Best Famous Insurance Poems

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

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• All Famous Insurance Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | Cinderella You always read about it: the plumber with the twelve children who wins the Irish Sweepstakes. From toilets to riches. That story. Or the nursemaid, some luscious sweet from Denmark who captures the oldest son's heart. from diapers to Dior. That story. Or a milkman who serves the wealthy, eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk, the white truck like an ambulance who goes into real estate and makes a pile. From homogenized to martinis at lunch. Or the charwoman who is on the bus when it cracks up and collects enough from the insurance. From mops to Bonwit Teller. That story. Once the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed and she said to her daughter Cinderella: Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile down from heaven in the seam of a cloud. The man took another wife who had two daughters, pretty enough but with hearts like blackjacks. Cinderella was their maid. She slept on the sooty hearth each night and walked around looking like Al Jolson. Her father brought presents home from town, jewels and gowns for the other women but the twig of a tree for Cinderella. She planted that twig on her mother's grave and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat. Whenever she wished for anything the dove would drop it like an egg upon the ground. The bird is important, my dears, so heed him. Next came the ball, as you all know. It was a marriage market. The prince was looking for a wife. All but Cinderella were preparing and gussying up for the event. Cinderella begged to go too. Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils into the cinders and said: Pick them up in an hour and you shall go. The white dove brought all his friends; all the warm wings of the fatherland came, and picked up the lentils in a jiffy. No, Cinderella, said the stepmother, you have no clothes and cannot dance. That's the way with stepmothers. Cinderella went to the tree at the grave and cried forth like a gospel singer: Mama! Mama! My turtledove, send me to the prince's ball! The bird dropped down a golden dress and delicate little slippers. Rather a large package for a simple bird. So she went. Which is no surprise. Her stepmother and sisters didn't recognize her without her cinder face and the prince took her hand on the spot and danced with no other the whole day. As nightfall came she thought she'd better get home. The prince walked her home and she disappeared into the pigeon house and although the prince took an axe and broke it open she was gone. Back to her cinders. These events repeated themselves for three days. However on the third day the prince covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it. Now he would find whom the shoe fit and find his strange dancing girl for keeps. He went to their house and the two sisters were delighted because they had lovely feet. The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on but her big toe got in the way so she simply sliced it off and put on the slipper. The prince rode away with her until the white dove told him to look at the blood pouring forth. That is the way with amputations. They just don't heal up like a wish. The other sister cut off her heel but the blood told as blood will. The prince was getting tired. He began to feel like a shoe salesman. But he gave it one last try. This time Cinderella fit into the shoe like a love letter into its envelope. At the wedding ceremony the two sisters came to curry favor and the white dove pecked their eyes out. Two hollow spots were left like soup spoons. Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice, never getting a middle-aged spread, their darling smiles pasted on for eternity. Regular Bobbsey Twins. That story.

Written by Robert Frost | The Star-Splitter `You know Orion always comes up sideways. Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something I should have done by daylight, and indeed, After the ground is frozen, I should have done Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney To make fun of my way of doing things, Or else fun of Orion's having caught me. Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights These forces are obliged to pay respect to?' So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming, Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming He burned his house down for the fire insurance And spent the proceeds on a telescope To satisfy a lifelong curiosity About our place among the infinities. `What do you want with one of those blame things?' I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!' `Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything More blameless in the sense of being less A weapon in our human fight,' he said. `I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.' There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move, Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years Trying to sell his farm and then not selling, He burned his house down for the fire insurance And bought the telescope with what it came to. He had been heard to say by several: `The best thing that we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's A telescope. Someone in every town Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one. In Littleton it might as well be me.' After such loose talk it was no surprise When he did what he did and burned his house down. Mean laughter went about the town that day To let him know we weren't the least imposed on, And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow. But the first thing next morning we reflected If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with. For to be social is to be forgiving. Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us, We don't cut off from coming to church suppers, But what we miss we go to him and ask for. He promptly gives it back, that is if still Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of. It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad About his telescope. Beyond the age Of being given one for Christmas gift, He had to take the best way he knew how To find himself in one. Well, all we said was He took a strange thing to be roguish over. Some sympathy was wasted on the house, A good old-timer dating back along; But a house isn't sentient; the house Didn't feel anything. And if it did, Why not regard it as a sacrifice, And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire, Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction? Out of a house and so out of a farm At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn To earn a living on the Concord railroad, As under-ticket-agent at a station Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets, Was setting out, up track and down, not plants As on a farm, but planets, evening stars That varied in their hue from red to green. He got a good glass for six hundred dollars. His new job gave him leisure for stargazing. Often he bid me come and have a look Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside, At a star quaking in the other end. I recollect a night of broken clouds And underfoot snow melted down to ice, And melting further in the wind to mud. Bradford and I had out the telescope. We spread our two legs as we spread its three, Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it, And standing at our leisure till the day broke, Said some of the best things we ever said. That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter, Because it didn't do a thing but split A star in two or three, the way you split A globule of quicksilver in your hand With one stroke of your finger in the middle. It's a star-splitter if there ever was one, And ought to do some good if splitting stars 'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood. We've looked and looked, but after all where are we? Do we know any better where we are, And how it stands between the night tonight And a man with a smoky lantern chimney? How different from the way it ever stood?

