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Best Famous Shoot Straight Poems

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

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Arithmetic on the Frontier

 A great and glorious thing it is
 To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
 Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass.
" Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!" And after -- ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station -- A canter down some dark defile -- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail -- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride! No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can -- The odds are on the cheaper man.
One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right.
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear" Are cheap -- alas! as we are dear.


Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Shut Up And Eat Your Toad

 The disorganization to which I currently belong
has skipped several meetings in a row
which is a pattern I find almost fatally attractive.
Down at headquarters there's a secretary and a janitor who I shall call Suzie and boy can she ever shoot straight.
She'll shoot you straight in the eye if you ask her to.
I mow the grass every other Saturday and that's the day she polishes the trivets whether they need it or not, I don't know if there is a name for this kind of behavior, hers or mine, but somebody once said something or another.
That's why I joined up in the first place, so somebody could teach me a few useful phrases, such as, "Good afternoon, my dear ****-retentive Doctor," and "My, that is a lovely dictionary you have on, Mrs.
Smith.
" Still, I hardly feel like functioning even on a brute or loutish level.
My plants think I'm one of them, and they don't look so good themselves, or so I tell them.
I like to give them at least several reasons to be annoyed with me, it's how they exercise their skinny spectrum of emotions.
Because.
That and cribbage.
Often when I return from the club late at night, weary-laden, weary-winged, washed out, I can actually hear the nematodes working, sucking the juices from the living cells of my narcissus.
I have mentioned this to Suzie on several occasions.
Each time she has backed away from me, panic-stricken when really I was just making a stab at conversation.
It is not my intention to alarm anyone, but dear Lord if I find a dead man in the road and his eyes are crawling with maggots, I refuse to say have a nice day Suzie just because she's desperate and her life is a runaway carriage rushing toward a cliff now can I? Would you let her get away with that kind of crap? Who are you anyway? And what kind of disorganization is this? Baron of the Holy Grail? Well it's about time you got here.
I was worried, I was starting to fret.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Shut Up And Eat Your Toad

 The disorganization to which I currently belong
has skipped several meetings in a row
which is a pattern I find almost fatally attractive.
Down at headquarters there's a secretary and a janitor who I shall call Suzie and boy can she ever shoot straight.
She'll shoot you straight in the eye if you ask her to.
I mow the grass every other Saturday and that's the day she polishes the trivets whether they need it or not, I don't know if there is a name for this kind of behavior, hers or mine, but somebody once said something or another.
That's why I joined up in the first place, so somebody could teach me a few useful phrases, such as, "Good afternoon, my dear ****-retentive Doctor," and "My, that is a lovely dictionary you have on, Mrs.
Smith.
" Still, I hardly feel like functioning even on a brute or loutish level.
My plants think I'm one of them, and they don't look so good themselves, or so I tell them.
I like to give them at least several reasons to be annoyed with me, it's how they exercise their skinny spectrum of emotions.
Because.
That and cribbage.
Often when I return from the club late at night, weary-laden, weary-winged, washed out, I can actually hear the nematodes working, sucking the juices from the living cells of my narcissus.
I have mentioned this to Suzie on several occasions.
Each time she has backed away from me, panic-stricken when really I was just making a stab at conversation.
It is not my intention to alarm anyone, but dear Lord if I find a dead man in the road and his eyes are crawling with maggots, I refuse to say have a nice day Suzie just because she's desperate and her life is a runaway carriage rushing toward a cliff now can I? Would you let her get away with that kind of crap? Who are you anyway? And what kind of disorganization is this? Baron of the Holy Grail? Well it's about time you got here.
I was worried, I was starting to fret.