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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• All Famous Bite To Eat Poems

Written by Robert Lowell | 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 Andrew Barton Paterson | Santa Claus in the Bush It chanced out back at the Christmas time, When the wheat was ripe and tall, A stranger rode to the farmer's gate -- A sturdy man and a small. "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, And bid the stranger stay; And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, For the morn is Christmas Day." "Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife, "But ye should let him be; He's maybe only a drover chap Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. "Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst To swiggle the hail nicht through; Or he's maybe a life assurance carle To talk ye black and blue," "Guidwife, he's never a drover chap, For their swags are neat and thin; And he's never a life assurance carle, Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. "Guidwife, guidwife, be nae sae dour, For the wheat stands ripe and tall, And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, Ewes and weaners and all. "There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat. Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, So we maun ask him in. "Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, And gi' him a bite tae eat; An omelette made of a new-laid egg, Or a tasty bit of meat." "But the native cats have taen the fowls, They havena left a leg; And he'll get nae omelette at a' Till the emu lays an egg!" "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, To whaur the emus bide, Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, While the auld cock sits beside. "But speak them fair, and speak them saft, Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails Or a rusty carriage bolt." So little son Jack ran blithely down With the rusty nails in hand, Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched By their nest in the open sand. And there he has gathered the new-laid egg -- 'Twould feed three men or four -- And the emus came for the half-inch nails Right up to the settler's door. "A waste o' food," said the dour guidwife, As she took the egg, with a frown, "But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin A paddy-melon down." "Gang oot, gang oot, my little son Jack, Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, Then come nae back at a'." So little son Jack he raced and he ran, And he was bare o' the feet, And soon he captured a paddy-melon, Was gorged with the stolen wheat. "Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, To the best that the hoose can do -- An omelette made of the emu egg And a paddy-melon stew." "'Tis well, 'tis well," said the bonny wee man; "I have eaten the wide world's meat, And the food that is given with right good-will Is the sweetest food to eat. "But the night draws on to the Christmas Day And I must rise and go, For I have a mighty way to ride To the land of the Esquimaux. "And it's there I must load my sledges up, With the reindeers four-in-hand, That go to the North, South, East, and West, To every Christian land." "Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour guidwife, "Ye suit my husband well!" For when he gets up on his journey horse He's a bit of a liar himsel'." Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man To his old horse grazing nigh, And away like a meteor flash they went Far off to the Northern sky. When the children woke on the Christmas morn They chattered with might and main -- For a sword and gun had little son Jack, And a braw new doll had Jane, And a packet o' screws had the twa emus; But the dour guidwife gat nane.

Written by Eugene Field | 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 | 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 | 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.