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Best Famous Hit On Poems

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

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Wounded

 Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
 With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
 Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.
Ay, in my little groove I was content, Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, With prosy days in stolid labour spent, And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.
In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.
I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.
Stranger than any book I've ever read.
Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.
Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; But calm, and feeling never pain at all, And full of wonder at the turn of it.
For of the dead around me three are mine, Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; So if I die I have no right to whine, I feel I've done my little bit all right.
I don't know how -- but there the beggars are, As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.
And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; You never heed; the air is metal-hot, And all alive with little flicking wings.
But on you charge.
You see the fellows fall; Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.
But on you charge.
The heavens vomit death; And vicious death is besoming the ground.
You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.
But on you charge.
Oh, War's a rousing game! Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.
But on you charge.
It's odd! You have no fear.
Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.
But on you charge.
Barbed wire all trampled down.
The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last.
All smashed to hell.
Their second right ahead, So on you charge.
There's nothing else to do.
More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you).
You glare around.
You think you're all alone.
But no; your chums come surging left and right.
The nearest chap flops down without a groan, His face still snarling with the rage of fight.
Ha! here's the second trench -- just like the first, Only a little more so, more "laid out"; More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt.
Now for the third, and there your job is done, So on you charge.
You never stop to think.
Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink.
The acrid air is full of cracking whips.
You wonder how it is you're going still.
You foam with rage.
Oh, God! to be at grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill.
Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now.
See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench -- you'll get there anyhow.
Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife.
You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels.
Have at 'em lads! You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels.
A crash of triumph, then .
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you're faint a bit .
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That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it.
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Well, that's the charge.
And now I'm here alone.
I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, To shield me from the leaden bees that drone (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none).
The only thing I'm wondering is when Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? It isn't much that's left of me, but then Where life is, hope is, so at least they say.
Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad.
I tell you I won't envy any king.
I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; I've had my crowning hour.
Oh, War's the thing! It gives us common, working chaps our chance, A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.
Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too.
It lets a man discover what he's worth.
It takes his measure, shows what he can do, Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth.
It fans in him a flame that otherwise Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; It teaches him in pain and sacrifice Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise.
Yes, War is good.
So here beside my slain, A happy wreck I wait amid the din; For even if I perish mine's the gain.
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Hi, there, you fellows! won't you take me in? Give me a *** to smoke upon the way.
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We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin.
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Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

A Tale of the Miser and the Poet

 A WIT, transported with Inditing, 
Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing; 
Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends, 
Had Poems at his Fingers Ends; 
For new Events was still providing; 
Yet now desirous to be riding, 
He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty 
And in Vacation left the City; 
So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, 
With secret Passions, sweet Confusions; 
With Sentences from Plays well-known, 
And thousand Couplets of his own; 
That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay, 
And seem'd to him the Milky Way.
But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing, And Poets ever will be crossing, Misled the Steed, which ill he guided, Where several gloomy Paths divided.
The steepest in Descent he follow'd, Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd; Till, he believ'd, alive and booted, He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted.
But all, that he cou'd there discover, Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over, Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating, As Bags of Gold he thence was getting; Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections By him, who liv'd on high Reflections, Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended, And Poetry no more befriended.
I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying; When all was Riot, Masking, Playing; When witty Beggars were in fashion, And Learning had o'er-run the Nation, But, since Mankind is so much wiser, That none is valued like the Miser, I draw it hence, and now these Sums In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs; Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute We rule the World, and all that's in it.
But, quoth the Poet,can you raise, As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays? Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather, May Fruits of Reputation gather? Will Men of Quality, and Spirit, Regard you for intrinsick Merit? And seek you out, before your Betters, For Conversation, Wit, and Letters? Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding; Have these been Times for such Proceeding? Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded, Are you not Slighted, or Discarded? What have you met with, but Disgraces? Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places; And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter, But for his dabbling in the Morter.
ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on, Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton.
PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known, Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own.
Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town Her due Proportion of Renown? What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen, T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen? Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag, Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG? Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you, With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you? Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes? No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers: Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers; There are Mecænas's among 'em.
Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em; But in your Censures use a Conscience, Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense: Since they, as your own Poets sing, Now grant no Worth in any thing But so much Money as 'twill bring.
Then, never more from your Endeavours Expect Preferment, or less Favours.
But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse, Be sure, put Money in your Purse; Money! which only can relieve you When Fame and Friendship will deceive you.
Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing, And all that he had said allowing) Behold me and my airy Fancies Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances.
I here submit to your Discourses; Which since Experience too enforces, I, in that solitary Pit, Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit: Till Time, which hastily advances, And gives to all new Turns and Chances, Again may bring it into use; Roscommons may again produce; New Augustean Days revive, When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive.
Till when, let those converse in private, Who taste what others don't arrive at; Yielding that Mammonists surpass us; And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.
Written by Frank Bidart | Create an image from this poem

