10 Best Famous Cops Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Cops poems. This is a select list of the best famous Cops poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Cops poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of cops poems.

• All Famous Cops Poems

 ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a 
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is **** everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
****.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a ****-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was 
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the Polack.

the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!

 Each night he stands before

the kitchen island, begins again

from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg,

he beats, he folds;

keeps faith in what happens

when you combine known quantities,

bake twelve minutes at a certain heat.

The other rabbis, the scholars,

teenagers idling by the beach,

they receive his offerings,

in the early hours, share his grief.

It’s enough now, they say.

Each day more baked goods to friends,

and friends of friends, even

the neighborhood cops. He can’t stop,

holds on to the rhythmic opening

and closing of the oven,

the timer’s expectant ring.

I was just baking, he says if

someone comes by. Again and again,

evenings winter into spring,

he creates the most fragile

of confections: madelines

and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps

and blue florentines;

each crumb to reincarnate

a woman – a savoring

of what the living once could bring.

 Though you know it anyhow 
Listen to me, darling, now, 
Proving what I need not prove 
How I know I love you, love. 
Near and far, near and far, 
I am happy where you are; 
Likewise I have never larnt 
How to be it where you aren't. 
Far and wide, far and wide, 
I can walk with you beside; 
Furthermore, I tell you what, 
I sit and sulk where you are not. 
Visitors remark my frown 
Where you're upstairs and I am down, 
Yes, and I'm afraid I pout 
When I'm indoors and you are out; 
But how contentedly I view 
Any room containing you. 
In fact I care not where you be, 
Just as long as it's with me. 
In all your absences I glimpse 
Fire and flood and trolls and imps. 
Is your train a minute slothful? 
I goad the stationmaster wrothful. 
When with friends to bridge you drive 
I never know if you're alive, 
And when you linger late in shops 
I long to telephone the cops. 
Yet how worth the waiting for, 
To see you coming through the door. 
Somehow, I can be complacent 
Never but with you adjacent. 
Near and far, near and far, 
I am happy where you are; 
Likewise I have never larnt 
How to be it where you aren't. 
Then grudge me not my fond endeavor, 
To hold you in my sight forever; 
Let none, not even you, disparage 
Such a valid reason for a marriage.

 I was shacked with a
24 year old girl from
New York City for
two weeks- about
the time of the garbage
strike out there, and
one night my 34 year 
old woman arrived and
she said, "I want to see
my rival." she did
and then she said, "o,
you're a cute little thing!"
next I knew there was a 
screech of wildcats-
such screaming and scratch-
ing, wounded animal moans,
blood and piss. . .
I was drunk and in my
shorts. I tried to 
seperate them and fell,
wrenched my knee. then
they were through the screen
door and down the walk
and out into the street.
squadcars full of cops
arrived. a police heli-
coptor circled overhead.
I stood in the bathroom
and grinned in the mirror.
it's not often at the age
of 55 that such splendid
things occur.
better than the Watts
riots.
the 34 year old
came back in. she had
pissed all over her-
self and her clothing
was torn and she was
followed by 2 cops who
wanted to know why.
pulling up my shorts
I tried to explain.

 whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus’s quester
chancer romancer

the inkman cometh
from that nether world
where dream and coincidence
are darkly furled
accident rubbed him
into puzzling light
he is what he isn’t
(he’s the geist of zeit)

whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus’s quester
chancer romancer

he cannot move
but he never stops
particle-wave
(ask the science-cops)
all creation swirls
from his restless frame
he isn’t what he is
that’s the inkman’s game

whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus’s quester
chancer romancer


