10 Best Famous Sheriffs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Sheriffs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sheriffs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sheriffs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sheriffs poems.

• All Famous Sheriffs Poems

 I -- A Pleasant Afternoon

 for Michael Brownstein and Dick Gallup


One day 3 poets and 60 ears sat under a green-striped Chau-
 tauqua tent in Aurora
listening to Black spirituals, tapping their feet, appreciating
 words singing by in mountain winds
on a pleasant sunny day of rest -- the wild wind blew thru
 blue Heavens
filled with fluffy clouds stretched from Central City to Rocky
 Flats, Plutonium sizzled in its secret bed,
hot dogs sizzled in the Lion's Club lunchwagon microwave
 mouth, orangeade bubbled over in waxen cups
Traffic moved along Colefax, meditators silent in the Diamond
 Castle shrine-room at Boulder followed the breath going
 out of their nostrils,
Nobody could remember anything, spirits flew out of mouths
 & noses, out of the sky, across Colorado plains & the
 tent flapped happily open spacious & didn't fall down.


 June 18, 1978


II -- Peace Protest

Cumulus clouds float across blue sky
 over the white-walled Rockwell Corporation factory
 -- am I going to stop that?

 *

Rocky Mountains rising behind us
 Denver shining in morning light
-- Led away from the crowd by police and photographers

 *

Middleaged Ginsberg and Ellsberg taken down the road
 to the greyhaired Sheriff's van -- 
But what about Einstein? What about Einstein? Hey, Einstein
 Come back!


III -- Golden Courthouse

Waiting for the Judge, breathing silent
 Prisoners, witnesses, Police -- 
the stenographer yawns into her palms.

 August 9, 1978


IV -- Everybody's Fantasy

I walked outside & the bomb'd
 dropped lots of plutonium
 all over the Lower East Side
There weren't any buildings left just
 iron skeletons
groceries burned, potholes open to 
 stinking sewer waters

There were people starving and crawling
 across the desert
the Martian UFOs with blue
 Light destroyer rays
passed over and dried up all the 
 waters

Charred Amazon palmtrees for
 hundreds of miles on both sides
 of the river

 August 10, 1978


V -- Waiting Room at the Rocky Flats Plutonium Plant

"Give us the weapons we need to protect ourselves!"
 the bareheaded guard lifts his flyswatter above the desk
 -- whap!

 *

A green-letter'd shield on the pressboard wall!
 "Life is fragile. Handle with care" --
My Goodness! here's where they make the nuclear bomb
 triggers.


 August 17, 1978


VI -- Numbers in Red Notebook

2,000,000 killed in Vietnam
13,000,000 refugees in Indochina 1972
200,000,000 years for the Galaxy to revolve on its core
24,000 the Babylonian Great Year
24,000 half life of plutonium
2,000 the most I ever got for a poetry reading
80,000 dolphins killed in the dragnet
4,000,000,000 years earth been born

 Summer 1978

 Fellow men! why should the lords try to despise
And prohibit women from having the benefit of the parliamentary Franchise?
When they pay the same taxes as you and me,
I consider they ought to have the same liberty. 

And I consider if they are not allowed the same liberty,
From taxation every one of them should be set free;
And if they are not, it is really very unfair,
And an act of injustice I most solemnly declare. 

Women, farmers, have no protection as the law now stands;
And many of them have lost their property and lands,
And have been turned out of their beautiful farms
By the unjust laws of the land and the sheriffs' alarms. 

And in my opinion, such treatment is very cruel;
And fair play, 'tis said, is a precious jewel;
But such treatment causes women to fret and to dote,
Because they are deprived of the parliamentary Franchise vote. 

In my opinion, what a man pays for he certainly should get;
And if he does not, he will certainly fret;
And why wouldn't women do the very same?
Therefore, to demand the parliamentary Franchise they are not to blame. 

Therefore let them gather, and demand the parliamentary Franchise;
And I'm sure no reasonable man will their actions despise,
For trying to obtain the privileges most unjustly withheld from them;
Which Mr. Gladstone will certainly encourage and never condemn. 

And as for the working women, many are driven to the point of starvation,
All through the tendency of the legislation;
Besides, upon members of parliament they have no claim
As a deputation, which is a very great shame. 

Yes, the Home Secretary of the present day,
Against working women's deputations, has always said- nay;
Because they haven't got the parliamentary Franchise-,
That is the reason why he does them despise. 

And that, in my opinion, is really very unjust;
But the time is not far distant, I most earnestly trust,
When women will have a parliamentary vote,
And many of them, I hope, will wear a better petticoat. 

