10 Best Famous Worser Poems

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

• All Famous Worser Poems

 Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, 
The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.
It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,
And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all.
And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink,
And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think."
And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor,
The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more.
O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way—
All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, 
And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite,
My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine
Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair,
They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air.
The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew,
O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew!

VIII. ? SONG. ? TO SICKNESS.     To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ?     Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,And this age will build no more.     'Pray thee, feed contented then,     Sickness, only on us men ;     Or if it needs thy lust will taste     Woman-kind ; devour the waste     Livers, round about the town. But, forgive me, ? with thy crown They maintain the truest trade,10    Daintiness, and softer ease,     Sleeked limbs, and finest blood ?     If thy leanness love such food,     There are those, that for thy sake,     Do enough ; and who would take     Any pains : yea, think it price,     To become thy sacrifice.     That distill, their husbands' land    Lying for the spirit of amber.     That for the oil of talc dare spend     More than citizens dare lend     Them, and all their officers.     That to make all pleasure theirs,     Will by coach, and water go,     Every stew in town to know ;     Dare entail their loves on any,    Play away health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve ; And will long, ere thou should'st starve, On their beds, most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest suit, In thy justice to molest None but them, and leave the rest.
Ladies, and of them the best? Do not men enow of rights To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ?     Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,

 Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.

And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"

Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."

Then, for further comprehension 
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--

How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.

These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.

None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.

Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.

I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.

For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.

Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.

Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.

Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.

 We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
 With its best foot first
 And the road a-sliding past,
 An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
 While the Big Drum says,
 With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" --
 "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"*

* Why don't you get on?

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
 While it's best foot first, . . .

At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
 An' it's best foot first, . . .

Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,
An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,
An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,
An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.*
 An' it's best foot first, . . .


* Language. Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.

It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
 Till it's best foot first, . . .

So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
 For it's best foot first, . . .

We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,
Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
 With its best foot first
 And the road a-sliding past,
 An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
 While the Big Drum says,
 With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" --
 "Kiko kissywarsti don't you amsher argy jow?"

 Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell.
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

 OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev’ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involvèd others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us;
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
There’s not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
 And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!

 Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

I

Dunna thee tell me its his'n, mother,
      Dunna thee, dunna thee.
--Oh ay! he'll be comin' to tell thee his-sèn
      Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
      He's gone wi that--
--My gel, owt'll do for a man i' the dark,
      Tha's got it flat.

But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year
      Older nor him--
--Ay, an' yaller as a crowflower, an' yet i' the dark
      Er'd do for Tim.

Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
      It's somebody's lies.
--Ax him thy-sèn wench--a widder's lodger;
      It's no surprise.


II

A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha' 'ticed a lad o' twenty-five
An' 'im to have been took in!

A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till 'er's tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an' 'is wife!

A widow of forty-five.
A tough old otchel wi' long
Witch teeth, an' 'er black hawk-eyes as I've
Mistrusted all along!

An' me as 'as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an' new an' nice, so's when
He wed he'd ha'e summat good!

An' 'im as nice an' fresh
As any man i' the force,
To ha'e gone an' given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!


III

You're stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
    Are you makin' Brinsley way?
--I'm off up th' line to Underwood
    Wi' a dress as is wanted to-day.

Oh are you goin' to Underwood?
    'Appen then you've 'eered?
--What's that as 'appen I've 'eered-on, Missis,
    Speak up, you nedna be feared.

Why, your young man an' Widow Naylor,
    Her as he lodges wi',
They say he's got her wi' childt; but there,
    It's nothing to do wi' me.

Though if it's true they'll turn him out
    O' th' p'lice force, without fail;
An' if it's not true, I'd back my life
    They'll listen to _her_ tale.

Well, I'm believin' no tale, Missis,
    I'm seein' for my-sen;
An' when I know for sure, Missis,
    I'll talk _then_.


IV

Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
    Sit noddin' thy head at me;
My breast's as red as thine, I reckon,
    Flayed red, if tha could but see.

Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
    You nedna screet at me!
I'm screetin' my-sen, but are-na goin'
    To let iv'rybody see.

Tha _art_ smock-ravelled, bunny,
    Larropin' neck an' crop
I' th' snow: but I's warrant thee, bunny,
    _I'm_ further ower th' top.


V

Now sithee theer at th' railroad crossin'
Warmin' his-sen at the stool o' fire
Under the tank as fills the ingines,
If there isn't my dearly-beloved liar!

My constable wi' 'is buttoned breast
As stout as the truth, my sirs!--An' 'is face
As bold as a robin! It's much he cares
For this nice old shame and disgrace.

Oh but he drops his flag when 'e sees me,
Yes, an' 'is face goes white ... oh yes
Tha can stare at me wi' thy fierce blue eyes,
But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!


VI

Whativer brings thee out so far
    In a' this depth o' snow?
--I'm takin' 'ome a weddin' dress
    If tha maun know.

Why, is there a weddin' at Underwood,
    As tha ne'd trudge up here?
--It's Widow Naylor's weddin'-dress,
    An' 'er's wantin it, I hear.

