10 Best Famous Ups Poems

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

• All Famous Ups Poems

 Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

 Although you have given me a stomach upset,
Weak knees, a lurching heart, a fuzzy brain,
A high-pitched laugh, a monumental phone bill,
A feeling of unworthiness, sharp pain
When you are somewhere else, a guilty conscience,
A longing, and a dread of what’s in store,
A pulse rate for the Guinness Book of Records -
Life now is better than it was before.

Although you have given me a raging temper,
Insomnia, a rising sense of panic,
A hopeless challenge, bouts of introspection,
Raw, bitten nails, a voice that’s strangely manic,
A selfish streak, a fear of isolation,
A silly smile, lips that are chapped and sore,
A running joke, a risk, an inspiration –
Life now is better than it was before.

Although you have given me a premonition,
Chattering teeth, a goal, a lot to lose,
A granted wish, mixed motives, superstitions,
Hang-ups and headaches, fear of awful news,
A bubble in my throat, a dare to swallow,
A crack of light under a closing door,
The crude, fantastic prospect of forever –
Life now is better that it was before.

 Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.

 A day of seeming innocence, 
A glorious sun and sky, 
And, just above my picket fence, 
Black Bonnet passing by. 
In knitted gloves and quaint old dress, 
Without a spot or smirch, 
Her worn face lit with peacefulness, 
Old Granny goes to church. 

Her hair is richly white, like milk, 
That long ago was fair -- 
And glossy still the old black silk 
She keeps for "chapel wear"; 
Her bonnet, of a bygone style, 
That long has passed away, 
She must have kept a weary while 
Just as it is to-day. 

The parasol of days gone by -- 
Old days that seemed the best -- 
The hymn and prayer books carried high 
Against her warm, thin breast; 
As she had clasped -- come smiles come tears, 
Come hardship, aye, and worse -- 
On market days, through faded years, 
The slender household purse. 

Although the road is rough and steep, 
She takes it with a will, 
For, since she hushed her first to sleep 
Her way has been uphill. 
Instinctively I bare my head 
(A sinful one, alas!) 
Whene'er I see, by church bells led, 
Brave Old Black Bonnet pass. 

For she has known the cold and heat 
And dangers of the Track: 
Has fought bush-fires to save the wheat 
And little home Out Back. 
By barren creeks the Bushman loves, 
By stockyard, hut, and pen, 
The withered hands in those old gloves 
Have done the work of men. 

..... 

They called it "Service" long ago 
When Granny yet was young, 
And in the chapel, sweet and low, 
As girls her daughters sung. 
And when in church she bends her head 
(But not as others do) 
She sees her loved ones, and her dead 
And hears their voices too. 

Fair as the Saxons in her youth, 
Not forward, and not shy; 
And strong in healthy life and truth 
As after years went by: 
She often laughed with sinners vain, 
Yet passed from faith to sight -- 
God gave her beauty back again 
The more her hair grew white. 

She came out in the Early Days, 
(Green seas, and blue -- and grey) -- 
The village fair, and English ways, 
Seemed worlds and worlds away. 
She fought the haunting loneliness 
Where brooding gum trees stood; 
And won through sickness and distress 
As Englishwomen could. 

..... 

By verdant swath and ivied wall 
The congregation's seen -- 
White nothings where the shadows fall, 
Black blots against the green. 
The dull, suburban people meet 
And buzz in little groups, 
While down the white steps to the street 
A quaint old figure stoops. 

And then along my picket fence 
Where staring wallflowers grow -- 
World-wise Old Age, and Common-sense! -- 
Black Bonnet, nodding slow. 
But not alone; for on each side 
A little dot attends 
In snowy frock and sash of pride, 
And these are Granny's friends. 

To them her mind is clear and bright, 
Her old ideas are new; 
They know her "real talk" is right, 
Her "fairy talk" is true. 
And they converse as grown-ups may, 
When all the news is told; 
The one so wisely young to-day, 
The two so wisely old. 

At home, with dinner waiting there, 
She smooths her hair and face, 
And puts her bonnet by with care 
And dons a cap of lace. 
The table minds its p's and q's 
Lest one perchance be hit 
By some rare dart which is a part 
Of her old-fashioned wit. 

..... 

Her son and son's wife are asleep, 
She puts her apron on -- 
The quiet house is hers to keep, 
With all the youngsters gone. 
There's scarce a sound of dish on dish 
Or cup slipped into cup, 
When left alone, as is her wish, 
Black Bonnet "washes up."

 So how is life with your new bloke?
Simpler, I bet. Just one stroke
of his quivering oar and the skin
of the Thames goes into a spin,

eh? How is life with an oarsman? Better?
More in--out? Athletic? Wetter?
When you hear the moan of the rowlocks,
do you urge him on like a cox?

Tell me, is he bright enough to find
that memo-pad you call a mind?
Or has he contrived to bring you out--
given you an in-tray and an out?

How did I ever fall for a paper-clip?
How could I ever listen to office gossip
even in bed and find it so intelligent?
Was is straight biological bent?

I suppose you go jogging together?
Tackle the Ridgeway in nasty weather?
Face force 55 gales and chat about prep
or how you bested that Birmingham rep?

He must be mad with excitement.
So must you. What an incitement
to lust all those press-ups must be.
Or is it just the same? PE?

Tell me, I'm curious. Is it fun
being in love with just anyone?
How do you remember his face
if you meet in a public place?

Perhaps you know him by his shoes?
Or do you sometimes choose
another pinstriped clone
by accident and drag that home

instead? From what you say,
he's perfect. For a Chekhov play.
Tall and dark and brightly dim,
Kulygin's part was made for him.

Imagine your life with a 'beak'.
Week after week after week
like homework or detention;
all that standing to attention

whenever his colleagues drop in
for a spot of what's-your-toxin.
Speech Day, matron, tuck-shop, Christ,
you'll find school fees are over-priced

and leave, but not come back to me.
You've done your bit for poetry.
Words, or deeds? You'll stick to youth.
I'm a stickler for the truth--

which makes me wonder what it was
I loved you for. Tell me, because
now I feel nothing--except regret.
What is it, love, I need to forget?

Perfectly happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast,
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far off in Paris where his enemies
Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write,
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.

Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups; and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occassion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

Night fell and made him think of women: Lust
Was one of the great teachers; Pascal was a fool.
How Emilie had loved astronomy and bed;
Pimpette had loved him too, like scandal; he was glad.
He'd done his share of weeping for Jerusalem: As a rule,
It was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.

Yet, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions: soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead,
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song. 

 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.

 Stairstep music: ups,
downs, Bill Robinson smiling,
jazzdancing the rounds.

She raised champagne lips,
danced inside banana hips.
All Paris wooed Jo.

Banana panties,
perfumed belt, Jazz tatooing
lush ecstasies felt.

Josephine, royal,
jewelling her dance, flushing
the bosom of France.

 "Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times

When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.

The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.

The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.

So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.

 Behold the duck. 
It does not cluck. 
A cluck it lacks. 
It quacks. 
It is specially fond
Of a puddle or pond. 
When it dines or sups, 
It bottoms ups.