And I hope that God will aid them in this enterprise,
And enable them to obtain the parliamentary Franchise;
And rally together, and make a bold stand,
And demand the parliamentary Franchise throughout Scotland. 

And do not rest day nor night-
Because your demands are only right
In the eyes of reasonable men, and God's eyesight;
And Heaven, I'm sure, will defend the right. 

Therefore go on brave women! and never fear,
Although your case may seem dark and drear,
And put your trust in God, for He is strong;
And ye will gain the parliamentary Franchise before very long.

 Now Fireman Flynn met Hank the Finn where lights of Lust-land glow;
"Let's leave," says he, "the lousy sea, and give the land a show.
I'm fed up to the molar mark with wallopin' the brine;
I feel the bloody barnacles a-carkin' on me spine.
Let's hit the hard-boiled North a crack, where creeks are paved with gold."
"You count me in," says Hank the Finn. "Ay do as Ay ban told."

And so they sought the Lonely Land and drifted down its stream,
Where sunny silence round them spanned, as dopey as a dream.
But to the spell of flood and fell their gold-grimed eyes were blind;
By pine and peak they paused to seek, but nothing did they find;
No yellow glint of dust to mint, just mud and mocking sand,
And a hateful hush that seemed to crush them down on every hand.
Till Fireman Flynn grew mean as sin, and cursed his comrade cold,
But Hank the Finn would only grin, and . . . do as he was told.

Now Fireman Flynn had pieces ten of yellow Yankee gold,
Which every night he would invite his partner to behold.
"Look hard," says he; "It's all you'll see in this god-blasted land;
But you fret, I'm gonna let you hold them i your hand.
Yeah! Watch 'em gleam, then go and dream they're yours to have and hold."
Then Hank the Finn would scratch his chin and . . . do as he was told.

But every night by camp-fire light, he'd incubate his woes,
And fan the hate of mate for mate, the evil Artic knows.
In dreams the Lapland withes gloomed like gargoyles overhead,
While the devils three of Helsinkee came cowering by his bed.
"Go take," said they, "the yellow loot he's clinking in his belt,
And leave the sneaking wolverines to snout around his pelt.
Last night he called you Swedish scum, from out the glory-hole;
To-day he said you were a bum, and damned your mother's soul.
Go, plug with lead his scurvy head, and grab his greasy gold . . ."
Then Hank the Finn saw red within, and . . . did as he was told.

So in due course the famous Force of Men Who Get Their Man,
Swooped down on sleeping Hank the Finn, and popped him in the can.
And in due time his grievous crime was judged without a plea,
And he was dated up to swing upon the gallows tree.
Then Sheriff gave a party in the Law's almighty name,
He gave a neck-tie party, and he asked me to the same.
There was no hooch a-flowin' and his party wasn't gay,
For O our hearts were heavy at the dawning of the day.
There was no band a-playin' and the only dancin' there
Was Hank the Fin interpretin' his solo in the air.

We climbed the scaffold steps and stood beside the knotted rope.
We watched the hooded hangman and his eyes were dazed with dope.
The Sheriff was in evening dress; a bell began to toll,
A beastly bell that struck a knell of horror to the soul.
As if the doomed one was myself, I shuddered, waiting there.
I spoke no word, then . . . then I heard his step upon the stair;
His halting foot, moccasin clad . . . and then I saw him stand
Between a weeping warder and a priest with Cross in hand.
And at the sight a murmur rose of terror and of awe,
And all them hardened gallows fans were sick at what they saw:
For as he towered above the mob, his limbs with leather triced,
By all that's wonderful, I swear, his face was that of Christ.

Now I ain't no blaspheming cuss, so don't you start to shout.
You see, his beard had grown so long it framed his face about.
His rippling hair was long and fair, his cheeks were spirit-pale,
His face was bright with holy light that made us wince and quail.
He looked at us with eyes a-shine, and sore were we confused,
As if he were the Judge divine, and we were the accused.
Aye, as serene he stood between the hangman and the cord,
You would have sworn, with anguish torn, he was the Blessed Lord.

The priest was wet with icy sweat, the Sheriff's lips were dry,
And we were staring starkly at the man who had to die.
"Lo! I am raised above you all," his pale lips seemed to say,
"For in a moment I shall leap to God's Eternal Day.
Am I not happy! I forgive you each for what you do;
Redeemed and penitent I go, with heart of love for you."
So there he stood in mystic mood, with scorn sublime of death.
I saw him gently kiss the Cross, and then I held by breath.
That blessed smile was blotted out; they dropped the hood of black;
They fixed the noose around his neck, the rope was hanging slack.
I heard him pray, I saw him sway, then . . . then he was not there;
A rope, a ghastly yellow rope was jerking in the air;
A jigging rope that soon was still; a hush as of the tomb,
And Hank the Finn, that man of sin, had met his rightful doom.

