Best Famous Crazy As A Loon Poems

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

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Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Investigating Flora

 'Twas in scientific circles 
That the great Professor Brown 
Had a world-wide reputation 
As a writer of renown.
He had striven finer feelings In our natures to implant By his Treatise on the Morals Of the Red-eyed Bulldog Ant.
He had hoisted an opponent Who had trodden unawares On his "Reasons for Bare Patches On the Female Native Bears".
So they gave him an appointment As instructor to a band Of the most attractive females To be gathered in the land.
'Twas a "Ladies' Science Circle" -- Just the latest social fad For the Nicest People only, And to make their rivals mad.
They were fond of "science rambles" To the country from the town -- A parade of female beauty In the leadership of Brown.
They would pick a place for luncheon And catch beetles on their rugs; The Professor called 'em "optera" -- They calld 'em "nasty bugs".
Well, the thing was bound to perish For no lovely woman can Feel the slightest interest In a club without a Man -- The Professor hardly counted He was crazy as a loon, With a countenance suggestive Of an elderly baboon.
But the breath of Fate blew on it With a sharp and sudden blast, And the "Ladies' Science Circle" Is a memory of the past.
There were two-and-twenty members, Mostly young and mostly fair, Who had made a great excursion To a place called Dontknowwhere, At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land.
There they met an old selector, With a stockwhip in his hand, And the sight of so much beauty Sent him slightly "off his nut"; So he asked them, smiling blandly, "Would they come down to the hut?" "I am come," said the Professor, In his thin and reedy voice, "To investigate your flora, Which I feel is very choice.
" The selector stared dumbfounded, Till at last he found his tongue: "To investigate my Flora! Oh, you howlin' Brigham Young! Why, you've two-and-twenty wimmen -- Reg'lar slap-up wimmen, too! And you're after little Flora! And a crawlin' thing like you! Oh, you Mormonite gorilla! Well, I've heard it from the first That you wizened little fellers Is a hundred times the worst! But a dried-up ape like you are, To be marchin' through the land With a pack of lovely wimmen -- Well, I cannot understand!" "You mistake," said the Professor, In a most indignant tone -- While the ladies shrieked and jabbered In a fashion of their own -- "You mistake about these ladies, I'm a lecturer of theirs; I am Brown, who wrote the Treatise On the Female Native Bears! When I said we wanted flora, What I meant was native flowers.
" "Well, you said you wanted Flora, And I'll swear you don't get ours! But here's Flora's self a-comin', And it's time for you to skip, Or I'll write a treatise on you, And I'll write it with the whip! Now I want no explanations; Just you hook it out of sight, Or you'll charm the poor girl some'ow!" The Professor looked in fright: She was six feet high and freckled, And her hair was turkey-red.
The Professor gave a whimper, And threw down his bag and fled, And the Ladies' Science Circle, With a simultaneous rush, Travelled after its Professor, And went screaming through the bush! At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land, Where the grim and ghostly gumtrees Block the view on every hand, There they weep and wail and wander, Always seeking for the track, For the hapless old Professor Hasn't sense to guide 'em back; And they clutch at one another, And they yell and scream in fright As they see the gruesome creatures Of the grim Australian night; And they hear the mopoke's hooting, And the dingo's howl so dread, And the flying foxes jabber From the gum trees overhead; While the weird and wary wombats, In their subterranean caves, Are a-digging, always digging, At those wretched people's graves; And the pike-horned Queensland bullock, From his shelter in the scrub, Has his eye on the proceedings Of the Ladies' Science Club.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Drunkards Funeral

 "Yes," said the sister with the little pinched face,
The busy little sister with the funny little tract: —
"This is the climax, the grand fifth act.
There rides the proud, at the finish of his race.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry, The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
The wife of the dead has money in her purse, The children are in health, so it might have been worse.
That fellow in the coffin led a life most foul.
A fierce defender of the red bar-tender, At the church he would rail, At the preacher he would howl.
He planted every deviltry to see it grow.
He wasted half his income on the lewd and the low.
He would trade engender for the red bar-tender, He would homage render to the red bar-tender, And in ultimate surrender to the red bar-tender, He died of the tremens, as crazy as a loon, And his friends were glad, when the end came soon.
There goes the hearse, the mourners cry, The respectable hearse goes slowly by.
And now, good friends, since you see how it ends, Let each nation-mender flay the red bar-tender, — Abhor The transgression Of the red bar-tender, — Ruin The profession Of the red bar-tender: Force him into business where his work does good.
Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood, Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood.
"The moral, The conclusion, The verdict now you know:— 'The saloon must go, The saloon must go, The saloon, The saloon, The saloon, Must go.
'" "You are right, little sister," I said to myself, "You are right, good sister," I said.
"Though you wear a mussy bonnet On your little gray head, You are right, little sister," I said.