10 Best Famous Tabled Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Tabled poems. This is a select list of the best famous Tabled poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Tabled poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of tabled poems.

• All Famous Tabled Poems

 It was while we held our races -- 
Hurdles, sprints and steplechases -- 
Up in Dandaloo, 
That a crowd of Sydney stealers, 
Jockeys, pugilists and spielers 
Brought some horses, real heelers, 
Came and put us through. 
Beat our nags and won our money, 
Made the game by np means funny, 
Made us rather blue; 
When the racing was concluded, 
Of our hard-earned coin denuded 
Dandaloonies sat and brooded 
There in Dandaloo. 

* * * * * 

Night came down on Johnson's shanty 
Where the grog was no way scanty, 
And a tumult grew 
Till some wild, excited person 
Galloped down the township cursing, 
"Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, 
Roll up, Dandaloo!" 

Great St Denis! what commotion! 
Like the rush of stormy ocean 
Fiery horsemen flew. 
Dust and smoke and din and rattle, 
Down the street they spurred their cattle 
To the war-cry of the battle, 
"Wade in, Dandaloo!" 

So the boys might have their fight out, 
Johnson blew the bar-room light out, 
Then, in haste, withdrew. 
And in darkness and in doubting 
Raged the conflict and the shouting, 
"Give the Sydney push a clouting, 
Go it, Dandaloo!" 

Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, 
Every head he saw he struck it -- 
Struck in earnest, too; 
And a man from Lower Wattle, 
Whom a shearer tried to throttle, 
Hit out freely with a bottle 
There in Dandaloo. 

Skin and hair were flying thickly, 
When a light was fetched, and quickly 
Brought a fact to view -- 
On the scene of the diversion 
Every single, solid person 
Come along to help Macpherson -- 
All were Dandaloo! 

When the list of slain was tabled -- 
Some were drunk and some disabled -- 
Still we found it true. 
In the darkness and the smother 
We'd been belting one another; 
Jack Macpherson bashed his brother 
There in Dandaloo. 

So we drank, and all departed -- 
How the "mobbing" yarn was started 
No one ever knew -- 
And the stockmen tell the story 
Of that conflict fierce and gory, 
How he fought for love and glory 
Up in Dandaloo. 

It's a proverb now, or near it -- 
At the races you can hear it, 
At the dog-fights, too! 
Every shrieking, dancing drover 
As the canines topple over 
Yells applause to Grip or Rover, 
"Give him 'Dandaloo'!" 

And the teamster slowly toiling 
Through the deep black country, soiling 
Wheels and axles, too, 
Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, 
Rouses Tarboy with a flanker -- 
"Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her 
Wade in, Dandaloo!"

 The doctor fingers my bruise. 
"Magnificent," he says, "black 
at the edges and purple 
cored." Seated, he spies for clues, 
gingerly probing the slack 
flesh, while I, standing, fazed, pull 

for air, losing the battle. 
Faced by his aged diploma, 
the heavy head of the X- 
ray, and the iron saddle, 
I grow lonely. He finds my 
secrets common and my sex 

neither objectionable 
nor lovely, though he is on 
the hunt for significance. 
The shelved cutlery twinkles 
behind glass, and I am on 
the way out, "an instance 

of the succumbed through extreme 
fantasy." He is alarmed 
at last, and would raise me, but 
I am floorward in a dream 
of lowered trousers, unarmed 
and weakly fighting to shut 

the window of my drawers. 
There are others in the room, 
voices of women above 
white oxfords; and the old floor, 
the friendly linoleum, 
departs. I whisper, "my love," 

and am safe, tabled, sniffing 
spirits of ammonia 
in the land of my fellows. 
"Open house!" my openings 
sing: pores, nose, anus let go 
their charges, a shameless flow 

into the outer world; 
and the ceiling, equipped with 
intelligence, surveys my 
produce. The doctor is thrilled 
by my display, for he is half 
the slave of necessity; 

I, enormous in my need, 
justify his sciences. 
"We have alternatives," he 
says, "Removal..." (And my blood 
whitens as on their dull trays 
the tubes dance. I must study 

the dark bellows of the gas 
machine, the painless maker.) 
"...and learning to live with it." 
Oh, but I am learning fast 
to live with any pain, ache, 
growth to keep myself intact; 

and in imagination 
I hug my bruise like an old 
Pooh Bear, already attuned 
to its moods. "Oh, my dark one, 
tell of the coming of cold 
and of Kings, ancient and ruined."

 Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flag-staff -
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversion of the eyes from death -
Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs.