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Best Famous Rap Poems

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

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Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Crossing Nation

 Under silver wing
 San Francisco's towers sprouting
 thru thin gas clouds,
 Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
 Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
 typewriter at window
 silver panorama in natural eyeball--

Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese 
 dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
 State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
 to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's 
 blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands' 
 brown wasteland scratched by tires

 Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
 coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace.
persons of tender years.
immature judgement.
pyschiatric examination.
" i.
Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam Leroi on bum gun rap, $7,000 lawyer fees, years' negotiations-- SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez' paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol Dylan silent on politics, & safe-- having a baby, a man-- Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked, Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher, blood splashing down the mountains of bodies on to Cholon's sidewalks-- Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor Murderers advance w/ Death-chords Earplugs in, steak on plastic served--Eyes up to the Image-- What do I have to lose if America falls? my body? my neck? my personality? June 19, 1968

Written by Carolyn Kizer | Create an image from this poem

Fearful Women

 Arms and the girl I sing - O rare
arms that are braceleted and white and bare

arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan.
Helen was to blame.
Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf and profit don't sound glamorous enough.
Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape: Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent on scattering sperm across a continent.
Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.
But let's go back to the beginning when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.
He, one rib short: she lived to rue it when Adam said to God, "She made me do it.
" Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing for her: no end of trouble would it bring.
An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder, not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.
Whether we wield a scepter or a mop It's clear you fear that we may get on top.
And if we do -I say it without animus- It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Silent Ones

 I'm just an ordinary chap
 Who comes home to his tea,
And mostly I don't care a rap
 What people think of me;
I do my job and take my pay,
 And love of peace expound;
But as I go my patient way,
 --Don't push me round.
Though I respect authority And order never flout, When Law and Justice disagree You can include me out.
The Welfare State I tolerate If it is kept in bound, But if you wish to rouse my hate --Just push me round.
And that's the way with lots of us: We want to feel we're free; So labour governments we cuss And mock at monarchy.
Yea, we are men of secret mirth, And fury seldom sound; But if you value peace on earth --Don't push us round.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

83. The Cotter's Saturday Night

 MY lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
 No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
 My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene,
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;
 The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
 The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun’; Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e— Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet: Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.
Their master’s and their mistress’ command, The younkers a’ are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play; “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.
” But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave, Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found: O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare,— “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare— One cordial in this melancholy vale, ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
” Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food; The sowp their only hawkie does afford, That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid: The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.
The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride: His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise; Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame; The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” 1 That thus they all shall meet in future days, There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator’s praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art; When men display to congregations wide Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;” And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.
O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide, That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part: (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia’s realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! Note 1.
Pope’s “Windsor Forest.
Written by William Allingham | Create an image from this poem

Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker The

 Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee! -
Only the grasshopper and the bee? -
"Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight; Summer days are warm; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm!" Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch th etiny clamour, Busy click of an elfin hammer.
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade? He's a span And a quarter in height, Get him in sight, hold him tight, And you're a made Man! You watch your cattle the summerday, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay; how would you like to roll in your carriage, Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage? Seize the shoemaker - then you may! "Big boots a -hunting, Sandals in the hall, White for a wedding feast, Pink for a ball.
This way, that way, So we makea shoe; Getting rich every stitch, Tick-a-tack too!" Nine and ninety treasure crocks This keen miser fairy hath, Hid in the mountains, woods and rocks, Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath, And where cormorants build; From times of old Guarded by him; Each of them fill'd Full to the brim With gold! I caught him at work one day, myself, In the castle ditch where fox-glove grows, - A wrinkled, wizen'd and bearded Elf, Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron - shoe in his lap - 'Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too! (A grasshopper on my cap! Away the moth flew!) Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son - Pay me well, pay me well, When the job is done!" The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him, he stared at me; "Servant Sir!" "Humph" says he, And pull'd a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased, The ***** little Lepracaun; Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace, - Pouf! He flung the dust in my face, And while I sneezed, Was gone!

Written by Thomas Blackburn | Create an image from this poem

An Invitation

 Holding with shaking hands a letter from some
Official – high up he says in the Ministry,
I note that I am invited to Birmingham,
There pedagogues to address for a decent fee.
'We like to meet,' he goes on, 'men eminent In the field of letters each year,' and that's well put, Though I find his words not wholly relevant To this red-eyed fellow whose mouth tastes rank as soot.
No doubt what he's thinking of is poetry When 'Thomas Blackburn' he writes, and not the fuss A life makes when it has no symmetry, Though the term 'a poet' being mainly posthumous, Since I'm no stiff, is inappropriate.
What I can confirm is the struggle that never lets up Between the horses of Plato beneath my yoke, One after Light, and for Hell not giving a rap, The other only keen on infernal smoke.
And poems.
? From time to time they commemorate Some particularly dirty battle between these two; I put the letter down – what's the right note? 'Dear Sir,' I type, 'how nice to speak to you!'
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Should you but fail at -- Sea

 Should you but fail at -- Sea --
In sight of me --
Or doomed lie --
Next Sun -- to die --
Or rap -- at Paradise -- unheard
I'd harass God
Until he let you in!
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Phantasmagoria CANTO VI ( Dyscomfyture )

 As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore: 

Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky
Wherein he hopes to rest: 

Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant: 

Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track.
And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back: And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain - So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With 'therefore' or 'because,' I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was.
Quoth he "That's regular clap-trap: Don't bluster any more.
Now DO be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before! "You're like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet!" I said "THAT'S VERY CURIOUS!" "Well, it IS curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it's true as true can be - As sure as your name's Tibbs," said he.
I said "My name's NOT Tibbs.
" "NOT Tibbs!" he cried - his tone became A shade or two less hearty - "Why, no," said I.
"My proper name Is Tibbets - " "Tibbets?" "Aye, the same.
" "Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!" With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses.
"Why couldn't you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the asses? "To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it's in vain - And I've to do it all again - It's really TOO provoking! "Don't talk!" he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse.
"Who can have patience with a man That's got no more discretion than An idiotic goose? "To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!" he said.
"There, that'll do - be off to bed! Don't gape like that, you dunce!" "It's very fine to throw the blame On ME in such a fashion! Why didn't you enquire my name The very minute that you came?" I answered in a passion.
"Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot - But how was I to blame for it?" "Well, well!" said he.
"I must admit That isn't badly put.
"And certainly you've given me The best of wine and victual - Excuse my violence," said he, "But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little.
"'Twas MY fault after all, I find - Shake hands, old Turnip-top!" The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop.
"Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They'll send you some inferior Sprite, Who'll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps.
"Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it's pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! "Then carelessly remark 'Old coon! Perhaps you're not aware That, if you don't behave, you'll soon Be chuckling to another tune - And so you'd best take care!' "That's the right way to cure a Sprite Of such like goings-on - But gracious me! It's getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!" A nod, and he was gone.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

New Mexico

 I was fairly drunk when it
began and I took out my bottle and used it
along the way.
I was reading a week or two after Kandel and I did not look quite as pretty but I brought it off and we ended up at the Webbs, 6, 8, 10 of us, and I drank scotch, wine, beer, tequila and noticed a nice one sitting next to me - one tooth missing when she smiled, lovely, and I put my arm around her and began loading her with bullshit.
when I awakened at 10 a.
the next morning I was in a strange house in bed with this woman.
she was asleep but looked familiar.
I got up and here was one kid running around in a crib and another one running around the floor in pajamas.
I picked up a letter addressed to one "Betsy R.
", so I went back and said, "hey, Betsy, there are kids running around all over this place.
" "oh Hank, damn it, I'm sick.
I want to sleep, not rap.
" "but look, the .
" "make yourself some coffee.
" I put the pot on and the little boy ran up in his pajamas.
I found a shirt and some pants and some shoes and dressed him.
then I cleaned a bottle with hot water, filled it with milk and gave it to the kid in the crib.
he went for it.
then I went in and squeezed her hand.
"I've got to go.
are you all right ?" "yes, a little sick.
but please don't feel bad.
" I called a yellow cab and we went back across town.
is this what happened to D.
Thomas ? I thought.
if a man didn't think too much he could be proud of his little conquests - except that the women were better than we - asking nothing as we squirted our poetry our bullshit our sperm to them.
we were sick poets sick people.
across town I knocked on the door of my host and hostess.
"what happened ?" they asked.
got lost.
" they sat a beer in front of me and I drank it as if I were wordly: a piece-of-*** any-night anywhere type.
"somebody got a cigarette ?" I asked.
"sure, sure.
" I lit up and asked, "heard from Creely lately ?" not giving a damn whether they had or not.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Conroys Gap

 This was the way of it, don't you know -- 
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, 
And never a trooper, high or low, 
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! 
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- 
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- 
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord 
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- Under the shade of that frowning range The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death".
The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came, to him that did not matter a rap -- Drunk or sober, he was the same, The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.
"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said, "And listen to me, if you dare resist, So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!" He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, Recovered his wits as they turned to go, For fright will sober a man as quick As all the drugs that the doctors know.
There was a girl in that shanty bar Went by the name of Kate Carew, Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, But ready-witted and plucky, too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say, And passing by, while her eyes were dim With tears, she said in a careless way, "The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim.
" Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse In all the district from east to west; In every show ring, on every course, They always counted The Swagman best.
He was a wonder, a raking bay -- One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- One of the sort that could race and stay With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
Born and bred on the mountain side, He could race through scrub like a kangaroo; The girl herself on his back might ride, And The Swagman would carry her safely through.
He would travel gaily from daylight's flush Till after the stars hung out their lamps; There was never his like in the open bush, And never his match on the cattle-camps.
For faster horses might well be found On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, But few, if any, on broken ground Could see the way that The Swagman went.
When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, Was droving out on the Castlereagh With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
And he was a hundred miles from home, As flies the crow, with never a track Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam; He mounted straight on The Swagman's back.
He left the camp by the sundown light, And the settlers out on the Marthaguy Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, A single horseman hurrying by.
He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again.
He rode all noght, and he steered his course By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, And every time that he pressed his horse The Swagman answered him gamely still.
He neared his home as the east was bright.
The doctor met him outside the town "Carew! How far did you come last night?" "A hundred miles since the sun went down.
" And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, So long as he or one of his breed Could raise a coin, though it took their last, The Swagman never should want a feed.
And Kate Carew, when her father died, She kept the horse and she kept him well; The pride of the district far and wide, He lived in style at the bush hotel.
Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew Nothing about could pace the crack; Little he'd care for the man in blue If once he got on The Swagman's back.
But how to do it? A word let fall Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall; Go to the stable and mind your eye.
" He caught her meaning, and quickly turned To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe By arresting me, and it's easily earned; Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, The Swagman has it.
" So off they went, And as soon as ever they turned their backs The girl slipped down, on some errand bent Behind the stable and seized an axe.
The trooper stood at the stable door While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, And then (the trick had been played before) The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through.
The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate, But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring At the fence, and the trooper fired too late As they raced away, and his shots flew wide, And Ryan no longer need care a rap, For never a horse that was lapped in hide Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap.
And that's the story.
You want to know If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; Of course he should have, as stories go, But the worst of it is this story's true: And in real life it's a certain rule, Whatever poets and authors say Of high-toned robbers and all their school, These horsethief fellows aren't built that way.
Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, He sloped across to the Queensland side, And sold The Swagman for fifty pound, And stole the money, and more beside.
And took to drink, and by some good chance Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.
And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.