(ii) ninkam poop

so this the inkman’s alter ego
the fool who shadows us
wherever we go
he can’t get right a thing in the light
desperately wants to be our amigo
but he knows us 
knows us

knows us from the inside out
each beat of the heart
(he’s in with a shout)
sets him dancing (call it prancing)
 he’s what the dreamt world’s all about
and we’re just à la carte 
à la carte

to him his à la carte (his me 
and you) his raison d’etre
such a fool – we can’t be-
lieve he’s a manifest of our mutual quest
to live to the full fate’s strange decree
etcetera 
etcetera

etcetera – wow – this idiot
poop the inkman bringeth
(proof he’s what he’s not)
is the sum already of our going steady
(on even keel – patiently - why not)
and why not he singeth 
danceth

danceth our lot (our ninkam poop)
our nobility of folly
(our life’s amazing scoop)
the making of joy from almost lost alloy
an astonishing loop the loop
by two half off their trolley
how jolly

 for Aaron Fogel 

Politically-correct 
personal computers 
point and click. 

President Clinton
(codename Peacock) 
can't protect 
crack pushing 
Communist Party 
cops pursuing 
a care package 
of peasant consciousness
in a car park. 

Poverty's a crime,
and capital punishment
par for the course,
in this penal code. 

A plausible cliffhanger 
can't cure the paralyzed, 
prevent cancer, 
or prepare California 
for Perry Como, 
that peerless crooner. 

Pitcher and catcher confer.
O cornet player, play 
"Pomp and Circumstance" 
please, in the partly cloudy 
cool Pacific.

 She mentioned 'worthless' & he took it in,
degraded Henry, at the ebb of love-”
O at the end of love-”
in undershorts, with visitors, whereof
we can say their childlessness is ending. Love
finally took over,

after their two adopted: she has a month to go
and Henry has (perhaps) many months to go
until another Spring
wakens another Henry, with far to go;
far to go, pal.
My pussy-willow ceased. The tiger-lily dreamed.

All we dream, uncertain, in Syracuse & here
& there: dread we our loves, whereas the National Geographic
is on its way somewhere.
We're not. We're on our way to the little fair
and the cops & the flicks & the single flick
who'll solve our intolerable problem.

 You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his mome. . . .
Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home.
A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache, --
Yet there was nothing juvenile in Julot the apache.
From head to heel as tough as steel, as nimble as a cat,
With every trick of twist and kick, a master of savate.
And Gigolette was tall and fair, as stupid as a cow,
With three combs in the greasy hair she banged upon her brow.
You'd see her on the Place Pigalle on any afternoon,
A primitive and strapping wench as brazen as the moon.
And yet there is a tale that's told of Clichy after dark,
And two gendarmes who swung their arms with Julot for a mark.
And oh, but they'd have got him too; they banged and blazed away,
When like a flash a woman leapt between them and their prey.
She took the medicine meant for him; she came down with a crash . . .
"Quick now, and make your get-away, O Julot the apache!" . . .
But no! He turned, ran swiftly back, his arms around her met;
They nabbed him sobbing like a kid, and kissing Gigolette.

Now I'm a reckless painter chap who loves a jamboree,
And one night in Cyrano's bar I got upon a spree;
And there were trollops all about, and crooks of every kind,
But though the place was reeling round I didn't seem to mind.
Till down I sank, and all was blank when in the bleary dawn
I woke up in my studio to find -- my money gone;
Three hundred francs I'd scraped and squeezed to pay my quarter's rent.
"Some one has pinched my wad," I wailed; "it never has been spent."
And as I racked my brains to seek how I could raise some more,
Before my cruel landlord kicked me cowering from the door:
A knock . . . "Come in," I gruffly groaned; I did not raise my head,
Then lo! I heard a husky voice, a swift and silky tread:
"You got so blind, last night, mon vieux, I collared all your cash --
Three hundred francs. . . . There! Nom de Dieu," said Julot the apache.

And that was how I came to know Julot and Gigolette,
And we would talk and drink a bock, and smoke a cigarette.
And I would meditate upon the artistry of crime,
And he would tell of cracking cribs and cops and doing time;
Or else when he was flush of funds he'd carelessly explain
He'd biffed some bloated bourgeois on the border of the Seine.
So gentle and polite he was, just like a man of peace,
And not a desperado and the terror of the police.