His rightful doom! Now that's the point. I'm wondering, because
I hold a man is what he is, and never what he was.
You see, the priest had filled that guy so full of holy dope,
That at the last he came to die as pious as the Pope.
A gentle ray of sunshine made a halo round his head.
I thought to see a sinner - lo! I saw a Saint instead.
Aye, as he stood as martyrs stand, clean-cleansed of mortal dross,
I think he might have gloried had . . . WE NAILED HIM TO A CROSS.

 In early morning twilight, raw and chill, 
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill, 
Through miles of mire in steady grave array 
Threescore well-arm'd police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings, 
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings: 
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride 
Talks with the chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu 
Pretends his needful duty much to rue. 
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common frieze,
Walk in the midst, the Sheriff's staunch allies; 
Six crowbar men, from distant county brought, - 
Orange, and glorying in their work, 'tis thought,
But wrongly,- churls of Catholics are they, 
And merely hired at half a crown a day. 

The hamlet clustering on its hill is seen, 
A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean;
Poor always, not despairing until now; 
Long used, as well as poverty knows how, 
With life's oppressive trifles to contend. 
This day will bring its history to an end. 
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls
Lean a few silent men: but someone calls 
Far off; and then a child 'without a stitch' 
Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech,
And soon from house to house is heard the cry
Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high, 
Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o'er fence and watery field beneath,
The little army moves through drizzling rain;
A 'Crowbar' leads the Sheriff's nag; the lane
Is enter'd, and their plashing tramp draws near,
One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear
"Halt!" - at the doors they form in double line, 
And ranks of polish'd rifles wetly shine. 

The Sheriff's painful duty must be done; 
He begs for quiet-and the work's begun. 
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest, 
Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast, 
And Rosy's thin face on a pallet borne; 
A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn. 
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek, 
Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak, 
But, in defect of any word for this, 
Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss, 
Then passes out for ever. Through the crowd 
The children run bewilder'd, wailing loud; 
Where needed most, the men combine their aid; 
And, last of all, is Oona forth convey'd, 
Reclined in her accustom'd strawen chair, 
Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair 
Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill, 
Looks round and murmurs, then again is still. 
Now bring the remnants of each household fire; 
On the wet ground the hissing coals expire; 
And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face, 
Receives the full possession of the place.

 I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones, 
Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones, 
And he lived pretty much by gittin' of loans, 
And his mules was nuthin' but skin and bones, 
And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones, 
And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land. 

This man -- which his name it was also Jones -- 
He swore that he'd leave them old red hills and stones, 
Fur he couldn't make nuthin' but yallerish cotton, 
And little o' THAT, and his fences was rotten, 
And what little corn he had, HIT was boughten 
And dinged ef a livin' was in the land. 

And the longer he swore the madder he got, 
And he riz and he walked to the stable lot, 
And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitch 
Fur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich, 
And to quit raisin' cock-burrs, thistles and sich, 
And a wastin' ther time on the cussed land. 

So him and Tom they hitched up the mules, 
Pertestin' that folks was mighty big fools 
That 'ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out, 
Jest scratchin' a livin' when all of 'em mought 
Git places in Texas whar cotton would sprout 
By the time you could plant it in the land.

And he driv by a house whar a man named Brown 
Was a livin', not fur from the edge o' town, 
And he bantered Brown fur to buy his place, 
And said that bein' as money was skace, 
And bein' as sheriffs was hard to face, 
Two dollars an acre would git the land.

They closed at a dollar and fifty cents, 
And Jones he bought him a waggin and tents, 
And loaded his corn, and his wimmin, and truck, 
And moved to Texas, which it tuck 
His entire pile, with the best of luck, 
To git thar and git him a little land.

But Brown moved out on the old Jones' farm, 
And he rolled up his breeches and bared his arm, 
And he picked all the rocks from off'n the groun', 
And he rooted it up and he plowed it down, 
Then he sowed his corn and his wheat in the land.

Five years glid by, and Brown, one day 
(Which he'd got so fat that he wouldn't weigh), 
Was a settin' down, sorter lazily, 
To the bulliest dinner you ever see, 
When one o' the children jumped on his knee 
And says, "Yan's Jones, which you bought his land."