_'Er_ doesna want no weddin-dress ...
    What--but what dost mean?
--Doesn't ter know what I mean, Tim?--Yi,
    Tha must' a' been hard to wean!

Tha'rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;
    But tell me, isn't it true
As 'er'll be wantin' _my_ weddin' dress
    In a week or two?

Tha's no occasions ter ha'e me on
    Lizzie--what's done is done!
--_Done_, I should think so--Done! But might
    I ask when tha begun?

It's thee as 'as done it as much as me,
    Lizzie, I tell thee that.
--"Me gotten a childt to thy landlady--!"
    Tha's gotten thy answer pat,

As tha allers hast--but let me tell thee
    Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I
Was a'most burstin' mad o' my-sen
    An' walkin' in agony;

After thy kisses, Lizzie, after
    Tha's lain right up to me Lizzie, an' melted
Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,
    Till I was verily swelted.

An' if my landlady seed me like it,
    An' if 'er clawkin', tiger's eyes
Went through me just as the light went out
    Is it any cause for surprise?

No cause for surprise at all, my lad,
    After lickin' and snuffin' at me, tha could
Turn thy mouth on a woman like her--
    Did ter find her good?

Ay, I did, but afterwards
    I should like to ha' killed her!
--Afterwards!--an' after how long
    Wor it tha'd liked to 'a killed her?

Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,
    I might lose my-sen.
--I'll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,
    An' gi'e her thee back again.

I'll ta'e thy word 'Good-bye,' Liz,
    But I shonna marry her,
I shonna for nobody.--It is
    Very nice on you, Sir.

The childt maun ta'e its luck, it maun,
    An' she maun ta'e _her_ luck,
For I tell ye I shonna marry her--
    What her's got, her took.

That's spoken like a man, Timmy,
    That's spoken like a man ...
"He up an' fired off his pistol
    An' then away he ran."

I damn well shanna marry 'er,
    So chew at it no more,
Or I'll chuck the flamin' lot of you--
    --You nedn't have swore.


VII

That's his collar round the candle-stick
An' that's the dark blue tie I bought 'im,
An' these is the woman's kids he's so fond on,
An' 'ere comes the cat that caught 'im.

I dunno where his eyes was--a gret
Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think
Of him stoopin' to her! You'd wonder he could
Throw hisself in that sink.

I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!
    --Who yer are?--yis, you're Lizzie Stainwright.
'An 'appen you might guess what I've come for?
    --'Appen I mightn't, 'appen I might.

You knowed as I was courtin' Tim Merfin.
    --Yis, I knowed 'e wor courtin' thee.
An' yet you've been carryin' on wi' him.
    --Ay, an' 'im wi' me.

Well, now you've got to pay for it,
    --An' if I han, what's that to thee?
For 'e isn't goin' to marry you.
    --Is it a toss-up 'twixt thee an' me?

It's no toss-up 'twixt thee an' me.
    --Then what art colleyfoglin' for?
I'm not havin' your orts an' slarts.
    --Which on us said you wor?

I want you to know 'e's non _marryin'_ you.
    --Tha wants 'im thy-sen too bad.
Though I'll see as 'e pays you, an' comes to the scratch.
    --Tha'rt for doin' a lot wi' th' lad.


VIII

To think I should ha'e to haffle an' caffle
    Wi' a woman, an' pay 'er a price
For lettin' me marry the lad as I thought
    To marry wi' cabs an' rice.

But we'll go unbeknown to the registrar,
    An' give _'er_ what money there is,
For I won't be beholden to such as her
    For anythink of his.


IX

Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,
    An' come wi' me in here,
Ta'e off thy p'lice-man's helmet
    An' look me clear.

I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,
    I do, an' that I do!
For whenever I look thee i' th' face, I s'll see
    Her face too.

I wish tha could wesh 'er off'n thee,
    For I used to think that thy
Face was the finest thing that iver
    Met my eye....


X

Twenty pound o' thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha'e I,
Thine shall go to pay the woman, an' wi' my bit we'll buy
All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,
An' we'll be married at th' registrar--now lift thy face.

Lift thy face an' look at me, man, up an' look at me:
Sorry I am for this business, an' sorry if I ha'e driven thee
To such a thing: but it's a poor tale, that I'm bound to say,
Before I can ta'e thee I've got a widow of forty-five to pay.

Dunnat thee think but what I love thee--I love thee well,
But 'deed an' I wish as this tale o' thine wor niver my tale to tell;
Deed an' I wish as I could stood at the altar wi' thee an' been proud
o' thee,
That I could ha' been first woman to thee, as thou'rt first man to me.

But we maun ma'e the best on't--I'll rear thy childt if 'er'll yield
it to me,
An' then wi' that twenty pound we gi'e 'er I s'd think 'er wunna be
So very much worser off than 'er wor before--An' now look up
An' answer me--for I've said my say, an' there's no more sorrow to sup.

Yi, tha'rt a man, tha'rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes
As sulky an' ormin' as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise
From what I've arranged wi' thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou
art,
Kiss me then--there!--ne'er mind if I scraight--I wor fond o' thee,
Sweetheart.