Now one day in a bistro that's behind the Place Vendôme
I came on Julot the apache, and Gigolette his mome.
And as they looked so very grave, says I to them, says I,
"Come on and have a little glass, it's good to rinse the eye.
You both look mighty serious; you've something on the heart."
"Ah, yes," said Julot the apache, "we've something to impart.
When such things come to folks like us, it isn't very gay . . .
It's Gigolette -- she tells me that a gosse is on the way."
Then Gigolette, she looked at me with eyes like stones of gall:
"If we were honest folks," said she, "I wouldn't mind at all.
But then . . . you know the life we lead; well, anyway I mean
(That is, providing it's a girl) to call her Angeline."
"Cheer up," said I; "it's all in life. There's gold within the dross.
Come on, we'll drink another verre to Angeline the gosse."
And so the weary winter passed, and then one April morn
The worthy Julot came at last to say the babe was born.
"I'd like to chuck it in the Seine," he sourly snarled, "and yet
I guess I'll have to let it live, because of Gigolette."
I only laughed, for sure I saw his spite was all a bluff,
And he was prouder than a prince behind his manner gruff.
Yet every day he'd blast the brat with curses deep and grim,
And swear to me that Gigolette no longer thought of him.
And then one night he dropped the mask; his eyes were sick with dread,
And when I offered him a smoke he groaned and shook his head:
"I'm all upset; it's Angeline . . . she's covered with a rash . . .
She'll maybe die, my little gosse," cried Julot the apache.

But Angeline, I joy to say, came through the test all right,
Though Julot, so they tell me, watched beside her day and night.
And when I saw him next, says he: "Come up and dine with me.
We'll buy a beefsteak on the way, a bottle and some brie."
And so I had a merry night within his humble home,
And laughed with Angeline the gosse and Gigolette the mome.
And every time that Julot used a word the least obscene,
How Gigolette would frown at him and point to Angeline:
Oh, such a little innocent, with hair of silken floss,
I do not wonder they were proud of Angeline the gosse.
And when her arms were round his neck, then Julot says to me:
"I must work harder now, mon vieux, since I've to work for three."
He worked so very hard indeed, the police dropped in one day,
And for a year behind the bars they put him safe away.

So dark and silent now, their home; they'd gone -- I wondered where,
Till in a laundry near I saw a child with shining hair;
And o'er the tub a strapping wench, her arms in soapy foam;
Lo! it was Angeline the gosse, and Gigolette the mome.
And so I kept an eye on them and saw that all went right,
Until at last came Julot home, half crazy with delight.
And when he'd kissed them both, says he: "I've had my fill this time.
I'm on the honest now, I am; I'm all fed up with crime.
You mark my words, the page I turn is going to be clean,
I swear it on the head of her, my little Angeline."

And so, to finish up my tale, this morning as I strolled
Along the boulevard I heard a voice I knew of old.
I saw a rosy little man with walrus-like mustache . . .
I stopped, I stared. . . . By all the gods! 'twas Julot the apache.
"I'm in the garden way," he said, "and doing mighty well;
I've half an acre under glass, and heaps of truck to sell.
Come out and see. Oh come, my friend, on Sunday, wet or shine . . .
Say! -- it's the First Communion of that little girl of mine."

 You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, 
That rode Panopply, the Splendor mare, 
And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, 
And Smith, the half-caste rider on Regret, 
And that long bloke from Wagga -- him that rode 
Veronikew, the Snowy River horse. 
Well, none of them had chances -- not a chance 
Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead 
Or wasn't trying -- for a blind man's dog 
Could see Enchantress was a certain cop, 
And all the books was layin' six to four. 
They brought her out to show our lot the road, 
Or so they said: but, then Gord's truth! you know, 
You can believe 'em, though they took an oath 
On forty Bibles that they's tell the truth. 
But anyhow, an amateur was up 
On this Enchantress; and so Ike and me, 
We thought that we might frighten him a bit 
By asking if he minded riding rough -- 
"Oh, not at all," says he, "oh, not at all! 
I heard at Robbo Park, and if it comes 
To bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!" 

Says he, "I'll bump you over either rail, 
The inside rail or outside -- which you choose 
Is good enough for me" -- which settled Ike. 
For he was shaky since he near got killed 
From being sent a buster on the rail, 
When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down 
At Stony Bridge; so Ikey thought it best 
To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed. 

So all the books was layin' six to four 
Against the favourite, and the amateur 
Was walking this Enchantress up and down, 
And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought 
We might as well get something for ourselves, 
Because we knew our horses couldn't win. 
But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob; 
Because he said he reckoned he was stiff, 
And all the books was layin' six to four. 

Well, anyhow, before the start the news 
Got around that this here amateur was stiff, 
And our good stuff was blued, and all the books 
Was in it, and the prices lengthened out, 
And every book was bustin' of his throat, 
And layin' five to one the favourite. 
So there was we that couldn't win ourselves, 
And this here amateur that wouldn't try, 
And all the books was layin' five to one. 

So Smithy says to me, "You take a hold 
Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn 
Come up behind Enchantress with the whip 
And let her have it; that long bloke and me 
Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us 
We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight, 
And Ikey'll flog her home -- because his boss 
Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what, 
And so he won't be touched; and, as for us, 
We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!" 
And all the books was layin' five to one. 

Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn 
I saw the amateur was holdinig back 
And poking into every hole he could 
To get her blocked; and so I pulled behind 
And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare. 
I let her have it twice, and then she shot 
Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out 
And let her up beside him on the rails, 
And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke 
Until she struggled past him, pullin' hard, 
And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip 
And hit her on the nose, and sent her back 
And won the race himself -- for, after all, 
It seems he had a fiver on The Dook 
And never told us -- so our stuff was lost. 
And then they had us up for ridin' foul, 
And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each 
To get our livin' any way we could; 
But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss 
Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what. 

But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown, 
I know three certain winners at the Park -- 
Three certain cops as no one knows but me; 
And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer 
(I always like a beer about this time) . . . 
Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.

 Humping it here in the dug-out,
 Sucking me black dudeen,
I'd like to say in a general way,
 There's nothing like Nickyteen;
There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,
 Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;
So be sure that a bloke
Has plenty to smoke,
 If you wants him to fight your wars.

When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,
I begin to think of my baccy plug.
I whittle a fill in my horny palm,
And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.
I trim the edges, I tamp it down,
I nurse a light with an anxious frown;
I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,
And all my face is a blissful grin;
And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,
And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;
In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,
For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.
Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,
But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol,
Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;
And sure I thought I was worse than dead
Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head.
Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot,
Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.
And mind you, water up to your knees.
And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.
And if we ventured our noses out
A "typewriter" clattered its pills about.
The Field of Glory! Well, I don't think!
I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,
He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.
Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through;
Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.
But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? --
I'd sell me perishin' soul for a ***."
And there he shivered and cussed his luck,
So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.
And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it
Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit;
Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,
Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black,
So I left him there and I started back.
And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,
For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.
Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near,
And one little blighter just chipped me ear.
But there! I got to the trench all right,
When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright,
And a word that doesn't look well in type:
I'd clean forgotten me old clay pipe.

So I had to do it all over again,
Crawling out on that filthy plain.
Through shells and bombs and bullets and all --
Only this time -- I do not crawl.
I run like a man wot's missing a train,
Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.
I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun
Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.
Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,
(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!)
I run like a man that's no ideer
Of hunting around for a sooveneer.
I run bang into a German chap,
And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.
And just to show him that I'm his boss,
I gives him a kick on the parados.
And I marches him back with me all serene,
Wiv, tucked in me grup, me old dudeen.

Sitting here in the trenches
 Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen,
For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head,
 But it smashes me old dudeen.
God blast that red-headed sniper!
 I'll give him somethin' to snipe;
Before the war's through
Just see how I do
 That blighter that smashed me pipe.