Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Chuck Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Chuck poems, articles about Chuck poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Chuck poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

**** List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:
gosling **** (which J. Williams said something
was as green as), fish **** (the generality), trout

****, rainbow trout **** (for the nice), mullet ****,
sand dab ****, casual sloth ****, elephant ****
(awesome as process or payload), wildebeest ****,

horse **** (a favorite), caterpillar **** (so many dark
kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros
****, splashy jaybird ****, mockingbird ****

(dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin **** that
oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts,
chicken **** and chicken mite ****, pelican ****, gannet

**** (wholesome guano), fly **** (periodic), cockatoo
****, dog **** (past catalog or assimilation),
cricket ****, elk (high plains) ****, and

tiny scribbled little shrew ****, whale **** (what
a sight, deep assumption), mandril **** (blazing
blast off), weasel **** (wiles' waste), gazelle ****,

magpie **** (total protein), tiger **** (too acid
to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray ****, eerie
shark ****, earthworm **** (a soilure), crab ****,

wolf **** upon the germicidal ice, snake ****, giraffe
**** that accelerates, secretary bird ****, turtle
**** suspension invites, remora **** slightly in

advance of the shark ****, hornet **** (difficult to
assess), camel **** that slaps the ghastly dry
siliceous, frog ****, beetle ****, bat **** (the

marmoreal), contemptible cat ****, penguin ****,
hermit crab ****, prairie hen ****, cougar ****, eagle
**** (high totem stuff), buffalo **** (hardly less

lofty), otter ****, beaver **** (from the animal of
alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down
cloaca—macaw ****, alligator **** (that floats the Nile

along), louse ****, macaque, koala, and coati ****,
antelope ****, chuck-will's-widow ****, alpaca ****
(very high stuff), gooney bird ****, chigger ****, bull

**** (the classic), caribou ****, rasbora, python, and
razorbill ****, scorpion ****, man ****, laswing
fly larva ****, chipmunk ****, other-worldly wallaby

****, gopher **** (or broke), platypus ****, aardvark
****, spider ****, kangaroo and peccary ****, guanaco
****, dolphin ****, aphid ****, baboon **** (that leopards

induce), albatross ****, red-headed woodpecker (nine
inches long) ****, tern ****, hedgehog ****, panda ****,
seahorse ****, and the **** of the wasteful gallinule.


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Smugglers Song

 If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
 Five and twenty ponies,
 Trotting through the dark --
 Brandy for the Parson,
 'Baccy for the Clerk;
 Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again -- and they'll be gone next day!

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm -- don't you ask no more!

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be carefull what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house -- whistles after dark --
You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie --
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,
You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood --
A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!
 Five and twenty ponies,
 Trotting through the dark --
 Brandy for the Parson,
 'Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie --
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen bo by!
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

My Soviet Passport

 I'd tear
 like a wolf
 at bureaucracy.
For mandates
 my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself
 I'd chuck without mercy
every red-taped paper.
 But this ...
Down the long front
 of coupés and cabins
File the officials
 politely.
They gather up passports
 and I give in
My own vermilion booklet.
For one kind of passport -
smiling lips part
For others -
 an attitude scornful.
They take
 with respect, for instance,
 the passport
From a sleeping-car
English Lionel.
The good fellows eyes
 almost slip like pips
when,
 bowing as low as men can,
they take,
 as if they were taking a tip,
the passport
 from an American.
At the Polish,
 they dolefully blink and wheeze
in dumb
 police elephantism -
where are they from,
 and what are these
geographical novelties?
And without a turn
 of their cabbage heads,
their feelings
 hidden in lower regions,
they take without blinking,
 the passports from Swedes
and various
 old Norwegians.
Then sudden
 as if their mouths were
 aquake
those gentlemen almost
 whine
Those very official gentlemen
 take
that red-skinned passport
 of mine.
Take-
 like a bomb
 take - like a hedgehog,
like a razor
 double-edge stropped,
take -
 like a rattlesnake huge and long
with at least
 20 fangs
 poison-tipped.
The porter's eyes
 give a significant flick
(I'll carry your baggage
 for nix,
 mon ami...)
The gendarmes enquiringly
 look at the tec,
the tec, -
 at the gendarmerie.
With what delight
 that gendarme caste
would have me
 strung-up and whipped raw
because I hold
 in my hands
 hammered-fast
sickle-clasped
 my red Soviet passport.
I'd tear
 like a wolf
 at bureaucracy.
For mandates
 my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself
 I'd chuck
 without mercy
every red-taped paper,
 But this ...
I pull out
 of my wide trouser-pockets
duplicate
of a priceless cargo.
 You now:
read this
 and envy,
 I'm a citizen
of the Soviet Socialist Union!


Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Pious Pete

 "The North has got him." --Yukonism.


I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did.
I grieved for his fate, and early and late I watched over him like a kid.
I gave him excuse, I bore his abuse in every way that I could;
I swore to prevail; I camped on his trail; I plotted and planned for his good.
By day and by night I strove in men's sight to gather him into the fold,
With precept and prayer, with hope and despair, in hunger and hardship and cold.
I followed him into Gehennas of sin, I sat where the sirens sit;
In the shade of the Pole, for the sake of his soul, I strove with the powers of the Pit.
I shadowed him down to the scrofulous town; I dragged him from dissolute brawls;
But I killed the galoot when he started to shoot electricity into my walls.

God knows what I did he should seek to be rid of one who would save him from shame.
God knows what I bore that night when he swore and bade me make tracks from his claim.
I started to tell of the horrors of hell, when sudden his eyes lit like coals;
And "Chuck it," says he, "don't persecute me with your cant and your saving of souls."
I'll swear I was mild as I'd be with a child, but he called me the son of a ****;
And, grabbing his gun with a leap and a run, he threatened my face with the butt.
So what could I do (I leave it to you)? With curses he harried me forth;
Then he was alone, and I was alone, and over us menaced the North.

Our cabins were near; I could see, I could hear; but between us there rippled the creek;
And all summer through, with a rancor that grew, he would pass me and never would speak.
Then a shuddery breath like the coming of Death crept down from the peaks far away;
The water was still; the twilight was chill; the sky was a tatter of gray.
Swift came the Big Cold, and opal and gold the lights of the witches arose;
The frost-tyrant clinched, and the valley was cinched by the stark and cadaverous snows.
The trees were like lace where the star-beams could chase, each leaf was a jewel agleam.
The soft white hush lapped the Northland and wrapped us round in a crystalline dream;
So still I could hear quite loud in my ear the swish of the pinions of time;
So bright I could see, as plain as could be, the wings of God's angels ashine.

As I read in the Book I would oftentimes look to that cabin just over the creek.
Ah me, it was sad and evil and bad, two neighbors who never would speak!
I knew that full well like a devil in hell he was hatching out, early and late,
A system to bear through the frost-spangled air the warm, crimson waves of his hate.
I only could peer and shudder and fear--'twas ever so ghastly and still;
But I knew over there in his lonely despair he was plotting me terrible ill.
I knew that he nursed a malice accurst, like the blast of a winnowing flame;
I pleaded aloud for a shield, for a shroud--Oh, God! then calamity came.

Mad! If I'm mad then you too are mad; but it's all in the point of view.
If you'd looked at them things gallivantin' on wings, all purple and green and blue;
If you'd noticed them twist, as they mounted and hissed like scorpions dim in the dark;
If you'd seen them rebound with a horrible sound, and spitefully spitting a spark;
If you'd watched IT with dread, as it hissed by your bed, that thing with the feelers that crawls--
You'd have settled the brute that attempted to shoot electricity into your walls.

Oh, some they were blue, and they slithered right through; they were silent and squashy and round;
And some they were green; they were wriggly and lean; they writhed with so hateful a sound.
My blood seemed to freeze; I fell on my knees; my face was a white splash of dread.
Oh, the Green and the Blue, they were gruesome to view; but the worst of them all were the Red.
They came through the door, they came through the floor, they came through the moss-creviced logs.
They were savage and dire; they were whiskered with fire; they bickered like malamute dogs.
They ravined in rings like iniquitous things; they gulped down the Green and the Blue.
I crinkled with fear whene'er they drew near, and nearer and nearer they drew.

And then came the crown of Horror's grim crown, the monster so loathsomely red.
Each eye was a pin that shot out and in, as, squidlike, it oozed to my bed;
So softly it crept with feelers that swept and quivered like fine copper wire;
Its belly was white with a sulphurous light, it jaws were a-drooling with fire.
It came and it came; I could breathe of its flame, but never a wink could I look.
I thrust in its maw the Fount of the Law; I fended it off with the Book.
I was weak--oh, so weak--but I thrilled at its shriek, as wildly it fled in the night;
And deathlike I lay till the dawn of the day. (Was ever so welcome the light?)