Written by Muhammad Ali | This is the legend of Cassius Clay This is the legend of Cassius Clay, The most beautiful fighter in the world today. He talks a great deal, and brags indeed-y, Of a muscular punch that's incredibly speed-y. The fistic world was dull and weary, but with a champ like Liston, things had to be dreary. Then someone with color and someone with dash, brought fight fans are runnin' with Cash. This brash young boxer is something to see and the heavyweight championship is his destiny. This kid's got a left, this kid's got a right, if he hit you once, you're asleep for the night. This is the legend of Muhammad Ali, The greatest fighter that ever will be. He talks a great deal and brags, indeed. Of a powerful punch and blinding speed. Ali fights great, he's got speed and endurance. If you sign to fight him, increase your insurance. Ali's got a left, Ali's got a right; If he hits you once, you're asleep for the night

Written by Bertolt Brecht | What Has Happened? The industrialist is having his aeroplane serviced. The priest is wondering what he said in his sermon eight weeks ago about tithes. The generals are putting on civvies and looking like bank clerks. Public officials are getting friendly. The policeman points out the way to the man in the cloth cap. The landlord comes to see whether the water supply is working. The journalists write the word People with capital letters. The singers sing at the opera for nothing. Ships' captains check the food in the crew's galley, Car owners get in beside their chauffeurs. Doctors sue the insurance companies. Scholars show their discoveries and hide their decorations. Farmers deliver potatoes to the barracks. The revolution has won its first battle: That's what has happened.

Written by Langston Hughes | Night Funeral In Harlem Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay-- His insurance lapsed the other day-- Yet they got a satin box for his head to lay. Night funeral In Harlem: Who was it sent That wreath of flowers? Them flowers came from that poor boy's friends-- They'll want flowers, too, When they meet their ends. Night funeral in Harlem: Who preached that Black boy to his grave? Old preacher man Preached that boy away-- Charged Five Dollars His girl friend had to pay. Night funeral In Harlem: When it was all over And the lid shut on his head and the organ had done played and the last prayers been said and six pallbearers Carried him out for dead And off down Lenox Avenue That long black hearse done sped, The street light At his corner Shined just like a tear-- That boy that they was mournin' Was so dear, so dear To them folks that brought the flowers, To that girl who paid the preacher man-- It was all their tears that made That poor boy's Funeral grand. Night funeral In Harlem.

Written by Dorothy Parker | Bohemia Authors and actors and artists and such Never know nothing, and never know much. Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney. Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks Start off from anywhere, end up at sex. Diarists, critics, and similar roe Never say nothing, and never say no. People Who Do Things exceed my endurance; God, for a man that solicits insurance!

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Batterson Dobyns Did my widow flit about From Mackinac to Los Angeles, Resting and bathing and sitting an hour Or more at the table over soup and meats And delicate sweets and coffee? I was cut down in my prime From overwork and anxiety. But I thought all along, whatever happens I've kept my insurance up, And there's something in the bank, And a section of land in Manitoba. But just as I slipped I had a vision In a last delirium: I saw myself lying nailed in a box With a white lawn tie and a boutonnière, And my wife was sitting by a window Some place afar overlooking the sea; She seemed so rested, ruddy and fat, Although her hair was white. And she smiled and said to a colored waiter: "Another slice of roast beef, George. Here's a nickel for your trouble."

Written by Jane Kenyon | Notes from the Other Side I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here. Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror, there are no bad books, no plastic, no insurance premiums, and of course no illness. Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket. The poor we no longer have with us. Our calm hearts strike only the hour, and God, as promised, proves to be mercy clothed in light.

