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Best Famous Bite To Eat Poems

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

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Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Skunk Hour

(for Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop.
Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she's in her dotage.
Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria's century she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore and lets them fall.
The season's ill-- we've lost our summer millionaire who seemed to leap from an L.
L.
Bean catalogue.
His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.
And bow our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet's filled with orange cork orange his cobbler's bench and awl; there is no money in his work he'd rather marry.
One dark night my Tutor Ford climbed the hill's skull; I watched for love-cars.
Lights turned down they lay together hull to hull where the graveyard shelves on the town.
.
.
.
My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats "Love, O careless Love.
.
.
.
" I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat.
.
.
.
I myself am hell; nobody's here-- only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire under the chalk-dry and spar spire of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air-- a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail, and will not scare.


Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Seein things

 I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light,
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white -
But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row,
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me - so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite -
It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath;
An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!
An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at 's big an' nice,
I want to - but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Contrast

 Fat lady, in your four-wheeled chair,
 Dolled up to beat the band,
At me you arrogantly stare
 With gold lorgnette in hand.
Oh how you differ from the dame So shabby, gaunt and grey, With legs rheumatically lame, Who steers you on your way.
Nay, jewelled lady, look not back Lest you should be disturbed To see the skinny hag in black Who boosts you up the curb.
Of course I know you get her cheap, Since she's a lady too, And bite to eat and bed to sleep Maybe are all her due.
Alas for those who give us aid Yet need more help than we! And though she thinks the wages paid Are almost charity, I'd love to see that lady fat Lug round that hefty chair, While with lorgnette and feathered hat Her handmaid lounges there.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Tim

 My brother Tim has children ten,
 While I have none.
Maybe that's why he's toiling when To ease I've won.
But though I would some of his brood Give hearth and care, I know that not a one he would Have heart to spare.
'Tis children that have kept him poor; He's clad them neat.
They've never wanted, I am sure, For bite to eat.
And though their future may be dim, They laugh a lot.
Am I tearful for Brother Tim? Oh no, I'm not.
I know he goes to work each day With flagging feet.
'Tis hard, even with decent pay, To make ends meet.
But when my sterile home I see, So smugly prim, Although my banker bows to me, I envy Tim.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry