Long Surrey Poems
Long Surrey Poems. Below are the most popular long Surrey by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Surrey poems by poem length and keyword.
He made no move at all
As the alarm clock went off.
But ten minutes later,
It was obvious he was awake.
He lifted himself out of bed
And went towards the bathroom.
He shaved himself
With a Gillette Techmatic
After having sploshed himself
With a double handful
Of icy cold water.
He washed again, dried his face,
Put on some Monsieur de Gauviche
And got dressed.
He wore a Brutus shirt,
A Tonik suit and a pair of
Shiny brown boots.
He was six foot two,
And he smoked sixty Players
Medium Navy Cut cigarettes
A day, and he lit each one
With a Ronson lighter.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
He was immaculate,
Wore long sideboards
And a long moustache,
And his hair was shortish
And well-combed.
His shirt was light blue,
And he wore a dark blue tie.
He wore two rings on each hand.
He washed himself
After his usual breakfast
Of toast, black coffee and health pills.
He cleaned his teeth thoroughly,
Put some more cologne on,
And then went to do
His isometrics.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was born in London in 1940.
He went to Eton and Oxford,
Had taught at Oxford for eight years
But was sacked.
He had been an Oxford Rowing Blue,
And got a degree in English, Art and History.
His father was Lord Alfred Hardin, M.P.
Titus loved teaching,
And not many people know the reason
For his dismissal at the age of thirty one.
He was nearly expelled from Eton
For smoking, drinking,
And being head of a secret society
With secret oaths, but he was
Too promising a sportsman,
And all the boys respected him
As a prefect.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
His flat was beautifully furnished.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest wardrobe in London.
(This jackadandy's original title was "An Essay Written by a Guy Who Was Too Lazy to Finish It", and it dates from my mid-teens.)
I watched as the old train chugged heavily up the hill.
Puffing and puffing the smoke completely shadowing J. Gastons’ saw and
paper mill.
Then I saw what looked to be another train coming down from around the bend.
Some one needed to stop them but what kind of message could I send.
The one going up the hill was still chugging slow while the other was running full
gear.
Well I started shouting to the top of my lungs but no one could hear.
I knew what was fixing to happen and I couldn’t bear to look.
Then I heard the awful sound of crashing metal as they both fell tangled into
Gastons Brook.
It was a good half a mile I ran hoping somehow I could maybe help or lend a
helping hand.
The site when I arrived was more than I could stand.
I don’t think there could be any survivors they went in the deepest part right next to
the dam.
The water was icy cold and there came old Cooter being pulled by his old dog
that they called Go On Scram.
Well I got down to the shore and helped pull Cooter to dry land.
He looked fairly good except you could see he broke his hand.
I asked him if he thought anybody else might still be alive.
He said I don’t see how anybody in the front could possibly survive.
I got a fire a going and tried to get him warm.
I knew the townfolk would be coming cause I heard the church bell ring its
alarm.
Here comes Jackie Collins followed by Dr. Lemuel White.
Well he set Old Cooters hand right there on the site.
We helped him up to Doc Whites surrey and they drove him back to the old
depot.
And he hollered to me to find Go On Scram before I was to go.
Well I found Old Scram at the waters shore.
I called to him but I’m afraid Old Scram can’t hear me anymore.
I picked him up and carried him all the way back to old Coot.
Coot asked me if I’d help bury him down by the track, said Scram loved to hear
that ole whistle toot.
We said goodbye to old Scram that night.
Sixty five years later and I still see that frightful sight.
Well that’s the story that happened there down by Gastons mill.
The wreck that I can’t forget that happened on that hill.
R.R.Bingham
5 down..for just 84..what do you do.. try and survive..shut the door..or instead more hardcore jive...out on the lash ..go to town..
On his way to 184..borrowed the crown from the real deal surreal cartwheel Panto clown..smash down the door..
Red hot..bespoke with the oak..smoking..old school Ben Stoking..first ball stroking for four..
Robin Hoods with the wood..forget Bazball..score quick..this is rabbit out of a hat trick Bazbat…the latest riff…
Smith so svelte..helter skelter..velvet belter..decided with his tintin quiff..to go.. well biff..Indian tiff..felt..smelt.. the tangy twang pang..dealt a dashing dollop of crashing flashing banging wallop..
Every Test tragic.. loving how Jamie and his magic torch did scorch..the run reaper..nearly took number one spot with the fastest ton..still got..the highest ever Test score for an England keeper..and only 24..
Let's rant…about Smith and Pant..the Gilly God above giving his nod..the Wizard of Oz..Lord of the willow sword..showing his love..for the zen of the men or bruvs with the glove..
The notorious adored odd bod panto Pant.. and his brother from another mother..glorious
Smudge not giving a fudge..not just giving the scoreboard a nudge but an almighty Blighty budge..
Smith's sublime partner in crime… dirty flirty Harry also got them shirty with some barnstorming performing..
A nifty pretty shifty 150..as north..met south..our poise boys..from the Republic and Surrey..hitting not just a flurry but a slurry of runs in a hurry..
Will give them some slack..but if there has been a faint Bazbat taint..always having a crack..all out attack..a lack of that knack of restraint..no looking back..artists with only one way to paint..
Willing to adapt and change..us fans rapt..still immense offense but with more defence..alright common sense ..
Smith and Brook wasn't an..off their trolley volley folly..the way they played..slayed and flayed.. by golly made sure the Hollies..still held sway..eased their dismay and stayed jolly..
Won't pretend ..was always only one way this was going to end..
Jamie.. Jamie..Jamie and his magic torch..
And Margarita holds her mother's sleeve
as she's lead toward the waiting surrey ride.
El Segundo with reins of bays doth weave
to find a space at colonnade's near side.
"I've never seen him misbehave, Segundo. Are you sure about this thing?"
"I don't use a tight rein, Patron."
Don Hernandez became indignant. "Nor do I, Diego Silva. If you're worried---."
"I didn't mean any disrespect, Alcalde. Please forgive me. I'm deeply honored
your Excellency's chosen my Bravo to ride."
"I'll take care of your animal, Diego Silva. Don't think he'll be arrogantly abused."
"Your Excellency," Don Huerra spoke for his foreman, "Segundo's only
thinking of your safety. He didn't mean you ride with a high hand. Please Sir,
ride my horse. I can tell you with absolute assurance he'll give you no trouble."
Dona Rose had enough of such talk. She swung her green taffeta skirt out of
the way preparing to step up into the surrey. "Oh, get on him Jose," she said
agitatedly. "Let's go home. Do you want us all to get soaking wet? It's
foolishness you want to go to the harbor on such a day as this. No doubt you'll
ruin your best suit. Let's get on with it!" Don Huerra quickly helped obese lady into
the carriage. He moved to help Margarita. She gave her hand to her father.
"I don't worry for you, father," she said stepping lightly up. "Ride Bravo. It'll
show people I have a real vaquero for a father."
Don Jose smiled at daughter in affection. "You understand me very well, Margarita.
I know my brother envies me for having such a daughter as you."
Quietly she spoke to her father so that no one could hear. "My Uncle Miquel
loves me too, father. But I don't think mother does. She shouldn't have
sent me away. Promise me if things don't go right at Peralta that I can live
with Uncle Miquel."
"I know there are differences between you and your mother, Margarita. If it
comes to that and Miquel is willing, I'm willing."
Margarita threw her arms around her father's neck. She kissed in on the
cheek, whispering in his ear, " my uncle's not the only one I love."
Lord Denis Healey was an intellectual Labour MP,
Who represented Leeds in the Commons for 40 years,
From 1952 until 1992,
When he could at last objectify as a Lord his real tears.
He was a Beach Master hero in World War Two,
But his bravery continued in his post-war politics,
When he advised other politicians on how Britain could,
Live within her means to become again productive, good.
He was then Secretary of State for Defence,
Between 1964 and 1970,
When the Cold War so frightened and intimidated the many,
Who just wanted their war victory respected in reverence.
When he became the Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1976,
He demanded an emergency loan from the IMF,
To save the pound from decline and most certain collapse,
When Britain was fast approaching that Winter of Discontent, lapse.
However, after that Labour did not see power until 1997,
But Healey became the Deputy Labour leader in 1980;
And for most of the 80s he was Shadow Foreign Secretary,
And was slow at Falkland Island assault and battery.
He was normally on the right of the Labour party,
A patriot who championed social justice,
Who guided us through some very dangerous times,
Where the country’s growing pains were his signs.
He’s the last surviving member of the cabinet,
Of Harold Willson’s government in 1964,
But when he graduated from Balliol Oxford in Greats,
Him and the Communist Party were pally mates.
He had a love of classical music,
But was enthused and besotted by poetry;
Shakespeare and Wordsworth were his philosophers,
And Blake and Butler Yeats he always did glorify.
Denis Healey died aged 98 at his home in Surrey on the 3rd of October 2015
Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly,
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
like a zomb;
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through.
(There's a twilight mood to "Lone Birthday Boy Dancing" - almost certainly drafted in diary form on 8 October 1992, or perhaps a year earlier - with the birthday boy performing his Dionysian solo dance in defiance of the wholesale ruin of mind, body and soul he's so obviously invoking.)
Prologue
Abandoned and in disrepair the mansion
Is dark now; a story behind every stanchion.
An unwitting monument to a way of life,
Since foreclosed through bloody civil strife.
Antebellum
The hush of summer evenings cued the trilling
(Fiddled on hind legs accompanied by warty pouches)
Chorus; pierced only by the discordant creaking
Of unseen stairs rising to the house slave's quarters
Portending the disquiet of antebellum martyrs.
Wittiness trees attest in angles and chains
To the master's grid and shade the lanes
For the surrey whose wheels rutted the gateway
(Become artifacts) en route to soirées of gaiety.
The prairie land, violated by steel and condescension
To the roots of its towering grasses and purple gentian,
Forced to nourish seeds of an alien flora for hempen
Riches, patiently awaits its day of redemption.
Bricks of fertile earth fired over an Osage hearth,
By chattel hands, in mortise and tenons, gave birth
To a mansion at the prelude of a moral sea-change
That would divide the nation and break its chains.
Current Era
Their lives deprived of enslaved labor, the once-lived
Voices ebbed a little as each generation removed.
Shrouded in leaves of time they are a mute bequeath
Indelibly recorded upon the stories that lie beneath.
Dreamer boy speak for them now. Sing for bluestem that switched
Against the sky nourishing the thundering herds that provisioned
Native tribes. Rage for those hobbled to sow but never to reap,
Weep for a Nation gone mad and seeds planted too deep.
Reflections after touring an abandoned antebellum mansion.
Copyright Paul M Thomson September 2011.
Nuggety nudger & nurdler
Thorpey did embody
Epitomise, personify Test Cricket
Someone small standing tall
Reliant defiant giant but
Fragile and flawed
Did he know he was adored?
Cricket was his safe place
In the 90's nadir
Thorpey gave us solace
Succour..grace & cheer
Resilience & Brilliance
Beacon of light
Shining bright hark back
Dancing in the dark
Having a lark on
That Karachi night
Thorpey had the class
To topple Murali & Vaas
Wasim..king of swing & seam
Said he was best
Test southpaw he ever saw
Thorpey was really that good
Do you think he understood?
With the wood..own
Homegrown Robin Hood
Heroic & stoic raid
Stellar superstars slayed
Who plied their trade
During a golden generation.
Thorpey inspired and fired
Our salvation, resurrection
Regeneration as a cricketing nation
It doesn't get much bloody better than that!
Remember it was still ours!
No chagrin at the paywall
Mandarin sins appall
No red ball for us all.
Surrey & Lions Test legend
Rasping Demons descend
Grasping at the end
Gasping..quite simply
We lost a friend!
Not a toff from
The rank & file
Working class pass
No faff or fuss
Like us, one of us, the best of us
We cooed as he wooed us with the bat
That style to beguile trait..
Gratitude for the plenitude of fortitude
Attitude..gumption at every latitude he imbued
Hat do doff...a true first rate great
Touched, tickled & tinged by genius
Love you Thorpey..rest in power mate
The Great Bell of Bow
I feel such a Steam Tug and no Porkies
Some Tea Leaf Half Inched me Jam jar
In me local Nuclear Sub you wouldn’t Christmas Eve it
Almost totally Boracic on the way to me Pope in Rome
It’s Radio Rental I was just havin a George Raft
A nice Beggar Boys Ass such a lovely Pigs Ear
I only popped out for a quick Gypsies
Not even time to upset me Chalfonts
Me I’d Raspberry n Ripple em
But no leave it to the Bottle and Stoppers
Called Uncle Wilf he just showed me the Henry Moore
Forced to use a Sherbet Dab to get to me Mickey Mouse
I hope the Barnaby or the Garden Gate does em
If not up in Ding Dong or blessed with Surrey Docks
There all covered in Dudleys and end up Hank Marvin
The J Arthur Rankers
Cockney Rhyming Slang
Steam Tug – Mug – fool- idiot
Porkies(pork Pies) – lies
Tea leaf – thief
Jam Jar- Car
Half inched – pinched – stole
Nuclear Sub -pub
Christmas Eve it – believe it
Boracic (lint) –skint- no money
Pope in Rome – home
Radio Rental – mental-a silly situation
George Raft – a draught beer
Beggar Boys Ass – Bass beer (from Burton)
Pigs Ear – beer
Gypsies (kiss) - *iss
Chalfont (St Giles) – piles –haemorrhoids (sorry about that)
Raspberry and Ripple – cripple
Bottle and Stoppers - coppers
Uncle Wilf – filth –Police (sorry about that as well)
Henry Moore - door
Sherbet Dab – cab
Mickey Mouse – house
Barnaby (Rudge) – judge
Garden Gate – Magistrate
Ding Dong (Bell) – Hell
Surrey Docks – the pox
Dudley (Moore’s) - sores
Hank Marvin – starving
The J Arthur Rankers – *ankers
Form:
The Great Bell of Bow
I feel such a Steam Tug and no Porkies
Some Tea Leaf Half Inched me Jam jar
In me local Nuclear Sub you wouldn’t Christmas Eve it
Almost totally Boracic on the way to the Pope in Rome
It’s Radio Rental I was just havin a George Raft
A nice Beggar Boys Ass such a lovely Pigs Ear
I only popped out for a quick Gypsies
Not even time to upset me Chalfonts
Me I’d Raspberry n Ripple em
But no leave it to the Bottle and Stoppers
Called Uncle Wilf he just showed me the Henry Moore
Forced to use a Sherbet Dab to get to me Mickey Mouse
I hope the Barnaby or the Garden Gate does em
If not up in Ding Dong or blessed with Surrey Docks
There all covered in Dudleys and end up Hank Marvin
The J Arthur Rankers
Cockney Rhyming Slang
Steam Tug – Mug (fool- idiot)
Porkies(pork Pies) – lies
Tea leaf – thief
Half inched – pinched (stole)
Nuclear Sub -pub (public house)
Christmas Eve it – believe it
Boracic (lint) –skint (no money)
Pope in Rome – home
Radio Rental – mental (a silly situation)
George Raft – a draught beer
Beggar Boys Ass – Bass beer (from Burton)
Pigs Ear – beer
Gypsies (kiss) - piss (sorry about that)
Chalfonts (St Giles) – piles –haemorrhoids (sorry about that!)
Raspberry and Ripple – cripple
Bottle and Stoppers - coppers
Uncle Wilf – filth –Police (sorry about that as well!)
Henry Moore - door
Sherbet Dab – cab
Mickey Mouse – house
Barnaby (Rudge) – judge
Garden Gate – Magistrate
Ding Dong (Bell) – Hell
Surrey Docks – the pox
Dudley (Moore’s) - sores
Hank Marvin – starving
The J Arthur Rankers – (w)ankers (very sorry about that!)