Written by Ogden Nash | Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man It is common knowledge to every schoolboy and even every Bachelor of Arts, That all sin is divided into two parts. One kind of sin is called a sin of commission, and that is very important, And it is what you are doing when you are doing something you ortant, And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from Billy Sunday to Buddha, And it consists of not having done something you shuddha. I might as well give you my opinion of these two kinds of sin as long as, in a way, against each other we are pitting them, And that is, don't bother your head about the sins of commission because however sinful, they must at least be fun or else you wouldn't be committing them. It is the sin of omission, the second kind of sin, That lays eggs under your skin. The way you really get painfully bitten Is by the insurance you haven't taken out and the checks you haven't added up the stubs of and the appointments you haven't kept and the bills you haven't paid and the letters you haven't written. Also, about sins of omission there is one particularly painful lack of beauty, Namely, it isn't as though it had been a riotous red-letter day or night every time you neglected to do your duty; You didn't get a wicked forbidden thrill Every time you let a policy lapse or forget to pay a bill; You didn't slap the lads in the tavern on the back and loudly cry Whee, Let's all fail to write just one more letter before we go home, and this round of unwritten letters is on me. No, you never get any fun Out of things you haven't done, But they are the things that I do not like to be amid, Because the suitable things you didn't do give you a lot more trouble than the unsuitable things you did. The moral is that it is probably better not to sin at all, but if some kind of sin you must be pursuing, Well, remember to do it by doing rather than by not doing.

Written by Sidney Lanier | The Hard Times In Elfland A Story of Christmas Eve. Strange that the termagant winds should scold The Christmas Eve so bitterly! But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old, Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I, Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew More frontward of the mighty fire, Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew The heaven that Christian dogs desire -- Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave, Huge nose on heavy paws reclined, With never a drowning boy to save, And warmth of body and peace of mind. And, as our happy circle sat, The fire well capp'd the company: In grave debate or careless chat, A right good fellow, mingled he: He seemed as one of us to sit, And talked of things above, below, With flames more winsome than our wit, And coals that burned like love aglow. While thus our rippling discourse rolled Smooth down the channel of the night, We spoke of Time: thereat, one told A parable of the Seasons' flight. "Time was a Shepherd with four sheep. In a certain Field he long abode. He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leap One at a time to the Common Road. "And first there leapt, like bird on wing, A lissome Lamb that played in the air. I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring': Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair "He skipped the flowering Highway fast, Hurried the hedgerows green and white, Set maids and men a-yearning, passed The Bend, and gamboll'd out of sight. "And next marched forth a matron Ewe (While Time took down a bar for her), Udder'd so large 'twas much ado E'en then to clear the barrier. "Full softly shone her silken fleece What stately time she paced along: Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increase Of sunlight, substance, seedling, song, "In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird, Till the great globe, rich fleck'd and pied, Like some large peach half pinkly furred, Turned to the sun a glowing side "And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright, None-such, complete. Then, while the Ewe Slow passed the Bend, a blur of light, The Shepherd's face in sadness grew: "`Summer!' he said, as one would say A sigh in syllables. So, in haste (For shame of Summer's long delay, Yet gazing still what way she paced), "He summoned Autumn, slanting down The second bar. Thereover strode A Wether, fleeced in burning brown, And largely loitered down the Road. "Far as the farmers sight his shape Majestic moving o'er the way, All cry `To harvest,' crush the grape, And haul the corn and house the hay, "Till presently, no man can say, (So brown the woods that line that end) If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may, Or not, have passed beyond the Bend. "Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo, An aged Ram, flapp'd, gnarly-horn'd, With bones that crackle o'er the snow, Rheum'd, wind-gall'd, rag-fleec'd, burr'd and thorn'd. "Time takes the third bar off for him, He totters down the windy lane. 'Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim. O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!" Those seasons out, we talked of these: And I (with inward purpose sly To shield my purse from Christmas trees And stockings and wild robbery When Hal and Nimblewits invade My cash in Santa Claus's name) In full the hard, hard times surveyed; Denounced all waste as crime and shame; Hinted that "waste" might be a term Including skates, velocipedes, Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm, Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds, Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys, And all th' infernal host of horns Whereby to strenuous hells of noise Are turned the blessed Christmas morns; Thus, roused -- those horns! -- to sacred rage, I rose, forefinger high in air, When Harry cried (SOME war to wage), "Papa, is hard times ev'ywhere? "Maybe in Santa Claus's land It isn't hard times none at all!" Now, blessed Vision! to my hand Most pat, a marvel strange did fall. Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!" He cried, leapt up in wild alarm, Ran to my Comrade, shelter took Beneath the startled mother's arm. And so was still: what time we saw A foot hang down the fireplace! Then, With painful scrambling scratched and raw, Two hands that seemed like hands of men Eased down two legs and a body through The blazing fire, and forth there came Before our wide and wondering view A figure shrinking half with shame, And half with weakness. "Sir," I said, -- But with a mien of dignity The seedy stranger raised his head: "My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he. But oh, how changed! That rotund face The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin; Where once was cheek, now empty space; Whate'er stood out, did now stand in. His piteous legs scarce propped him up: His arms mere sickles seemed to be: But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cup When that we saw -- or did not see -- His belly: we remembered how It shook like a bowl of jelly fine: An earthquake could not shake it now; He HAD no belly -- not a sign. "Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare: I HAVE seen better days," he said: "But now, with shrinkage, loss and care, Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head. "We've had such hard, hard times this year For goblins! Never knew the like. All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fear The gnomes are just about to strike. "I once was rich, and round, and hale. The whole world called me jolly brick; But listen to a piteous tale. Young Harry, -- Santa Claus is sick! "'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad man Comes to my house and talks to me: `I've got,' says he, `a little plan That suits this nineteenth century. "`Instead of driving, as you do, Six reindeer slow from house to house, Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway through From here to earth's last terminus. "`We'll touch at every chimney-top (An Elevated Track, of course), Then, as we whisk you by, you'll drop Each package down: just think, the force "`You'll save, the time! -- Besides, we'll make Our millions: look you, soon we will Compete for freights -- and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of good and ill "`(Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir, That e'er did business in this world!): Then Death, that ceaseless Traveller, Shall on his rounds by us be whirled. "`When ghosts return to walk with men, We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast: We'll run a Branch to heaven! and then We'll riot, man; for then, at last "`We'll make with heaven a contract fair To call, each hour, from town to town, And carry the dead folks' souls up there, And bring the unborn babies down!' "The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash, Nay, every penny I could raise. My wife e'er cried, `'Tis rash, 'tis rash:' How could I know the stock-thief's ways? "But soon I learned full well, poor fool! My woes began, that wretched day. The President plied me like a tool. In lawyer's fees, and rights of way, "Injunctions, leases, charters, I Was meshed as in a mighty maze. The stock ran low, the talk ran high: Then quickly flamed the final blaze. "With never an inch of track -- 'tis true! The debts were large . . . the oft-told tale. The President rolled in splendor new -- He bought my silver at the sale. "Yes, sold me out: we've moved away. I've had to give up everything. My reindeer, even, whom I . . . pray, Excuse me" . . . here, o'er-sorrowing, Poor Santa Claus burst into tears, Then calmed again: "my reindeer fleet, I gave them up: on foot, my dears, I now must plod through snow and sleet. "Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now; Yes, every luxury is cut off. -- Which, by the way, reminds me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough: "I cut off the tail of my Ulster furred To make young Kris a coat of state. That very night the storm occurred! Thus we became the sport of Fate. "For I was out till after one, Surveying chimney-tops and roofs, And planning how it could be done Without my reindeers' bouncing hoofs. "`My dear,' says Mrs. Claus, that night (A most superior woman she!) `It never, never can be right That you, deep-sunk in poverty, "`This year should leave your poor old bed, And trot about, bent down with toys, (There's Kris a-crying now for bread!) To give to other people's boys. "`Since you've been out, the news arrives The Elfs' Insurance Company's gone. Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our lives Depend on yours: thus griefs go on. "`And even while you're thus harassed, I do believe, if out you went, You'd go, in spite of all that's passed, To the children of that President!' "Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits, These eyes, that night, ne'er slept a wink. My path seemed honeycombed with pits. Naught could I do but think and think. "But, with the day, my courage rose. Ne'er shall my boys, MY boys (I cried), When Christmas morns their eyes unclose, Find empty stockings gaping wide! "Then hewed and whacked and whittled I; The wife, the girls and Kris took fire; They spun, sewed, cut, -- till by and by We made, at home, my pack entire!" (He handed me a bundle, here.) "Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick! Dear boys, DON'T look for much this year: Remember, Santa Claus is sick!"