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Best Famous Skunk Poems

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

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Salvation Bill

 'Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can,
Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
When I bumped into that Missionary Man.
He was lying lost and dying in the moon's unholy leer, And frozen from his toes to finger-tips' The famished wolf-pack ringed him; but he didn't seem to fear, As he pressed his ice-bond Bible to his lips.
'Twas the limit of my trap-line, with the cabin miles away, And every step was like a stab of pain; But I packed him like a baby, and I nursed him night and day, Till I got him back to health and strength again.
So there we were, benighted in the shadow of the Pole, And he might have proved a priceless little pard, If he hadn't got to worrying about my blessed soul, And a-quotin' me his Bible by the yard.
Now there was I, a husky guy, whose god was Nicotine, With a "coffin-nail" a fixture in my mug; I rolled them in the pages of a pulpwood magazine, And hacked them with my jack-knife from the plug.
For, Oh to know the bliss and glow that good tobacco means, Just live among the everlasting ice .
.
.
So judge my horror when I found my stock of magazines Was chewed into a chowder by the mice.
A woeful week went by and not a single pill I had, Me that would smoke my forty in a day; I sighed, I swore, I strode the floor; I felt I would go mad: The gospel-plugger watched me with dismay.
My brow was wet, my teeth were set, my nerves were rasping raw; And yet that preacher couldn't understand: So with despair I wrestled there - when suddenly I saw The volume he was holding in his hand.
Then something snapped inside my brain, and with an evil start The wolf-man in me woke to rabid rage.
"I saved your lousy life," says I; "so show you have a heart, And tear me out a solitary page.
" He shrank and shrivelled at my words; his face went pewter white; 'Twas just as if I'd handed him a blow: And then .
.
.
and then he seemed to swell, and grow to Heaven's height, And in a voice that rang he answered: "No!" I grabbed my loaded rifle and I jabbed it to his chest: "Come on, you shrimp, give me that Book," says I.
Well sir, he was a parson, but he stacked up with the best, And for grit I got to hand it to the guy.
"If I should let you desecrate this Holy Word," he said, "My soul would be eternally accurst; So go on, Bill, I'm ready.
You can pump me full of lead And take it, but - you've got to kill me first.
" Now I'm no foul assassin, though I'm full of sinful ways, And I knew right there the fellow had me beat; For I felt a yellow mongrel in the glory of his gaze, And I flung my foolish firearm at his feet, Then wearily I turned away, and dropped upon my bunk, And there I lay and blubbered like a kid.
"Forgive me, pard," says I at last, "for acting like a skunk, But hide the blasted rifle.
.
.
" Which he did.
And he also hid his Bible, which was maybe just as well, For the sight of all that paper gave me pain; And there were crimson moments when I felt I'd o to hell To have a single cigarette again.
And so I lay day after day, and brooded dark and deep, Until one night I thought I'd end it all; Then rough I roused the preacher, where he stretched pretending sleep, With his map of horror turned towards the wall.
"See here, my pious pal," says I, "I've stood it long enough.
.
.
Behold! I've mixed some strychnine in a cup; Enough to kill a dozen men - believe me it's no bluff; Now watch me, for I'm gonna drink it up.
You've seen me bludgeoned by despair through bitter days and nights, And now you'll see me squirming as I die.
You're not to blame, you've played the game according to your lights.
.
.
But how would Christ have played it? - Well, good-bye.
.
.
" With that I raised the deadly drink and laid it to my lips, But he was on me with a tiger-bound; And as we locked and reeled and rocked with wild and wicked grips, The poison cup went crashing to the ground.
"Don't do it, Bill," he madly shrieked.
"Maybe I acted wrong.
See, here's my Bible - use it as you will; But promise me - you'll read a little as you go along.
.
.
You do! Then take it, Brother; smoke your fill.
" And so I did.
I smoked and smoked from Genesis to Job, And as I smoked I read each blessed word; While in the shadow of his bunk I heard him sigh and sob, And then .
.
.
a most peculiar thing occurred.
I got to reading more and more, and smoking less and less, Till just about the day his heart was broke, Says I: "Here, take it back, me lad.
I've had enough I guess.
Your paper makes a mighty rotten smoke.
" So then and there with plea and prayer he wrestled for my soul, And I was racked and ravaged by regrets.
But God was good, for lo! next day there came the police patrol, With paper for a thousand cigarettes.
.
.
So now I'm called Salvation Bill; I teach the Living Law, And Bally-hoo the Bible with the best; And if a guy won't listen - why, I sock him on the jaw, And preach the Gospel sitting on his chest.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Frog Prince

 Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out of the sky like rain.
Frogs arrive With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.
My guilts are what we catalogue.
I'll take a knife and chop up frog.
Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father's genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.
The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off like a light bulb.
At the sight of him the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he's an apple and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog the touch-me-nots explode like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.
Mr.
Poison is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.
Mama Brundig, he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ for a souvenir.
Frog has boil disease and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me.
Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.
Why should a certain quite adorable princess be walking in her garden at such a time and toss her golden ball up like a bubble and drop it into the well? It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills holes in our skulls to let the Boston Symphony through.
But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot into the bottom of the well.
Lost, she said, my moon, my butter calf, my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
Balls such as these are not for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said, between my teeth and now it is gone and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.
Suddenly the well grew thick and boiling and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess, he said, I am not a vagabond, a cattle farmer, a shepherd, a doorkeeper, a postman or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said, for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler, those three you will never do, but she made the promises with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth like a tricky old dog and she ran back to the castle leaving the frog quite alone.
That evening at dinner time a knock was heard on the castle door and a voice demanded: King's youngest daughter, let me in.
You promised; now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise and forced her to comply.
The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate looking over her bacon and calves' liver.
We will eat in tandem, he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled as if a small machine had entered her.
He sat upon the liver and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn't exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank as if it were Socrates' hemlock.
Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour! There was the pillow with the princess breathing and there was the sinuous frog riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river of shut doors, he said, and I have made my way over the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room.
Kaboom! Like a genie coming out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.
He hired a night watchman so that no one could enter the chamber and he had the well boarded over so that never again would she lose her ball, that moon, that Krishna hair, that blind poppy, that innocent globe, that madonna womb.
Written by Marge Piercy | Create an image from this poem

Toad Dreams

 That afternoon the dream of the toads 
rang through the elms by Little River
and affected the thoughts of men, 
though they were not conscious that 
they heard it.
--Henry Thoreau The dream of toads: we rarely credit what we consider lesser life with emotions big as ours, but we are easily distracted, abstracted.
People sit nibbling before television's flicker watching ghosts chase balls and each other while the skunk is out risking grisly death to cross the highway to mate; while the fox scales the wire fence where it knows the shotgun lurks to taste the sweet blood of a hen.
Birds are greedy little bombs bursting to give voice to appetite.
I had a cat who died of love.
Dogs trail their masters across con- tinents.
We are far too busy to be starkly simple in passion.
We will never dream the intense wet spring lust of the toads.
Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Skunk Hour

(for Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop.
Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she's in her dotage.
Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria's century she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore and lets them fall.
The season's ill-- we've lost our summer millionaire who seemed to leap from an L.
L.
Bean catalogue.
His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.
And bow our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet's filled with orange cork orange his cobbler's bench and awl; there is no money in his work he'd rather marry.
One dark night my Tutor Ford climbed the hill's skull; I watched for love-cars.
Lights turned down they lay together hull to hull where the graveyard shelves on the town.
.
.
.
My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats "Love, O careless Love.
.
.
.
" I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat.
.
.
.
I myself am hell; nobody's here-- only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire under the chalk-dry and spar spire of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air-- a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail, and will not scare.
Written by James Dickey | Create an image from this poem

FOR THE LAST WOLVERINE

 They will soon be down

To one, but he still will be
For a little while still will be stopping

The flakes in the air with a look,
Surrounding himself with the silence
Of whitening snarls.
Let him eat The last red meal of the condemned To extinction, tearing the guts From an elk.
Yet that is not enough For me.
I would have him eat The heart, and, from it, have an idea Stream into his gnawing head That he no longer has a thing To lose, and so can walk Out into the open, in the full Pale of the sub-Arctic sun Where a single spruce tree is dying Higher and higher.
Let him climb it With all his meanness and strength.
Lord, we have come to the end Of this kind of vision of heaven, As the sky breaks open Its fans around him and shimmers And into its northern gates he rises Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel With an elk's horned heart in his stomach Looking straight into the eternal Blue, where he hauls his kind.
I would have it all My way: at the top of that tree I place The New World's last eagle Hunched in mangy feathers giving Up on the theory of flight.
Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate To the death in the rotten branches, Let the tree sway and burst into flame And mingle them, crackling with feathers, In crownfire.
Let something come Of it something gigantic legendary Rise beyond reason over hills Of ice SCREAMING that it cannot die, That it has come back, this time On wings, and will spare no earthly thing: That it will hover, made purely of northern Lights, at dusk and fall On men building roads: will perch On the moose's horn like a falcon Riding into battle into holy war against Screaming railroad crews: will pull Whole traplines like fibers from the snow In the long-jawed night of fur trappers.
But, small, filthy, unwinged, You will soon be crouching Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion Of being the last, but none of how much Your unnoticed going will mean: How much the timid poem needs The mindless explosion of your rage, The glutton's internal fire the elk's Heart in the belly, sprouting wings, The pact of the "blind swallowing Thing," with himself, to eat The world, and not to be driven off it Until it is gone, even if it takes Forever.
I take you as you are And make of you what I will, Skunk-bear, carcajou, bloodthirsty Non-survivor.
Lord, let me die but not die Out.
Copyright © 1966 by James Dickey Online Source - http://www.
theatlantic.
com/unbound/poetry/dickey/wolverine.
htm
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And A Worst-Case Scenario

 I swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel
in the center of the road and that's when
the deer came charging out of the forest
and forced me to hit the brakes for all I
was worth and I careened back to the other
side of the road just as a skunk came toddling
out of Mrs.
Bancroft's front yard and I swung back perhaps just grazing it a bit.
I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and in that instant a groundhog waddled from the side of the road and I zigzagged madly and don't know if I nipped it or not because up ahead I could see a coyote stalking the Collier's cat.
Oh well, I said, and drove the rest of the way home without incident.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Last Word of a Blue Bird

 As told to a child


As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, "Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do? I just came to tell you To tell Lesley (will you?) That her little Bluebird Wanted me to bring word That the north wind last night That made the stars bright And made ice on the trough Almost made him cough His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly! But he sent her Good-by, And said to be good, And wear her red hood, And look for the skunk tracks In the snow with an ax- And do everything! And perhaps in the spring He would come back and sing.
"


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Funk

 When your marrer bone seems 'oller,
And you're glad you ain't no taller,
 And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills;
When your skin creeps like a pullet's,
And you're duckin' all the bullets,
 And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills;
When your legs seem made of jelly,
And you're squeamish in the belly,
 And you want to turn about and do a bunk:
For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it!
Don't let your mateys know it --
 You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.
Of course there's no denyin' That it ain't so easy tryin' To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, When the 'ole world rips asunder, And you sees yer pal go under, As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; I admit it's 'ard contrivin' When you 'ears the shells arrivin', To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' *****; But, my lad, you've got to do it, And your God will see you through it, For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.
So stand up, son; look gritty, And just 'um a lively ditty, And only be afraid to be afraid; Just 'old yer rifle steady, And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, For that's the way good soldier-men is made.
And if you 'as to die, As it sometimes 'appens, why, Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; A-doin' of yer bit, And so -- to 'ell with it, There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

The Ole in the Ark

 One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark,
Putting green oil in starboard side lamp,
His wife came along and said, 'Noah, summat's wrong,
Our cabin is getting quite damp.
Noah said, 'Is that so?' Then he went down below, And found it were right what she'd said, For there on the floor quite a puddle he saw, It was slopping around under t' bed.
Said he, 'There's an 'ole in the bottom somewhere, We must find it before we retire.
' Then he thowt for a bit, and he said 'Aye, that's it, A bloodhound is what we require.
' Se he went and fetched bloodhound from place where it lay, 'Tween the skunk and the polecat it were, And as things there below, were a trifle so-so, It were glad of a breath of fresh air.
They followed the sound as it went sniffing round, 'Til at last they located the leak, 'Twere a small hole in the side, about two inches wide, Where a swordfish had poked in its beak.
And by gum! how the wet squirted in through that hole, Well, young Shem who at sums was expert, Worked it out on his slate that it came at the rate, Of per gallon, per second, per squirt.
The bloodhound tried hard to keep water in check, By lapping it up with his tongue, But it came in so fast through that hole, that at last, He shoved in his nose for a bung.
The poor faithful hound, he were very near drowned, They dragged him away none too soon, For the stream as it rose, pushed its way up his nose, And blew him up like a balloon.
And then Mrs Noah shoved her elbow in t'hole, And said,' Eh! it's stopped I believe,' But they found very soon as she'd altered her tune, For the water had got up her sleeve.
When she saw as her elbow weren't doing much good, She said to Noah, 'I've an idea, You sit on the leak and by t'end of the week, There's no knowing, the weather may clear.
' Noah didn't think much to this notion, at all, But reckoned he'd give it a try, On the 'ole down he flopped, and the leaking all stopped, And all.
.
.
except him, was quite dry.
They took him his breakfast and dinner and tea, As day after day there he sat, 'Til the rain was all passed and they landed at last, On top side of Mount Ararat.
And that is how Noah got them all safe ashore, But ever since then, strange to tell, Them as helped save the Ark has all carried a mark, Aye, and all their descendants as well.
That's why dog has a cold nose, and ladies cold elbows, You'll also find if you enquire, That's why a man takes his coat tails in hand, And stands with his back to the fire.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And A Worst-Case Scenario

 I swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel
in the center of the road and that's when
the deer came charging out of the forest
and forced me to hit the brakes for all I
was worth and I careened back to the other
side of the road just as a skunk came toddling
out of Mrs.
Bancroft's front yard and I swung back perhaps just grazing it a bit.
I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and in that instant a groundhog waddled from the side of the road and I zigzagged madly and don't know if I nipped it or not because up ahead I could see a coyote stalking the Collier's cat.
Oh well, I said, and drove the rest of the way home without incident.
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