I loaded my gun at the rise of the sun; to his cabin so softly I slunk.
My neighbor was there in the frost-freighted air, all wrapped in a robe in his bunk.
It muffled his moans; it outlined his bones, as feebly he twisted about;
His gums were so black, and his lips seemed to crack, and his teeth all were loosening out.
'Twas a death's head that peered through the tangle of beard; 'twas a face I will never forget;
Sunk eyes full of woe, and they troubled me so with their pleadings and anguish, and yet
As I rested my gaze in a misty amaze on the scurvy-degenerate wreck,
I thought of the Things with the dragon-fly wings, then laid I my gun on his neck.
He gave out a cry that was faint as a sigh, like a perishing malamute,
And he says unto me, "I'm converted," says he; "for Christ's sake, Peter, don't shoot!"

* * * * *

They're taking me out with an escort about, and under a sergeant's care;
I am humbled indeed, for I'm 'cuffed to a Swede that thinks he's a millionaire.
But it's all Gospel true what I'm telling to you-- up there where the Shadow falls--
That I settled Sam Noot when he started to shoot electricity into my walls.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Bushfire - an Allegory

 'Twas on the famous Empire run, 
Whose sun does never set, 
Whose grass and water, so they say, 
Have never failed them yet -- 
They carry many million sheep, 
Through seasons dry and wet. 
They call the homestead Albion House, 
And then, along with that, 
There's Welshman's Gully, Scotchman's Hill, 
And Paddymelon Flat: 
And all these places are renowned 
For making jumbacks fat. 

And the out-paddocks -- holy frost! 
There wouldn't be no sense 
For me to try and tell you half -- 
They really are immense; 
A man might ride for days and weeks 
And never strike a fence. 

But still for years they never had 
Been known a sheep to lose; 
Old Billy Gladstone managed it, 
And you can bet your shoes 
He'd scores of supers under him, 
And droves of jackaroos. 

Old Billy had an eagle eye, 
And kept his wits about -- 
If any chaps got trespassing 
He quickly cleared 'em out; 
And coves that used to "work a cross", 
They hated him, no doubt. 

But still he managed it in style, 
Until the times got dry, 
And Billy gave the supers word 
To see and mind their eye -- 
"If any paddocks gets a-fire 
I'll know the reason why." 

Now on this point old Bill was sure, 
Because, for many a year, 
Whenever times got dry at all, 
As sure as you are here, 
The Paddymelon Flat got burnt 
Which Bill thought rather *****. 

He sent his smartest supers there 
To try and keep things right. 
No use! The grass was always dry -- 
They'd go to sleep at night, 
And when they woke they'd go and find 
The whole concern alight. 

One morning it was very hot -- 
The sun rose in a haze; 
Old Bill was cutting down some trees 
(One of his little ways); 
A black boy came hot-foot to say 
The Flat was in a blaze. 

Old Bill he swears a fearful oath 
And lets the tommy fall -- 
Says he: "'ll take this business up, 
And fix it once for all; 
If this goes on the cursed run 
Will send us to the wall." 

So he withdrew his trespass suits, 
He'd one with Dutchy's boss -- 
In prosecutions criminal 
He entered nolle pros., 
But these were neither here nor there -- 
They always meant a loss. 

And off to Paddymelon Flat 
He started double quick 
Drayloads of men with lots of grog 
Lest heat should make them sick, 
And all the strangers came around 
To see him do the trick. 

And there the fire was flaming bright, 
For miles and miles it spread, 
And many a sheep and horse and cow 
Were numbered with the dead -- 
The super came to meet Old Bill, 
And this is what he said: 

"No use, to try to beat it out, 
'Twill dry you up like toast, 
I've done as much as man can do, 
Although I never boast; 
I think you'd better chuck it up, 
And let the jumbucks roast." 

Then Bill said just two words: "You're sacked," 
And pitches off his coat, 
And wrenches down a blue gum bough 
And clears his manly throat, 
And into it like threshing wheat 
Right sturdily he smote. 

And beat the blazing grass until 
His shirt was dripping wet; 
And all the people watched him there 
To see what luck he'd get, 
"Gosh! don't he make the cinders fly," 
And, Golly, don't he sweat!" 

But though they worked like Trojans all, 
The fire still went ahead 
So far as you could see around, 
The very skies were red, 
Sometimes the flames would start afresh, 
Just where they thought it dead. 

His men, too, quarreled 'mongst themselves 
And some coves gave it best 
And some said, "Light a fire in front, 
And burn from east to west" -- 
But Bill he still kept sloggin' in, 
And never took no rest. 

Then through the crowd a cornstalk kid 
Come ridin' to the spot 
Says he to Bill, "Now take a spell, 
You're lookin' very 'ot, 
And if you'll only listen, why, 
I'll tell you what is what. 

