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Best Famous Boor Poems

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

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Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

Beacons

 Reubens, river of forgetfulness, garden of sloth,
Pillow of wet flesh that one cannot love,
But where life throngs and seethes without cease
Like the air in the sky and the water in the sea.

Leonardo da Vinci, sinister mirror,
Where these charming angels with sweet smiles
Charged with mystery, appear in shadows
Of glaciers and pines that close off the country.

Rembrandt, sad hospital full of murmurs
Decorated only with a crucifix,
Where tearful prayers arise from filth
And a ray of winter light crosses brusquely.

Michelangelo, a wasteland where one sees Hercules
Mingling with Christ, and rising in a straight line
Powerful phantoms that in the twilight
Tear their shrouds with stretching fingers.

Rage of a boxer, impudence of a faun,
You who gather together the beauty of the boor,
Your big heart swelling with pride at man defective and yellow,
Puget, melancholy emperor of the poor.

Watteau, this carnival of illustrious hearts
Like butterflies, errant and flamboyant,
In the cool decor, with delicate lightning in the chandeliers
Crossing the madness of the twirling ball.

Goya, nightmare of unknown things,
Fetuses roasting on the spit,
Harridans in the mirror and naked children
Tempting demons by loosening their stockings.

Delacroix, haunted lake of blood and evil angels,
Shaded by evergreen forests of dark firs,
Where, under a grieving sky, strange fanfares
Pass, like a gasping breath of Weber.

These curses, these blasphemies, these moans,
These ecstasies, these tears, these cries of "Te Deum"
Are an echo reiterated in a thousand mazes;
It is for mortal hearts a divine opium!

It is a cry repeated by a thousand sentinels,
An order returned by a thousand megaphones,
A beacon lighting a thousand citadels
A summons to hunters lost in the wide woods.

For truly, O Lord, what better testimony
Can we give to our dignity
Than this burning sob that rolls from age to age
And comes to die on the shore of Your eternity?


Written by Wang Wei | Create an image from this poem

In My Lodge at Wang Chuan(After a Long Rain.)

 The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke 
As rice is cooked on faggots and carried to the fields; 
Over the quiet marsh-land flies a white egret, 
And mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees.... 
I have learned to watch in peace the mountain morningglories, 
To eat split dewy sunflower-seeds under a bough of pine, 
To yield the post of honour to any boor at all.... 
Why should I frighten sea gulls, even with a thought?
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Winter Complaint

 Now when I have a cold
I am careful with my cold, 
I consult a physician 
And I do as I am told. 
I muffle up my torso 
In woolly woolly garb, 
And I quaff great flagons 
Of sodium bicarb. 
I munch on aspirin, 
I lunch on water, 
And I wouldn’t dream of osculating
Anybody’s daughter, 
And to anybody’s son 
I wouldn’t say howdy, 
For I am a sufferer 
Magna cum laude. 
I don’t like germs, 
But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got. 
Will I take a chance of spreading them?
Definitely not. 
I sneeze out the window 
And I cough up the flue,
And I live like a hermit 
Till the germs get through. 
And because I’m considerate, 
Because I’m wary, 
I am treated by my friends 
Like Typhoid Mary. 

Now when you have a cold 
You are careless with your cold, 
You are cocky as a gangster 
Who has just been paroled. 
You ignore your physician, 
You eat steaks and oxtails, 
You stuff yourself with starches, 
You drink lots of cocktails, 
And you claim that gargling 
Is a time of waste, 
And you won’t take soda 
For you don’t like the taste, 
And you prowl around parties 
Full of selfish bliss, 
And greet your hostess
With a genial kiss. 
You convert yourself 
Into a deadly missle, 
You exhale Hello’s 
Like a steamboat wistle. 
You sneeze in the subway 
And you cough at dances, 
And let everybody else 
Take their own good chances.
You’re a bronchial boor, 
A bacterial blighter, 
And you get more invitations
Than a gossip writer. 

Yes, your throat is froggy, 
And your eyes are swimmy, 
And you hand is clammy, 
And you nose is brimmy, 
But you woo my girls 
And their hearts you jimmy 
While I sit here 
With the cold you gimmy.
Written by James Joyce | Create an image from this poem

Tilly

 He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.

The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.

Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
Written by Theodore Roethke | Create an image from this poem

The Saginaw Song

 In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
 The wind blows up your feet,
When the ladies' guild puts on a feed,
 There's beans on every plate,
And if you eat more than you should,
 Destruction is complete.

