Best Famous Guzzling Poems

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

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Written by Vachel Lindsay | The Congo: A Study of the ***** Race I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable, Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table, A deep rolling bass. Pounded on the table, Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom, Hard as they were able, Boom, boom, BOOM, With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision. I could not turn from their revel in derision. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, More deliberate. Solemnly chanted. CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. Then along that riverbank A thousand miles Tattooed cannibals danced in files; Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. A rapidly piling climax of speed & racket. And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors, "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors, "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle, Harry the uplands, Steal all the cattle, Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle, Bing. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," A roaring, epic, rag-time tune With a philosophic pause. From the mouth of the Congo To the Mountains of the Moon. Death is an Elephant, Torch-eyed and horrible, Shrilly and with a heavily accented metre. Foam-flanked and terrible. BOOM, steal the pygmies, BOOM, kill the Arabs, BOOM, kill the white men, HOO, HOO, HOO. Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost Like the wind in the chimney. Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host. Hear how the demons chuckle and yell Cutting his hands off, down in Hell. Listen to the creepy proclamation, Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation, Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay, Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play: -- "Be careful what you do, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, All the "O" sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered. And all of the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call Rather shrill and high. Danced the juba in their gambling-hall And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town, And guyed the policemen and laughed them down With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM. THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, Read exactly as in first section. CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. A ***** fairyland swung into view, Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible. A minstrel river Where dreams come true. The ebony palace soared on high Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. The inlaid porches and casements shone With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore At the baboon butler in the agate door, And the well-known tunes of the parrot band That trilled on the bushes of that magic land. A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came With pomposity. Through the agate doorway in suits of flame, Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust And hats that were covered with diamond-dust. And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call And danced the juba from wall to wall. But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng With a great deliberation & ghostliness. With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: -- "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you." ... Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes, With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp. Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, And tall silk hats that were red as wine. And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair, Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, And bells on their ankles and little black-feet. And the couples railed at the chant and the frown Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down. (O rare was the revel, and well worth while That made those glowering witch-men smile.) The cake-walk royalty then began To walk for a cake that was tall as a man To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM," While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air, With a touch of ***** dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end. And sang with the scalawags prancing there: -- "Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, And all the other Gods of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM." Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while Slow philosophic calm. That made those glowering witch-men smile. III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION A good old ***** in the slums of the town Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance. Preached at a sister for her velvet gown. Howled at a brother for his low-down ways, His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days. Beat on the Bible till he wore it out Starting the jubilee revival shout. And some had visions, as they stood on chairs, And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs, And they all repented, a thousand strong From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room With "glory, glory, glory," And "Boom, boom, BOOM." THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy. CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK. And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil And showed the Apostles with their coats of mail. In bright white steel they were seated round And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound. And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: -- "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices." Never again will he hoo-doo you, Never again will he hoo-doo you." Then along that river, a thousand miles With growing deliberation and joy. The vine-snared trees fell down in files. Pioneer angels cleared the way For a Congo paradise, for babes at play, For sacred capitals, for temples clean. Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean. There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed In a rather high key -- as delicately as possible. A million boats of the angels sailed With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through. 'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation. Oh, a singing wind swept the ***** nation And on through the backwoods clearing flew: -- "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices." Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men, And only the vulture dared again By the far, lone mountains of the moon To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune: -- "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Dying down into a penetrating, terrified whisper. "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you."

Written by Rg Gregory | doughnut denial (an ascetic poem for karen's birthday) fancy having a birthday on a thursday when you do the buying of the doughnuts and others lick their sticky fingers thinking good old karen letting us share the eating of her birthday not me of course - i sit at home (alone) reflecting it is purification day today and i do not have a doughnut thank you karen for letting me have a taste of self-denial on your birthday and such a spiritual gain- in this way you and i share the high-church position while others lick the sugar off their lips guzzling their souls away benightedly with you great circe in your birthday play luckily i have no envy of doughnuts i sit here (alone) appreciating the pure a step aside from doughy lust and greed enjoying your birthday in its proper light -a time of abstinence starvation longing

Written by Carl Sandburg | Always the Mob JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob. The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all. Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob. Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob. The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan. Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now. Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow. The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons. The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening… The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln. I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you are. I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool: One more arch of stars, In the night of our mist, In the night of our tears.

Written by Roddy Lumsden | Acid "She was right. I had to find something new. There was only one thing for it." My mother told it straight, London will finish you off, and I'd heard what Doctor Johnson said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, but I'd been tired of life for fourteen years; Scotland, never thoroughly enlightened, was gathering back its clutch of medieval wonts and lately there had been what my doctors called a pica (like a pregnant woman's craving to eat Twix with piccalilli or chunks of crunchy sea-coal): I'd been guzzling vinegar, tipping it on everything, falling for women who were beautifully unsuitable, and hiding up wynds off the Cowgate with a pokeful of hot chips drenched in the sacred stuff and wrapped in the latest, not last, edition of The Sunday Post where I read that in London they had found a Chardonnay with a bouquet of vine leaves and bloomed skins, a taste of grapes and no finish whatsoever, which clinched the deal.

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Base Details If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base, And speed glum heroes up the line to death. You'd see me with my puffy petulant face, Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, Reading the Roll of Honour. "Poor young chap," I'd say -- "I used to know his father well; Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap." And when the war is done and youth stone dead, I'd toddle safely home and die -- in bed.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Jacob Godbey How did you feel, you libertarians, Who spent your talents rallying noble reasons Around the saloon, as if Liberty Was not to be found anywhere except at the bar Or at a table, guzzling? How did you feel, Ben Pantier, and the rest of you, Who almost stoned me for a tyrant, Garbed as a moralist, And as a wry-faced ascetic frowning upon Yorkshire pudding, Roast beef and ale and good will and rosy cheer -- Things you never saw in a grog-shop in your life? How did you feel after I was dead and gone, And your goddess, Liberty, unmasked as a strumpet, Selling out the streets of Spoon River To the insolent giants Who manned the saloons from afar? Did it occur to you that personal liberty Is liberty of the mind, Rather than of the belly?

Written by Carl Sandburg | Testimony Regarding a Ghost THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs On the night sky hair of the women, And the long light-fingered men Spoke to the dark-haired women, “Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier.” How could he sit there among us all Guzzling blood into his guts, Goblets, mugs, buckets— Leaning, toppling, laughing With a slobber on his mouth, A smear of red on his strong raw lips, How could he sit there And only two or three of us see him? There was nothing to it. He wasn’t there at all, of course. The roses leaned from the pots. The sprays snot roses gold and red And the roses slanted crimson sobs In the night sky hair And the voices chattered on the way To the frappe, speaking of pictures, Speaking of a strip of black velvet Crossing a girlish woman’s throat, Speaking of the mystic music flash Of pots and sprays of roses, “Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier.”