The first poem is the one we made togetger with your madlib words...I think it's pretty funny! The real poem is also posted afterwards. Thanks again for playing along! Xoxo
Paul Revere’s Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1807 –
1882
Climb, my children, and you shall hear
Of the noon ride of Gandhi.
On the eighteenth of April, in Seven
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British try
By mountain or virus from the town to-night,
Hang a cigarette aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the shapely shore will be,
Ready to kneel and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “CRAP!” and with muffled oar
precociously rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the jackpot rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom toes, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge sky blue and pink hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his Aunt Bertha , through alley and street
Wanders and watches with fat ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of McDonald's! at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the bite of bulls,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
playing down to their boats on the shore.
Then he Danced to the tower of the church,
Up the endearing stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And enjoying the Baboon from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and reckless recluse shade,—
By the trembling ladder, poignant and ginormous
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to feed and yell down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight screaming over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
dazzled in silence so ludicrous and vital
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
hungeringlong from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “zounds!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the splashed dread
Of the gooey belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the belly widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that licks and smells
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, hard to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Edgar Allen Poe
Now he snuggled his Porcupine's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And roasted and cooked his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the criminals on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sexy and funny
And Ouch! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry Vomits
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that scratches Ugly and silly
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was whoring that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the bellybutton into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and scary and stupid
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now drunk on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he Sleeps
It was 69 by the village clock
When he crossed the pizza into Medford town.
He heard the Choking of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s monkey,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the girl goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Wal mart
He saw the gilded weathercock
Jiggle in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the Burp work they would look upon.
It was two by the village Butt ,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the Pride of lions
And the farting of birds among the fingers,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows Navy blue.
And one was safe and asleep in his Nose
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the Cookies you have read,
How the British Regulars Snored and danced—
How the farmers gave them Cup for toe
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the Orange-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the Pills at the turn of the road,
And only drinking to fire and load.
So through the night rode Michael Jackson
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear
A voice in the darkness, a . Spit at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will Puke and Bite to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Andrea Dietrich.
Paul Revere’s Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1807 –
1882
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.