Herbert White

 "When I hit her on the head, it was good,

and then I did it to her a couple of times,--
but it was funny,--afterwards,
it was as if somebody else did it .
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Everything flat, without sharpness, richness or line.
Still, I liked to drive past the woods where she lay, tell the old lady and the kids I had to take a piss, hop out and do it to her .
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The whole buggy of them waiting for me made me feel good; but still, just like I knew all along, she didn't move.
When the body got too discomposed, I'd just jack off, letting it fall on her .
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--It sounds crazy, but I tell you sometimes it was beautiful--; I don't know how to say it, but for a miute, everything was possible--; and then, then,-- well, like I said, she didn't move: and I saw, under me, a little girl was just lying there in the mud: and I knew I couldn't have done that,-- somebody else had to have done that,-- standing above her there, in those ordinary, shitty leaves .
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--One time, I went to see Dad in a motel where he was staying with a woman; but she was gone; you could smell the wine in the air; and he started, real embarrassing, to cry .
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He was still a little drunk, and asked me to forgive him for all he hasn't done--; but, What the ****? Who would have wanted to stay with Mom? with bastards not even his own kids? I got in the truck, and started to drive and saw a little girl-- who I picked up, hit on the head, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, and screwed, then buried, in the garden of the motel .
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--You see, ever since I was a kid I wanted to feel things make sense: I remember looking out the window of my room back home,-- and being almost suffocated by the asphalt; and grass; and trees; and glass; just there, just there, doing nothing! not saying anything! filling me up-- but also being a wall; dead, and stopping me; --how I wanted to see beneath it, cut beneath it, and make it somehow, come alive .
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The salt of the earth; Mom once said, 'Man's ***** is the salt of the earth .
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' --That night, at that Twenty-nine Palms Motel I had passed a million times on the road, everything fit together; was alright; it seemed like everything had to be there, like I had spent years trying, and at last finally finished drawing this huge circle .
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--But then, suddenly I knew somebody else did it, some bastard had hurt a little girl--; the motel I could see again, it had been itself all the time, a lousy pile of bricks, plaster, that didn't seem to have to be there,--but was, just by chance .
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--Once, on the farm, when I was a kid, I was screwing a goat; and the rope around his neck when he tried to get away pulled tight;--and just when I came, he died .
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I came back the next day; jacked off over his body; but it didn't do any good .
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Mom once said: 'Man's ***** is the salt of the earth, and grows kids.
' I tried so hard to come; more pain than anything else; but didn't do any good .
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--About six months ago, I heard Dad remarried, so I drove over to Connecticut to see him and see if he was happy.
She was twenty-five years younger than him: she had lots of little kids, and I don't know why, I felt shaky .
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I stopped in front of the address; and snuck up to the window to look in .
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--There he was, a kid six months old on his lap, laughing and bouncing the kid, happy in his old age to play the papa after years of sleeping around,-- it twisted me up .
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To think that what he wouldn't give me, he wanted to give them .
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I could have killed the bastard .
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--Naturally, I just got right back in the car, and believe me, was determined, determined, to head straight for home .
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but the more I drove, I kept thinking about getting a girl, and the more I thought I shouldn't do it, the more I had to-- I saw her coming out of the movies, saw she was alone, and kept circling the blocks as she walked along them, saying, 'You're going to leave her alone.
' 'You're going to leave her alone.
' --The woods were scary! As the seasons changed, and you saw more and more of the skull show through, the nights became clearer, and the buds,--erect, like nipples .
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--But then, one night, nothing worked .
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Nothing in the sky would blur like I wanted it to; and I couldn't, couldn't, get it to seem to me that somebody else did it .
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I tried, and tried, but there was just me there, and her, and the sharp trees saying, "That's you standing there.
You're .
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just you.
' I hope I fry.
--Hell came when I saw MYSELF .
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and couldn't stand what I see .
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"
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Albert Down Under

 Albert were what you'd call “thwarted”.
He had long had an ambition, which.
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Were to save up and go to Australia, The saving up that were the hitch.
He'd a red money box on the pot shelf, A post office thing made of tin, But with him and his Dad and the bread knife, It never had anything in.
He were properly held up for bobbins, As the folk in the mill used to say, Till he hit on a simple solution - He'd go as a young stowaway.
He studied the sailing lists daily, And at last found a ship as would do.
“S.
S.
Tosser:, a freighter from Fleetwood, Via Cape Horn to Wooloomooloo.
He went off next evening to Fleetwood, And found her there loaded and coaled, Slipped over the side in the darkness, And downstairs and into the hold.
The hold it were choked up with cargo, He groped with his hands in the gloom, Squeezed through bars of what felt like a grating, And found he had plenty of room.
Some straw had been spilled in one corner, He thankfully threw himself flat, He thought he could hear someone breathing, But he were too tired to fret about that.
When he woke they were out in mid-ocean, He turned and in light which were dim, Looked straight in the eyes of a lion, That were lying there looking at him.
His heart came right up in his tonsils, As he gazed at that big yellow face.
Then it smiled and they both said together, “Well, isn't the world a small place?” The lion were none other than Wallace, He were going to Sydney, too.
To fulfil a short starring engagement In a cage at Taronga Park Zoo.
As they talked they heard footsteps approaching, “Someone comes” whispered Wallace, “Quick, hide”.
He opened his mouth to the fullest, And Albert sprang nimbly inside.
'Twere Captain on morning inspection, When he saw Wallace shamming to doze, He picked up a straw from his bedding, And started to tickle his nose.
Now Wallace could never stand tickling, He let out a mumbling roar, And before he could do owt about it, He'd sneezed Albert out on the floor.
The Captain went white to the wattles, He said, “I'm a son of a gun”.
He had heard of beasts bringing up children, But were first time as he'd seen it done.
He soon had the radio crackling, And flashing the tale far and wide, Of the lad who'd set out for Australia, Stowed away in a lion's inside.
The quay it were jammed with reporters, When they docked on Australian soil.
They didn't pretend to believe it, But 'twere too good a story to spoil.
And Albert soon picked up the language, When he first saw the size of the fruit, There was no more “by gum” now or “Champion”, It were “Whacko!”, “Too right!” and “You beaut!”.
They gave him a wonderful fortnight, Then from a subscription they made, Sent him back as a “Parcel for Britain”, Carriage forward, and all ex's paid!
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Jenny Carrister The Heroine of Lucknow-Mine