And thar was Jones, standin' out at the fence, 
And he hadn't no waggin, nor mules, nor tents, 
Fur he had left Texas afoot and cum 
To Georgy to see if he couldn't git sum 
Employment, and he was a lookin' as hum- 
Ble as ef he had never owned any land. 

But Brown he axed him in, and he sot 
Him down to his vittles smokin' hot, 
And when he had filled hisself and the floor 
Brown looked at him sharp and riz and swore 
That, "whether men's land was rich or poor 
Thar was more in the MAN than thar was in the LAND."

 In Pat Mahoney's booze bazaar the fun was fast and free,
And Ragtime Billy spanked the baby grand;
While caroling a saucy song was Montreal Maree,
With sozzled sourdoughs giving her a hand.
When suddenly erupting in the gay and gilded hall,
A stranger draped himself upon the bar;
As in a voice like bedrock grit he hollered: "Drinks for all,"
And casually lit a long cigar.

He bore a battered stetson on the grizzle of his dome,
And a bunch of inky whiskers on his jaw;
The suddenly I knew the guy - 'twas Black Moran from Nome.
A guinney like greased lightening on the draw.
But no one got his number in that wild and wooly throng,
As they hailed his invitation with eclaw,
And they crowded round the stranger, but I knew something was wrong.
When in there stomped the Sheriff, Red McGraw.

Now Red McGraw from Arkansaw was noted for his *****;
He had a dozen notches on his gun;
And whether he was sober or whether he was drunk,
He kept the lousy outlaws on the run.
So now he shouts: "Say, boys, there's been a hold-up Hunker Way,
And by this poke I'm throwin' on the bar,
I bet I'll get the bastard braced before another day,
Or send him where a dozen others are."

He banged the bag of gold-dust on the bar for all to see,
When in a lazy drawl the stranger spoke:
"As I'm the man you're lookin' for an feelin' mighty free,
I reckon, Sheriff, I'll jest take yer poke.
It's pleasant meetin' you like this, an' talkin' man to man,
For all the North had heard o' Ref McGraw.
I'm glad to make ye eat yer words, since I am Black Moran,
An' no man livin' beats me on the draw."

And as they boldly bellied, each man's hand was on his rod,
Yet at that dreaded name the Sheriff knew
A single fumbling movement and he'd go to meet his God,
The which he had no great desire to do.
So there they stood like carven wood and hushed was every breath,
We watched them glaring, staring eye to eye;
But neither drew, for either knew a second split meant death -
And so a minute . . . two . . . three three went by.

The sweat pricked on the Sheriff's brow as suddenly he broke
And limp and weak he wilted to the floor;
And then the stranger's hand shot out and grabbed the heavy poke
As jeeringly he backed up to the door.
"Say, folks," he cried, "I'm off downstream; no more of me you'll see,
But let me state the job was pretty raw. . . .
The guy that staged the robbery he thought to pin on me
Was your bastard Sheriff, Red McGraw."

 You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,
Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town;
Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin' of the Peace,
Which signifies araisin' Cain, an' beatin' up the police.
So there she stood before the Court of ruddy Judge McGraw
Whom folks called Old Necessity, because he knew no law.
Aye, crackin' in a silken gown, an' sheddin' of a tear,
Ashine wi' gold an' precious stones sat Violet de Vere.
Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Says he: "Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.
What can you say in your defence? We'll give you a square deal."
"I jest forget," said Violet. "Maybe it was my heel.
I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way."
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,
Where bright wi' paint like plaster saint sat Violet de Vere.

Says he: "I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine."
Says Violet: "Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realize I should not my agility reveal:
Next time I'll kick the Sheriff with my toe and not my heel.
I'm grateful to the Court because I'm not put in the clink;
There's twenty plunks to pay my fine,--but now I come to think:
Judge, darlin', you've been owin' me five bucks for near a year:
Take fifteen,--there! We'll call it square," said Violet de Vere.

 Deprived of his enemy, shrugged to a standstill
horrible Henry, foaming. Fan their way
toward him who will
in the high wood: the officers, their rest,
with p. a. echoing: his girl comes, say,
conned in to test

if he's still human, see,
therefore she get on the Sheriff's mike & howl
'Come down, come down'.
Therefore he un-budge, furious. He'd flee
but only Heaven hangs over him foul.
At the crossways, downtown,

he dreams the folks are buying parsnips & suds
and paying rent to foes. He slipt & fell.
It's golden here in the snow.
A mild crack: a far rifle. Bogart's duds
truck back to Wardrobe. Fancy the brain from hell
held out so long. Let go.