Best Famous Stenciled Poems
Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Stenciled poems. This is a select list of the best famous Stenciled poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Stenciled poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of stenciled poems.
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Written by
Ellis Parker Butler |
The shades of night was fallin’ slow
As through New York a guy did go
And nail on ev’ry barroom door
A card that this here motter bore:
“No beer, no work.”
His brow was sad, his mouth was dry;
It was the first day of July,
And where, all parched and scorched it hung,
These words was stenciled on his tongue:
“No beer, no work.”
“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and sup
This malted milk from this here cup.”
A shudder passed through that there guy,
But with a moan he made reply:
“No beer, no work.”
At break of day, as through the town
The milkman put milk bottles down,
Onto one stoop a sort of snore
Was heard, and then was heard no more—
“No beer, no work.”
The poor old guy plumb dead was found
And planted in the buryin’ ground,
Still graspin’ in his hand of ice
Them placards with this sad device:
“No beer, no work.”
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Written by
Robert William Service |
First Ghost
To sepulcher my mouldy bones
I bough a pile of noble stones,
And half a year a sculptor spent
To hew my marble monument,
The stateliest to rear its head
In all this city of the dead.
And generations passing through
Will gape, and ask: What did he do
To earn this tomb so rich and rare,
In Attic grace beyond compare?
How was his life in honour spent,
To worthy this proud monument?
What did I do" Well, nothing much.
'Tis true I had the Midas touch.
A million pounds I made wherewith
To glorify the name: John Smith;
Yet not a soul wept for me when
Death raft me from my fellow men.
My sculptor wins undying fame,
While I, who paid, am just a name.
Second Ghost
A wooden cross surveys my bones,
With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.
And round it are five hundred more;
(A proper job did old man War!)
So young they were, so fresh, so fit,
So hopeful - that's the hell of it.
The old are sapped and ripe to die,
But in the flush of Spring was I.
I might have fathered children ten,
To come to grips with sterling men;
And now a cross in weeds to rot,
Is all to show how fierce I fought.
The old default, the young must pay;
My life was wasted, thrown away.
While people gladden, to forget
The bitterness of vein regret,
With not a soul to morn for me
My skull grins up in mockery.
. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,
And always will be - War and Wars.
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