Best Famous Stuffy Poems

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

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• All Famous Stuffy Poems

Written by Henry Lawson | Forard It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft. But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft; In the cushioned cabins, aft, With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft -- There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft. Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide, And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside; But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft, An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft -- Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft, Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft, Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft. They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss, Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us! Just because our hands are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft -- But the gentlemen and ladies always DINE together, aft -- With their ferns an' mirrors, aft, With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft -- `I'll assist you to an orange' -- `Kindly pass the sugar', aft. We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune, An' it's hard on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon; There's a broken swell among us -- he is barracked, he is chaffed, An' I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was aft; For they'd understand him, aft, (He will miss the bath-rooms aft), Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft. Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea -- `It is hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me. `There is ups an' downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed -- There were brighter days an' better when he always travelled aft -- With his rug an' gladstone, aft, With his cap an' spyglass, aft -- A careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft. There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss, For it says that second-classers `ain't allowed abaft o' this'; An' there ought to be a notice for the fellows from abaft -- But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to the first-salooners, aft; With their tooth and nail-brush, aft, With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft -- Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft. I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat, For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat -- We are for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft! But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft; With their dressin'-cases, aft, With their swell pyjamas, aft -- Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft. I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck, That I'm ripe for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck! We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there -- Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear, With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft -- There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; No anxiety abaft, They have stuff to land with, aft -- Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks, Sailin' past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks, With the sunny haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue, An' the orphan rocks an' breakers -- Oh, it's glorious sailin' through! To the south a distant steamer, to the west a coastin' craft, An' we see the beauty for'ard, better than if we were aft; Spite of op'ra-glasses, aft; But, ah well, they're brothers aft -- Nature seems to draw us closer -- bring us nearer fore-'n'-aft. What's the use of bein' bitter? What's the use of gettin' mad? What's the use of bein' narrer just because yer luck is bad? What's the blessed use of frettin' like a child that wants the moon? There is broken hearts an' trouble in the gilded first saloon! We are used to bein' shabby -- we have got no overdraft -- We can laugh at troubles for'ard that they couldn't laugh at aft; Spite o' pride an' tone abaft (Keepin' up appearance, aft) There's anxiety an' worry in the breezy cabins aft. But the curse o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; An' we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly craft, An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes fore-'n'-aft. We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft! Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft! When the people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft.

Written by Barry Tebb | A Meeting With The Princess Just a family get-together in a terrace house in Bradford High tea with a few stuffy aunts I hadn’t seen for years Their husbands in tow like lost dogs sniffing round for food But she came all the same, ushered in politely as a friend Of a friend or somebody’s cousin twice removed though Everybody was a bit put out at first except me so I got Sat down next to her and started to chat but people would Keep chipping in, especially the young men, definitely upper-class Gate-crashers who kept scowling at her and she kept snapping Back at them and I said, "There seems to be a problem to do With suppressed anger, I feel" and even my own son, somewhat Unrelaxed but a genuine Old Etonian nonetheless, looked a bit Embarrassed at the kerfuffle, but he kept standing by me wearing His tails and perhaps it was this that finally sent the young Men on their way and I managed to get her out for a breath Of fresh air in the street and eventually we found our way to Peel Park. Nobody seemed to notice who she was or perhaps they Were too polite to say or they thought she was another Diana Lookalike anyway we had some peace at last and forgetting Protocol I put my arm round her and said, "You’re just ordinary. Like everyone, even the Emperor of China, that’s the secret of life. If there is one" and she started to cry softly and still nobody Noticed and then the people and the park and even Bradford itself Melted away in her tears.

Written by Anna Akhmatova | The Grey-Eyed King Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain! The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain. This autumnal evening was stuffy and red. My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome. I pity the queen. He, so young, past away!... During one night her black hair turned to grey." He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race. Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes... And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king..."

Written by Robert William Service | Portrait Painter, would you make my picture? Just forget the moral stricture. Let me sit With my belly to the table, Swilling all the wine I'm able, Pip a-lit; Not a stiff and stuffy croaker In a frock coat and a choker Let me be; But a rollicking old fellow With a visage ripe and mellow As you see. Just a twinkle-eyed old codger, And of death as artful dodger, Such I am; I defy the Doc's advising And I don't for sermonising Care a damn. Though Bill Shakespeare had in his dome Both - I'd rather wit than wisdom For my choice; In the glug glug of the bottle, As I tip it down my throttle, I rejoice. Paint me neither sour not soulful, For I would not have folks doleful When I go; So if to my shade you're quaffing I would rather see you laughing, As you know. In Life's Great Experiment I'll have heaps of merriment E're I pass; And though devil beckons me, And I've many a speck on me, Maybe some will recon me - Worth a glass.

Written by Robert William Service | The Ape And I Said a monkey unto me: "How I'm glad I am not you! See, I swing from tree to tree, Something that you cannot do. In gay greenery I drown; Swift to skyey hights I scale: As you watch me hang head down Don't you wish you had a tail? "Don't you wish that you could wear In the place of stuffy clothes, Just a silky coat of hair, Never shoes to cramp your toes? Never need to toil for bread, Round you nuts and fruit and spice; And with palm tuft for a bed Happily to crack your lice?" Said I: "You are right, maybe: Witting naught of wordly woe, Gloriously you are free, And of death you nothing know. Envying your monkey mind, Innocent of blight and bale, As I touch my bald behind How I wish I had a tail!" So in toils of trouble caught, Oft I wonder with a sigh If that blue-bummed ape is not Happier than I?

Written by Philip Levine | The House This poem has a door, a locked door, and curtains drawn against the day, but at night the lights come on, one in each room, and the neighbors swear they hear music and the sound of dancing. These days the neighbors will swear to anything, but that is not why the house is locked up and no one goes in or out all day long; that is because this is a poem first and a house only at night when everyone should be asleep. The milkman tries to stop at dawn, for he has three frosty white bottles to place by the back door, but his horse shakes his head back and forth, and so he passes on his way. The papers pile up on the front porch until the rain turns them into gray earth, and they run down the stairs and say nothing to anyone. Whoever made this house had no idea of beauty -- it's all gray -- and no idea of what a happy family needs on a day in spring when tulips shout from their brown beds in the yard. Back there the rows are thick with weeds, stickers, choke grass, the place has gone to soggy mulch, and the tools are hanging unused from their hooks in the tool room. Think of a marriage taking place at one in the afternoon on a Sunday in June in the stuffy front room. The dining table is set for twenty, and the tall glasses filled with red wine, the silver sparkling. But no one is going in or out, not even a priest in his long white skirt, or a boy in pressed shorts, or a plumber with a fat bag.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 58: Industrious affable having brain on fire Industrious, affable, having brain on fire, Henry perplexed himself; others gave up; good girls gave in; geography was hard on friendship, Sire; marriages lashed & languished, anguished; dearth of group and what else had been; the splendour & the lose grew all the same, Sire. His heart stiffened, and he failed to smile, catching (enfit) on. The law: we must, owing to chiefly shame lacing our pride, down what we did. A mile, a mile to Avalon. Stuffy & lazy, shaky, making roar overseas presses, he quit wondering: the mystery is full. Sire, damp me down. Me feudal O, me yore (male Muse) serf, if anyfing; which rank I pull.