Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Communists Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

CIA Dope Calypso

 In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai-shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday

Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way

First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting opium to send to The Man

Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA

Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Rai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train

Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA

The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. A.I.D.

The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA

He got so sloppy & peddled so loose
He busted himself & cooked his own goose
Took the reward for an opium load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold

Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA

Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & wench
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till opium flowed through the land like a flood

Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA

The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. Intelligence came into Laos
I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosovan

All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA

And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars

It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA

All through the Sixties the Dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshal Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting confiture for President Thieu

All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA

Operation Haylift Offisir Wm. Colby
Saw Marshal Ky fly opium Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of Dirty Tricks
"Hitchhiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix

Subsidizing traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA


 January 1972


Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Communism

 When my blood flows calm as a purling river, 
When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway, 
It is then that I vow we must part for ever, 
That I will forget you, and put you away
Out of my life, as a dream is banished
Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes; 
That I know it will be when the spell has vanished, 
Better for both of our sakes.

When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason, 
I know it wiser for us to part; 
But Love is a spy who is plotting treason, 
In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
They whisper to me that the King is cruel, 
That his reign is wicked, his law a sin, 
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.

And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot
With the fever of youth and its mad desires, 
When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet, 
When my breast seems the centre of lava-fires, 
Oh, then is when most I miss you, 
And I swear by the stars and my soul and say
That I will have you, and hold you, and kiss you, 
Though the whole world stands in the way.

And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal, 
My fierce emotions roam out of their lair; 
They hate King Reason for being royal –
They would fire his castle, and burn him there.
O Love! They would clasp you, and crush you and kill you, 
In the insurrection of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you
That is raging in my soul?
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Raising The Flag

 Behold! the Spanish flag they're raising
Before the Palace courtyard gate;
To watch its progress bold and blazing
Two hundred patient people wait.
Though bandsmen play the anthem bravely
The silken emblem seems to lag;
Two hundred people watch it gravely -
But only two salute the flag.

Fine-clad and arrogant of manner
The twain are like dark dons of old,
And to that high and haughty banner
Uplifted palms they proudly hold.
The others watch them glumly, grimly;
No sullen proletariat these,
but middle-class, well clad though dimly,
Who seem to live in decent ease.

Then sadly they look at each other,
And sigh ans shrug and turn away.
What is the feeling that they smother?
I wonder, but it's none too gay.
And as with puzzlement I bide me,
Beneath that rich, resplendent rag,
I hear a bitter voice beside me:
"It isn't ours - it's Franco's flag.

"I'm Right: I have no Left obsession.
I hate the Communists like hell,
But after ten years of oppression
I hate our Franco twice as well.
And hush! I keep (do not reprove me)
His portrait in a private place,
And every time my bowels move me
I - spit in El Caudillo's face."

These were the words I heard, I swear,
But when I turned around to stare,
Believe me - there was no one there.
Written by Henry Vaughan | Create an image from this poem

The Retreat

 this time has finished me. 
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots. 
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so. 
victory was so close
victory was there. 
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her. 
and when she came to bed 
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good. 
eleven months. 
now she's gone
gone as they go.

this time has finished me. 
it's a long road back
and back to where? 
the guy ahead of me 
falls. 
I step over him. 
did she get him too?
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Blinded Bourbons

 ("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?") 
 
 {II. v., November, 1836.} 


 Who then, to them{1} had told the Future's story? 
 Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, 
 One day would mindful be 
 Of them and of their mournful fate no more, 
 Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er 
 The unremembering sea? 
 
 That their old Tuileries should see the fall 
 Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, 
 Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2} 
 Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3} 
 A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave 
 An eagle, then unknown? 
 
 That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, 
 Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created 
 For princely sport and ease, 
 Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, 
 Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade 
 Of the great Louis' trees? 
 
 Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 {Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.} 
 
 {Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so 
 irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town 
 Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.} 
 
 {Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, 
 the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has 
 been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or 
 "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.} 


 







Book: Reflection on the Important Things