cheddar cheese
Major General
Too long for a poem 
Poetry!
- Thread starter SpitfireKing
- Start date
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Yeah short ones are better. Here is one most should recognise (it is one of my favourites).
Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
lesofprimus
Brigadier General
I can hear balls shriveling all across the board because of this thread....
the lancaster kicks ass
Major General
- 19,937
- Dec 20, 2003
surely the ability to discuss peotry and the arts will show us to be cultured and educated, thus impressing women, thus making it manly?
lesofprimus
Brigadier General
Matt308
Glock Perfection
HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.......XHDGDFL:SJDFOLJSHFLOHSFDOHSFalkdfkljdfkdkd...... 
- Thread starter
- #67
SpitfireKing
Airman 1st Class
AWWW SH*T! I THINK MY C**K JUST SHRIVELED UP AND DIED!
- Thread starter
- #68
SpitfireKing
Airman 1st Class
I've got three things women like in a guy.
!. Can cook
2. Can sing
3. Can write
cheddar cheese
Major General
Ive also got 3 things women like in a guy, however this is a family forum for all ages and I am unable to mention them...
Matt308
Glock Perfection
Man. Who started this testosterone thread... 
joebong
Airman
A small excerpt from a latrine at Moffat field U.S.A.F.
Mei cong sailor sitten in the stern, thinks his sam pam doesn't burn, F*#@ing gooksll never learn. Napalm sticks to kids.
V.C. huddled in a jungle pit, or a mother with baby at her tit, Dow chemical doesn't give a s$*. Napalm sticks to kids.
I know its awfully coarse, so please forgive if it offends. Just thought I'd pass it along.
Mei cong sailor sitten in the stern, thinks his sam pam doesn't burn, F*#@ing gooksll never learn. Napalm sticks to kids.
V.C. huddled in a jungle pit, or a mother with baby at her tit, Dow chemical doesn't give a s$*. Napalm sticks to kids.
I know its awfully coarse, so please forgive if it offends. Just thought I'd pass it along.
- Thread starter
- #72
SpitfireKing
Airman 1st Class
Hey oh well.
- Thread starter
- #73
SpitfireKing
Airman 1st Class
Well, I think it is time to bring this back. It died, and yet shall live anew....hopefully....
I'm just going to place a poem here and then I suppose we can continue on from there?
"There has been a hell, wrathful vengeance on the shallow grave,
People see truth in the yes of the beholder, show me the truth, show me the yelling blissful vengeance, hate me, love me, I do not care.
Oh lord, I'm blathering again…"
I wanted to write but I forgot what I wanted to say so I blathered...
I'm just going to place a poem here and then I suppose we can continue on from there?
"There has been a hell, wrathful vengeance on the shallow grave,
People see truth in the yes of the beholder, show me the truth, show me the yelling blissful vengeance, hate me, love me, I do not care.
Oh lord, I'm blathering again…"
I wanted to write but I forgot what I wanted to say so I blathered...
BikerBabe
Senior Master Sergeant
1. Cool.
2. Aw, shut up man, and start cleaning up the house instead!
3. Yeah, but can he read, too???
...not just balls...ARGH!
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
So this is dusted off I see....cool! Maybe Dan care to show some of his more sensitive and poetic side.
A4K
Brigadier General
Two I saw on toilet walls back in NZ:
The Sh!thouse poet will never die,
A monument will be built to the sky.
A tribute to his brilliant wit,
A statue made of solid sh!t.
Some come here to sit and think,
Others come to sh!t and stink.
I just come to read the walls,
Sit on my arse and scratch my balls.
And one from Roger Waters (of Pink Floyd):
Moslem or Christian,
Mullah or Pope.
Preacher or poet,
Who was it wrote
Give any species too much rope,
And they'll f*ck it up.
The Sh!thouse poet will never die,
A monument will be built to the sky.
A tribute to his brilliant wit,
A statue made of solid sh!t.
Some come here to sit and think,
Others come to sh!t and stink.
I just come to read the walls,
Sit on my arse and scratch my balls.
And one from Roger Waters (of Pink Floyd):
Moslem or Christian,
Mullah or Pope.
Preacher or poet,
Who was it wrote
Give any species too much rope,
And they'll f*ck it up.
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
"Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafairing soul,
if either your sails or your rudder be broken,
you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.
For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining;
and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction."
if either your sails or your rudder be broken,
you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.
For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining;
and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction."
- Thread starter
- #78
SpitfireKing
Airman 1st Class
That works well Lucky,
Emily Dickinson:
"I LIKE a look of agony,
Because I know it 's true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death. 5
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung"
Emily Dickinson:
"I LIKE a look of agony,
Because I know it 's true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death. 5
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung"
diddyriddick
Staff Sergeant
Thought I'd add a couple...
Gunga Din
Rudyard Kipling
You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Gunga Din
Rudyard Kipling
You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
diddyriddick
Staff Sergeant
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Dr. McRae wrote this poem to commemorate the loss of his friend Lt. Alexis Helmer who was killed at the second battle of Ypres. He was hit by a direct hit by a German 8" shell.
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Dr. McRae wrote this poem to commemorate the loss of his friend Lt. Alexis Helmer who was killed at the second battle of Ypres. He was hit by a direct hit by a German 8" shell.