Out Hemlock Way there is a stream
 That some have called Swan Creek;
The turtles have bloodsucker sores,
 And mossy filthy feet;
The bottoms of migrating ducks
 Come off it much less neat.

In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
 Bartenders think no ill;
But they've ways of indicating when
 You are not acting well:
They throw you through the front plate glass
 And then send you the bill.

The Morleys and the Burrows are
 The aristocracy;
A likely thing for they're no worse
 Than the likes of you or me,—
A picture window's one you can't
 Raise up when you would pee.

In Shaginaw, in Shaginaw
 I went to Shunday Shule;
The only thing I ever learned
 Was called the Golden Rhule,—
But that's enough for any man
 What's not a proper fool.

I took the pledge cards on my bike;
 I helped out with the books;
The stingy members when they signed
 Made with their stingy looks,—
The largest contributors came
 From the town's biggest crooks.

In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
 There's never a household fart,
For if it did occur,
 It would blow the place apart,—
I met a woman who could break wind
 And she is my sweet-heart.

O, I'm the genius of the world,—
 Of that you can be sure,
But alas, alack, and me achin' back,
 I'm often a drunken boor;
But when I die—and that won't be soon—
 I'll sing with dear Tom Moore,
 With that lovely man, Tom Moore.

Coda:

My father never used a stick,
 He slapped me with his hand;
He was a Prussian through and through
 And knew how to command;
I ran behind him every day
 He walked our greenhouse land.

I saw a figure in a cloud,
 A child upon her breast,
And it was O, my mother O,
 And she was half-undressed,
All women, O, are beautiful
 When they are half-undressed.


Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Deborahs Parrot a Village Tale

 'Twas in a little western town
An ancient Maiden dwelt:
Her name was MISS, or MISTRESS, Brown,
Or DEBORAH, or DEBBY: She
Was doom'd a Spinster pure to be,
For soft delights her breast ne'er felt:
Yet, she had watchful Ears and Eyes
For ev'ry youthful neighbour,
And never did she cease to labour
A tripping female to surprize.

And why was she so wond'rous pure,
So stiff, so solemn--so demure?
Why did she watch with so much care
The roving youth, the wand'ring fair?
The tattler, Fame, has said that she
A Spinster's life had long detested,
But 'twas her quiet destiny,
Never to be molested !--
And had Miss DEBBY'S form been grac'd,
Fame adds,--She had not been so chaste;--
But since for frailty she would roam,
She ne'er was taught--to look at home .

Miss DEBBY was of mien demure
And blush'd, like any maid !
She could not saucy man endure
Lest she should be betray'd!
She never fail'd at dance or fair
To watch the wily lurcher's snare;
At Church, she was a model Godly!
Though sometimes she had other eyes
Than those, uplifted to the skies,
Leering most oddly!
And Scandal, ever busy, thought
She rarely practic'd--what she taught.

Her dress was always stiff brocade,
With laces broad and dear;
Fine Cobwebs ! that would thinly shade
Her shrivell'd cheek of sallow hue,
While, like a Spider, her keen eye,
Which never shed soft pity's tear,
Small holes in others geer could spy,
And microscopic follies, prying view.
And sorely vex'd was ev'ry simple thing
That wander'd near her never-tiring sting!

Miss DEBBY had a PARROT, who,
If Fame speaks true,
Could prate, and tell what neighbours did,
And yet the saucy rogue was never chid!
Sometimes, he talk'd of roving Spouses
Who wander'd from their quiet houses:
Sometimes, he call'd a Spinster pure
By names, that Virtue can't indure!
And sometimes told an ancient Dame
Such tales as made her blush with shame!
Then gabbled how a giddy Miss
Would give the boist'rous Squire a kiss!
But chiefly he was taught to cry,
Who with the Parson toy'd? O fie! "

This little joke, Miss DEBBY taught him,
To vex a young and pretty neighbour;
But by her scandal-zealous labour
To shame she brought him!
For, the Old PARROT, like his teacher
Was but a false and canting preacher,
And many a gamesome pair had sworn
Such lessons were not to be borne.

At last, Miss DEBBY sore was flouted
And by her angry neighbours scouted;
She never knew one hour of rest,
Of ev'ry Saucy Boor, the jest:
The young despis'd her, and the Sage
Look'd back on Time's impartial page;
They knew that youth was giv'n to prove
The season of extatic joy,
That none but Cynics would destroy,
The early buds of Love.
They also knew that DEBBY sigh'd
For charms that envious Time deny'd;
That she was vex'd with jealous Spleen
That Hymen pass'd her by, unseen.