"These coves as set your grass on fire, 
There ain't no mortal doubt, 
I've seen 'em ridin' here and there, 
And pokin' round about; 
It ain't no use your workin' here, 
Until you finds them out. 

"See yonder, where you beat the fire -- 
It's blazin' up again, 
And fires are starting right and left 
On Tipperary Plain, 
Beating them out is useless quite, 
Unless Heaven sends the rain. 

Then Bill, he turns upon the boy, 
"Oh, hold your tongue, you pup!" 
But a cinder blew across the creek 
While Bill stopped for a sup, 
And fired the Albion paddocks, too -- 
It was a bitter cup; 
Old Bill's heart was broke at last, 
He had to chuck it up. 


Moral 

The run is England's Empire great, 
The fire is the distress 
That burns the stock they represent -- 
Prosperity you'll guess. 
And the blue gum bough is the Home Rule Bill 
That's making such a mess. 

And Ireland green, of course I mean 
By Paddymelon Flat; 
All men can see the fire, of course, 
Spreads on at such a bat, 
But who are setting it alight, 
I cannot tell you that. 

But this I think all men will see, 
And hold it very true -- 
"Don't quarrel with effects until 
The cause is brought to view." 
What is the cause? That cornstalk boy -- 
He seemed to think he knew.


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Tommy

 I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
 O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
 But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
 The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
 O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
 For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
 But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
 The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
 O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
 Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
 But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
 The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
 O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
 While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
 But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
 There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
 O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
 For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
 But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
 An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
 An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
Written by Maxine Kumin | Create an image from this poem

Woodchucks

 Gassing the woodchucks didn't turn out right.
The knockout bomb from the Feed and Grain Exchange
was featured as merciful, quick at the bone
and the case we had against them was airtight,
both exits shoehorned shut with puddingstone,
but they had a sub-sub-basement out of range.

Next morning they turned up again, no worse
for the cyanide than we for our cigarettes
and state-store Scotch, all of us up to scratch.
They brought down the marigolds as a matter of course
and then took over the vegetable patch
nipping the broccoli shoots, beheading the carrots.

The food from our mouths, I said, righteously thrilling
to the feel of the .22, the bullets' neat noses.
I, a lapsed pacifist fallen from grace
puffed with Darwinian pieties for killing,
now drew a bead on the little woodchuck's face.
He died down in the everbearing roses.

Ten minutes later I dropped the mother.She
flipflopped in the air and fell, her needle teeth
still hooked in a leaf of early Swiss chard.
Another baby next.O one-two-three
the murderer inside me rose up hard,
the hawkeye killer came on stage forthwith.

There's one chuck left. Old wily fellow, he keeps
me cocked and ready day after day after day.
All night I hunt his humped-up form.I dream
I sight along the barrel in my sleep.
If only they'd all consented to die unseen
gassed underground the quiet Nazi way.
Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

Antichrist or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode

 Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?

In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.

It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Lung Fish

 The Honorable Ardleigh Wyse 
Was every fisherman's despair; 
He caught his fish on floating flies, 
In fact he caught them in the air, 
And wet-fly men -- good sports, perhaps -- 
He called "those chuck-and-chance-it chaps". 
And then the Fates that sometimes play 
A joke on such as me and you 
Deported him up Queensland way 
To act as a station jackaroo. 
The boundary rider said, said he, 
"You fish dry fly? Well, so do we. 

"These barramundi are the blokes 
To give you all the sport you need: 
For when the big lagoons and soaks 
Are dried right down to mud and weed 
They don't sit there and raise a roar, 
They pack their traps and come ashore. 

"And all these rods and reels you lump 
Along the creek from day to day 
Would only give a man the hump 
Who does his fishing Queensland way. 
For when the barramundi's thick 
We knock 'em over with a stick. 

"The black boys on the Darwin side 
Will fill a creek with bitter leaves 
And when the fish are stupefied 
The gins will gather 'em in sheaves. 
Now tell me, could a feller wish 
A finer way of catchin' fish?" 

The stokehold of the steamship Foam 
Contains our hero, very sick, 
A-working of his passage home 
And brandishing a blue gum stick. 
"Behold," says he, "the latest fly; 
It's called the Great Australian Dry."
Written by Harold Pinter | Create an image from this poem

Poem (Dont look...)

 Don't look.
The world's about to break.

Don't look.
The world's about to chuck out all its light
and stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat suffocated place
Where we will kill or die or dance or weep
Or scream of whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry