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Best Famous Smoking Gun Poems

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

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Written by Chris Mansell | Create an image from this poem

the beekeeper

 the population controller
slips into disguise
his charming suit
his veil of words
conceals his gaze
he has laid out the fields
and filled them with blossoms
and counted the money jars

in his SimCity slim city
androgyn sharp
bodies are worry perfect
slicked back souped up
cool as drones
the neutered ones
will dance for one another
in the pages of glib
they make their ideal
hexagonal cubicles
gleam with honey
they gel their wings
catch their reflections
in passing pools
hope they’ll win
somehow against
the odds

they won’t
the beekeeper has
a boxed and ready fear
of bees
he won’t
let them forget
he tells them
duty honour
the sacredness of home
and holds a smoking gun
for dissident and obedient alike

those who gather in the courtyards
of fame he’ll teach his rules
those who gather in the squares
he’ll fight with guns and scorn
those who write destinations in the air
he’ll silence
his fields and his alone
are edible he’ll say
and all the rest are poison
and all those who disagree
are fools or mad
and must be fought
for sanity and for country
and the bees obey


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

The Pigeon Shooting

 They say that Monte Carlo is
A sunny place for shady people;
But I'm not in the gambling biz,
And sober as a parish steeple.
so though this paradisal spot The devil's playground of the rich is, I love it and I love it not, As men may sometimes fall for bitches.
I lazed beneath the sky's blue bliss, The sea swooned with a sequin glimmer; The breeze was shy as maiden kiss, The palms sashayed in silken shimmr.
The peace I soaked in every pore did me more good than ten religions .
.
.
And then: Bang! Bang! my joy was o'er; Says I: "There goes them poor dam pigeons.
" I see them bob from out their traps, the swarded green aroud them ringing; bewildered, full of joy perhaps, With sudden hope of skyway winging.
They blink a moment at the sun, They flutter free of earthy tether .
.
.
A fat man holds a smoking gun, A boy collects some blood and feather.
And so through all the sainted day, Bang! Bang! a bunch of plumage gory.
Five hundred francs they cost to slay, And few there live to tell the story .
.
.
Yet look! there's one so swift to fly, Despite the shots a course he's steering .
.
.
Brave little bird! he's winging high, He's gained the trees - I feel like cheering.
In Monte Carlo's garden glades With dreamful bliss one softly lingers, And lazily in leafy shades The doves pick breadcrumbs from one fingers .
.
.
Bang! Bang! Farewell, oh sylvan courts! Where peace and joy are sweetly blended .
.
.
God curse these lousy Latin sports! My pigeons scat, my dream is ended.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

John Ericsson Day Memorial 1918

 INTO the gulf and the pit of the dark night, the cold night, there is a man goes into the dark and the cold and when he comes back to his people he brings fire in his hands and they remember him in the years afterward as the fire bringer—they remember or forget—the man whose head kept singing to the want of his home, the want of his people.
For this man there is no name thought of—he has broken from jungles and the old oxen and the old wagons—circled the earth with ships—belted the earth with steel—swung with wings and a drumming motor in the high blue sky—shot his words on a wireless way through shattering sea storms:—out from the night and out from the jungles his head keeps singing—there is no road for him but on and on.
Against the sea bastions and the land bastions, against the great air pockets of stars and atoms, he points a finger, finds a release clutch, touches a button no man knew before.
The soldier with a smoking gun and a gas mask—the workshop man under the smokestacks and the blueprints—these two are brothers of the handshake never forgotten—for these two we give the salt tears of our eyes, the salute of red roses, the flame-won scarlet of poppies.
For the soldier who gives all, for the workshop man who gives all, for these the red bar is on the flag—the red bar is the heart’s-blood of the mother who gave him, the land that gave him.
The gray foam and the great wheels of war go by and take all—and the years give mist and ashes—and our feet stand at these, the memory places of the known and the unknown, and our hands give a flame-won poppy—our hands touch the red bar of a flag for the sake of those who gave—and gave all.