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Best Famous Pug Poems

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

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Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

The Blackbirds Are Rough Today

 lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like an aging chorus girl who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your worship.
the blackbirds are rough today like ingrown toenails in an overnight jail--- wine wine whine, the blackbirds run around and fly around harping about Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is nowhere--- the dream is as bad as flapjacks and flat tires: why do we go on with our minds and pockets full of dust like a bad boy just out of school--- you tell me, you who were a hero in some revolution you who teach children you who drink with calmness you who own large homes and walk in gardens you who have killed a man and own a beautiful wife you tell me why I am on fire like old dry garbage.
we might surely have some interesting correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and cemeteries the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics will still go on a while until we run out of stamps and/or ideas.
don't be ashamed of anything; I guess God meant it all like locks on doors.


Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man

 Oh, there are times 
When all this fret and tumult that we hear 
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear 
His own dull chimes.
Ding dong! ding dong! The world is in a simmer like a sea Over a pent volcano, -- woe is me All the day long! From crib to shroud! Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby, And friends in boots tramp round us as we die, Snuffling aloud.
At morning's call The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun, And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, Give answer all.
When evening dim Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul, Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, -- These are our hymn.
Women, with tongues Like polar needles, ever on the jar; Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are Within their lungs.
Children, with drums Strapped round them by the fond paternal ***; Peripatetics with a blade of grass Between their thumbs.
Vagrants, whose arts Have caged some devil in their mad machine, Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between, Come out by starts.
Cockneys that kill Thin horses of a Sunday, -- men, with clams, Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams From hill to hill.
Soldiers, with guns, Making a nuisance of the blessed air, Child-crying bellman, children in despair, Screeching for buns.
Storms, thunders, waves! Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill; Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still But in their graves.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Bingo

 The daughter of the village Maire
Is very fresh and very fair,
 A dazzling eyeful;
She throws upon me such a spell
That though my love I dare not tell,
 My heart is sighful.
She has the cutest brown caniche, The French for "poodle" on a leash, While I have Bingo; A dog of doubtful pedigree, Part pug or pom or chow maybe, But full of stingo.
The daughter of the village Maire Would like to speak with me, I'll swear, In her sweet lingo; But parlez-vous I find a bore, For I am British to the core, And so is Bingo Yet just to-day as we passed by, Our two dogs haulted eye to eye, In friendly poses; Oh, how I hope to-morrow they Will wag their tails in merry play, And rub their noses.
* * * * * * * The daughter of the village Maire Today gave me a frigid stare, My hopes are blighted.
I'll tell you how it came to pass .
.
.
Last evening in the Square, alas! My sweet I sighted; And as she sauntered with her pet, Her dainty, her adored Frolette, I cried: "By Jingo!" Well, call it chance or call it fate, I made a dash .
.
.
Too late, too late! Oh, naughty Bingo! The daughter of the village Maire That you'll forgive me, is my prayer And also Bingo.
You should have shielded your caniche: You saw my dog strain on his leash And like a spring go.
They say that Love will find a way - It definitely did, that day .
.
.
Oh, canine noodles! Now it is only left to me To wonder - will your offspring be Poms, pugs or poodles?
Written by Thomas Flatman | Create an image from this poem

The Batchelors Song

 Like a Dog with a bottle, fast ti'd to his tail,
Like Vermin in a trap, or a Thief in a Jail,
 Or like a Tory in a Bog,
 Or an Ape with a Clog:
Such is the man, who when he might go free,
 Does his liberty loose,
 For a Matrimony noose,
 And sels himself into Captivity;
The Dog he do's howl, when his bottle do's jog,
The Vermin, the Theif, and the Tory in vain
Of the trap, of the Jail, of the Quagmire complain.
But welfare poor Pug! for he playes with his Clog; And tho' he would be rid on't rather than his life, Yet he lugg's it, and he hug's it, as a man does his wife.