10 Best Famous Deposits Poems

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

• All Famous Deposits Poems

Clay comes out to meet Liston 
and Liston starts to retreat, 
if Liston goes back an inch farther 
he'll end up in a ringside seat. 
Clay swings with his left, 
Clay swings with his right, 
Look at young Cassius 
carry the fight 
Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room, 
It's a matter of time till Clay lowers the boom. 
Now Clay lands with a right, 
What a beautiful swing, 
and the punch raises the Bear 
clean out of the ring. 
Liston is still rising and the ref wears a frown, 
For he can't start counting 
till Sonny goes down. 
Now Liston is disappearing from view, 
The crowd is going frantic, 
But radar stations have picked him up, 
Somewhere over the Atlantic. 
Who would have thought 
when they came to the fight? 
That they'd witness the launching 
of a human satellite. 
Yes the crowd did not dream, 
when they put up the money, 
That they would see 
a total eclipse of the Sonny. 

Muhammad Ali Quotes Poems

Ding! Ali comes out to meet Frazier 
But Frazier starts to retreat 
If Frazier goes back any further 
He'll wind up in a ringside seat 

Ali swings to the left 
Ali swings to the right 
Look at the kid 
Carry the fight 

Frazier keeps backing 
But there's not enough room 
It's a matter of time 
Then Ali lowers the boom 

Now Ali lands to the right 
What a beautiful swing! 
And deposits Frazier 
Clean out of the ring 

Frazier's still rising 
But the referee wears a frown 
For he can't start counting 
Till Frazier comes down 

Now Frazier disappears from view 
The crowd is getting frantic 
But our radar stations have picked him up 
He's somewhere over the Atlantic 

Who would have thought that 
When they came to the fight 
That they would have witnessed 
The launching of a coloured satellite! 

 This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the jackasses who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.

 Living in the earth-deposits of our history

Today a backhoe divulged out of a crumbling flank of earth
one bottle amber perfect a hundred-year-old
cure for fever or melancholy a tonic
for living on this earth in the winters of this climate.

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:
she must have known she suffered from radiation sickness
her body bombarded for years by the element
she had purified
It seems she denied to the end
the source of the cataracts on her eyes
the cracked and suppurating skin of her finger-ends
till she could no longer hold a test-tube or a pencil

She died a famous woman denying
her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power.

 August First: it was a year ago
we drove down from St.-Guilhem-le-Désert
to open the house in St. Guiraud

rented unseen. I'd stay; you'd go; that's where
our paths diverged. I'd settle down to work,
you'd start the next month of your Wanderjahr.

I turned the iron key in the rusted lock
(it came, like a detective-story clue,
in a manila envelope, postmarked

elsewhere, unmarked otherwise) while you
stood behind me in the midday heat.
Somnolent shudders marked our progress. Two

horses grazed on a roof across the street.
You didn't believe me until you turned around.
They were both old, one mottled gray, one white.

Past the kitchen's russet dark, we found
bookshelves on both sides of the fireplace:
Verlaine, L'Étranger, Notes from the Underground.

Through an archway, a fresh-plastered staircase
led steeply upward. In a white room stood
a white-clad brass bed. Sunlight in your face

came from the tree-filled window. "You did good."
We laid crisp sheets we would inaugurate
that night, rescued from the grenier a wood-

en table we put under the window. Date 
our homes from that one, to which you returned
the last week of August, on a late

bus, in shorts, like a crew-cut, sunburned
bidasse. Sunburned, in shorts, a new haircut,
with Auden and a racing pulse I'd earned

by "not being sentimental about 
you," I sprinted to "La Populaire."
You walked into my arms when you got out.

At a two minute bus stop, who would care?
"La Populaire" puffed onward to Millau
while we hiked up to the hiatus where

we'd left ourselves when you left St. Guiraud
after an unambiguous decade
of friendship, and some months of something new.

A long week before either of us said
a compromising word acknowledging
what happened every night in the brass bed

and every bird-heralded blue morning
was something we could claim and keep and use;
was, like the house, a place where we could bring

our road-worn, weary selves.
Now, we've a pause
in a year we wouldn't have wagered on.
Dusk climbs the tiled roof opposite; the blue's

still sun-soaked; it's a week now since you've gone
to be a daughter in the capital.
(I came north with you as far as Beaune.)

I cook things you don't like. Sometimes I fall
asleep, book open, one A.M., sometimes
I long for you all night in Provencal

or langue d'oc, or wish I could, when I'm 
too much awake. My early walk, my late
walk mark the day's measures like rhyme.

