salt and Vinegar. Then a link of black pudding Washed down with four bottles of Stones Bitter, And a couple of woodbines. No Health and Safety here. But Time moves on, The steel workers and Miners, all gone Broken By Maggie. Thrown on the scrap heap of yesterday. Sculptors of their craft, Never to work again. Now the Rivers run clean. And the birds sing, And the sun, shines on the valley But not on the Steel workers, For they have faded away Replaced by the souls of Progress, Shopping Malls and stadiums. For Sheffield is now a City of Sport. And Tourism reins King. But spare a thought, for these Men. Our Fathers, who lived there way, With courage and honour. Steel was there Church, Built on the Foundations of Pride Their graft, a noble Calling And sacrifice, there honour in death. These Men who celebrated Friendship, A pint, a smoke, and a gamble. For this was their Home, their Sheffield, It was Their Craft, Their sweat, That, forged the world, And it forged me, And now, a part of my World is lost forever. So let the history books be kind, And lets us remember fondly, these Men, Made in Sheffield.

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Made In Sheffield

Made in Sheffield by Steven Cooke Its Early Morning, a mist descends into the valley. Not a Mist, from some love poem, but a fog forged in graft. No sun shines here, for there is no welcome. For here lies the Crucible of the World, No bird song, only furnace dust, And a dead river. For this is Sheffield Steel. The grime covered buses arrive for Morning shift, Windows grey with smoke, For breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service, A dripping crust and a flask of tea or two. One by one, they descend, A goliath of manhood, Raw Power, Natures finest creation An elephant gun would not bring these men down. A pot of tea, another fag, then into the mill Into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno, Armed only with Leather Aprons and tongs, First job, a tank Barrel, They work as a team, A sacred bond, forged in years of graft Pure Strength twisting, the writhing white hot ingot, In a rhythm, nay a dance, with a twenty ton hammer. The Grace of Men in harmony with Machine, A right of Passage, their inheritance. But this is also a dance with the devil, One crack and shards of death rain upon them, No escape, Just a Bed in Tinsley Cemetery, Plenty of company there. Dinner time approaches, the apprentice brings dinner Half a loaf of bread, dug out, and filled with chips, Plenty of Salt and Vinegar. Then a link of black pudding Washed down with four bottles of Stones Bitter, And a couple of woodbines. No Health and Safety here. But Time moves on, The steel workers and Miners, all gone Broken By Maggie. Thrown on the scrap heap of yesterday. Sculptors of their craft, Never to work again. Now the Rivers run clean. And the birds sing, And the sun, shines on the valley But not on the Steel workers, For they have faded away Replaced by the souls of Progress, Shopping Malls and stadiums. For Sheffield is now a City of Sport. And Tourism reins King. But spare a thought, for these Men. Our Fathers, who lived there way, With courage and honour. Steel was there Church, Built on the Foundations of Pride Their graft, a noble Calling And sacrifice, there honour in death. These Men who celebrated Friendship, A pint, a smoke, and a gamble. For this was their Home, their Sheffield, It was Their Craft, Their sweat, That, forged the world, And it forged me, And now, a part of my World is lost forever. So let the history books be kind, And lets us remember fondly, these Men, Made in Sheffield.