 A heroic story I will unfold,
Concerning Jenny Carrister, a heroine bold,
Who lived in Australia, at a gold mine called Lucknow,
And Jenny was beloved by the the miners, somehow.
Jenny was the only daughter of the old lady who owned the mine- And Jenny would come of an evening, like a gleam of sunshine, And by the presence of her bright face and cheery voice, She made the hearts of the unlucky diggers rejoice.
There was no pride about her, and day after day, She walked with her young brother, who was always gay, A beautiful boy he was, about thirteen years old, And Jenny and her brother by the miners were greatly extolled.
Old Mrs Carrister was every inch a lady in her way, Because she never pressed any of the miners that weren't able to pay For the liberty of working the gold-field, Which was thirty pounds per week for whatever it might yield.
It was in the early part of the year 1871, That Jack Allingford, a miner, hit on a plan, That in the mine, with powder, he'd loosen the granite-bound face, So he selected, as he thought, a most suitable place.
And when all his arrangements had been made, He was lowered down by a miner that felt a little afraid, But most fortunately Jenny Carrister came up at the time, Just as Jack Allingford was lowered into the mine.
Then she asked the man at the windlass if he'd had any luck, But he picked up a piece of candle and then a match he struck; Then Jenny asked the miner, What is that for? And he replied to blast the mine, which I fear and abhor.
Then with a piece of rope he lowered the candle and matches into the mine, While brave Jenny watched the action all the time; And as the man continued to turn round the windlass handle, Jenny asked him, Isn't it dangerous to lower the matches and candle? Then the man replied, I hope there's no danger, Jenny, my lass, But whatsoever God has ordained will come to pass; And just as he said so the windlass handle swung round, And struck him on the forehead, and he fell to the ground.
And when Jenny saw the blood streaming from the fallen man's head, She rushed to the mouth of the shaft without any dread, And Jenny called loudly, but received no reply, So to her brother standing near by she heaved a deep sigh.
Telling him to run for assistance, while she swung herself on to the hand-rope, Resolved to save Jack Allingford's life as she earnestly did hope; And as she proceeded down the shaft at a quick pace, The brave heroine knew that death was staring her in the face.
And the rope was burning her hands as she descended, But she thought if she saved Jack her task would be ended; And when she reached the bottom of the mine she did not hesitate, But bounding towards Jack Allingford, who was lying seemingly inanimate.
And as she approached his body the hissing fuse burst upon her ears, But still the noble girl no danger fears; While the hissing of the fuse was like an engine grinding upon her brain, Still she resolved to save Jack while life in her body did remain.
She noticed a small jet of smoke issuing from a hole near his head, And if he'd lain a few seconds longer there he'd been killed dead, But God had sent an angel to his rescue, For seizing him by the arms his body to the air shaft she drew.
It was a supernatural effort, but she succeeded at last, And Jenny thanked God when the danger was past, But at the same instant the silence was broke By a loud explosion, which soon filled the mine with smoke.
But, oh, God be thanked! the greatest danger was past, But when Jenny saw Jack Allingford, she stood aghast, Because the blood was issuing from his nest and ears, And as Jenny viewed his wounds she shed many tears.
But heroic Jenny was not one of the fainting sort, For immediately to the mouth of the mine she did resort, And she called loudly for help, the noble lass, And her cry was answered by voices above at the windlass.
So there were plenty to volunteer their services below, And the rope was attached to the windlass, and down they did go, And Jack Allingford and Jenny were raised to the top, While Jenny, noble soul, with exhaustion was like to drop.
And when the miners saw her safe above there was a burst of applause, Because she had rescued Jack Allingford from death's jaws; So all ye that read or hear this story, I have but to say, That Jenny Carrister was the noblest heroine I've ever heard of in my day.