(There's nothing I hate---perhaps I hate
the adipose deposits on my thighs
---as much as having to stay put and wait!)

Although a day alone cuts tight or lies
too limp sometimes, I know what I didn't know
a year ago, that makes it the right size:
owned certainty; perpetual surprise.

 We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.

For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!

And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.

 YES, the Dead speak to us.
This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness.

Back of the clamps on a fireproof door they hold the papers of the Dead in a house here
And when two living men fall out, when one says the Dead spoke a Yes, and the other says the Dead spoke a No, they go then together to this house.

They loosen the clamps and haul at the hasps and try their keys and curse at the locks and the combination numbers.
For the teeth of the rats are barred and the tongues of the moths are outlawed and the sun and the air of wind is not wanted.

They open a box where a sheet of paper shivers, in a dusty corner shivers with the dry inkdrops of the Dead, the signed names.
Here the ink testifies, here we find the say-so, here we learn the layout, now we know where the cities and farms belong.
Dead white men and dead red men tested each other with shot and knives: they twisted each others’ necks: land was yours if you took and kept it.

How are the heads the rain seeps in, the rain-washed knuckles in sod and gumbo?

Where the sheets of paper shiver,
Back of the hasps and handles,
Back of the fireproof clamps,

 They read what the fingers scribbled, who the land belongs to now—it is herein provided, it is hereby stipulated—the land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thorn-apple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops—

So it is scrawled here,
“I direct and devise
So and so and such and such,”
And this is the last word.
There is nothing more to it.

In a shanty out in the Wilderness, ghosts of to-morrow sit, waiting to come and go, to do their job.
They will go into the house of the Dead and take the shivering sheets of paper and make a bonfire and dance a deadman’s dance over the hissing crisp.
In a slang their own the dancers out of the Wilderness will write a paper for the living to read and sign:
The dead need peace, the dead need sleep, let the dead have peace and sleep, let the papers of the Dead who fix the lives of the Living, let them be a hissing crisp and ashes, let the young men and the young women forever understand we are through and no longer take the say-so of the Dead;
Let the dead have honor from us with our thoughts of them and our thoughts of land and all appurtenances thereto and all deposits of oil and gold and coal and silver, and all pockets and repositories of gravel and diamonds, dung and permanganese, and all clover and bumblebees, all bluegrass, johnny-jump-ups, grassroots, springs of running water or rivers or lakes or high spreading trees or hazel bushes or sumach or thornapple branches or high in the air the bird nest with spotted blue eggs shaken in the roaming wind of the treetops.

 So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year 
It will pay me all my money back -- of course! 
But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating, 
And I reckon I'll be something like the horse. 

There's the ploughing to be finished and the ploughmen want their pay, 
And I'd like to wire the fence and sink a tank; 
But I own I'm fairly beat how I'm going to make ends meet 
With my money in a reconstructed bank. 

"It's a safe and sure investment!" But it's one I can't afford, 
For I've got to meet my bills and bay the rent, 
And the cash I had provided (so these meetings have decided) 
Shall be collared by the bank at three per cent. 

I can draw out half my money, so they tell me, from the Crown; 
But -- it's just enough to drive a fellow daft -- 
My landlord's quite distressed, by this very bank he's pressed, 
And he'll sell me up, to pay his overdraft. 

There's my nearest neighbour, Johnson, owed this self-same bank a debt, 
Every feather off his poor old back they pluck't, 
For they set to work to shove him, and they sold his house above him, 
Lord! They never gave him time to reconstruct. 

And their profits from the business have been twenty-five per cent, 
Which, I reckon, is a pretty tidy whack, 
And I think it's only proper, now the thing has come a cropper, 
That they ought to pay a little of it back. 

I have read about "reserve funds", "banking freeholds", and the like, 
Till I thought the bank had thousands of assets, 
And it strikes me very funny that they take a fellow's money 
When they haven't got enough to pay their debts. 

And they say they've lent my money, and they can't get paid it back. 
I know their rates per cent were tens and twelves; 
And if they've made a blunder after scooping all this plunder, 
Why, they ought to fork the money out themselves. 

So all you bank shareholders, if you won't pay what you owe, 
You will find that on your bank will fall a blight; 
And the reason is because it's simply certain that deposits 
Will be stopped, the bank will bust, and serve you right!

 Love -- is that later Thing than Death --
More previous -- than Life --
Confirms it at its entrance -- And
Usurps it -- of itself --

Tastes Death -- the first -- to hand the sting
The Second -- to its friend --
Disarms the little interval --
Deposits Him with God --

Then hovers -- an inferior Guard --
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need -- once in an Eternity --
A smaller than the Large --