For though the Spinster's wealth was known,
Gold will not purchase Love--alone .
She, and her PARROT, now were thought
The torments of their little Sphere;
He, because mischievously taught,
And She, because a maid austere !--
In short, she deem'd it wise to leave
A Place, where none remain'd, to grieve.

Soon, to a distant town remov'd,
Miss DEBBY'S gold an husband bought;
And all she had her PARROT taught,
(Her PARROT now no more belov'd,)
Was quite forgotten. But, alas!
As Fate would have it come to pass,
Her Spouse was giv'n to jealous rage,
For, both in Person and in Age ,
He was the partner of his love,
Ordain'd her second Self to prove!

One day, Old JENKINS had been out
With merry friends to dine,
And, freely talking, had, no doubt
Been also free with wine.
One said, of all the wanton gay
In the whole parish search it round,
None like the PARSON could be found,
Where a frail Maid was in the way.
Another thought the Parson sure
To win the heart of maid or wife;
And would have freely pledg'd his life
That young, or old, or rich or poor
None could defy
The magic of his roving eye!

JENKINS went home, but all the night
He dream'd of this strange tale!
Yet, bless'd his stars ! with proud delight,
His partner was not young, nor frail.
Next morning, at the breakfast table.
The PARROT, loud as he was able,
Was heard repeatedly to cry,
Who with the Parson toy'd? O fie!"

Old JENKINS listen'd, and grew pale,
The PARROT then, more loudly scream'd,
And MISTRESS JENKINS heard the tale
And much alarm'd she seem'd!
Trembling she tried to stop his breath,
Her lips and cheek as pale as death!
The more she trembled, still the more
Old JENKINS view'd her o'er and o'er;
And now her yellow cheek was spread
With blushes of the deepest red.

And now again the PARROT'S Tale
Made his old Tutoress doubly pale;
For cowardice and guilt, they say
Are the twin brothers of the soul;
So MISTRESS JENKINS, her dismay
Could not controul!
While the accuser, now grown bold,
Thrice o'er, the tale of mischief told.

Now JENKINS from the table rose,
"Who with the Parson toy'd? " he cried.
"So MISTRESS FRAILTY, you must play,
"And sport, your wanton hours away.
"And with your gold, a pretty joke,
"You thought to buy a pleasant cloak;
"A screen to hide your shame--but know
"I will not blind to ruin go.--
"I am no modern Spouse , dy'e see,
"Gold will not gild disgrace, with me!"
Some say he seiz'd his fearful bride,
And came to blows!
Day after day, the contest dire
Augmented, with resistless ire!
And many a drubbing DEBBY bought
For mischief, she her PARROT taught!

Thus, SLANDER turns against its maker;
And if this little Story reaches
A SPINSTER, who her PARROT teaches,
Let her a better task pursue,
And here, the certain VENGEANCE view
Which surely will, in TIME, O'ERTAKE HER.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Call

 (France, August first, 1914)

 Far and near, high and clear,
 Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
 War! War! War!

 High and low, all must go:
 Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:
 War! Red War!

 Rich and poor, lord and boor,
 Hark to the blast of War!
Tinker and tailor and millionaire,
Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,
Comrades now in the hell out there,
 Sweep to the fire of War!

 Prince and page, sot and sage,
 Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town,
Into the pot and be melted down:
 Into the pot of War!

 Women all, hear the call,
 The pitiless call of War!
Look your last on your dearest ones,
Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:
Swift they go to the ravenous guns,
 The gluttonous guns of War.

 Everywhere thrill the air
 The maniac bells of War.
There will be little of sleeping to-night;
There will be wailing and weeping to-night;
Death's red sickle is reaping to-night:
 War! War! War!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Sensitive Burglar

 Selecting in the dining-room
 The silver of his choice,
The burglar heard from chamber gloom
 A female voice.
As cold and bitter as a toad,
 She spat a nasty name,
So even as his swag he stowed
 He blushed for shame.

'You dirty dog!' he heard her say,
 'I sniff your whisky stench.
I bet you've gambled half your pay,
 Or blown it on a wench.
Begone from here, you rakehell boor!
 You shame the human race.
What wife would pillow-share with your
 Disgusting face!'

A tear the tender burglar shed,
 Then indignation rose,
And swiftly striding to her bed
 He said: 'I'm none of those.
I am a connoisseur in crime
 And felonies I plan . . .
But otherwise, believe me I'm
 A GENTLEMAN.'

Book: Reflection on the Important Things