"englishmen" poems
From the French of François Villon
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they then?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yester-year?
9.1k
By A Foreigner
I like Americans.
They are so unlike Canadians.
They do not take their policemen seriously.
They come to Montreal to drink.
Not to criticize.
They claim they won the war.
But they know at heart that they didn't.
They have such respect for Englishmen.
They like to live abroad.
They do not brag about how they take baths.
But they take them.
Their teeth are so good.
And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.
I wish they didn't brag about it.
They have the second best navy in the world.
But they never mention it.
They would like to have Henry Ford for president.
But they will not elect him.
They saw through Bill Bryan.
They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.
Their men have such funny hair cuts.
They are hard to **** in on Europe.
They have been there once.
They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.
And Jiggs.
They do not hang lady murderers.
They put them in vaudeville.
They read the Saturday Evening Post
And believe in Santa Claus.
When they make money
They make a lot of money.
They are fine people.
6.3k
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* here
in all the pots of beer
this *******
is really quite queer
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* on the verandah chairs
******* everywhere
******* without a care
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* up and down town
******* all around
even in the dog pound
*******
*******
*******
what's that you spray?
I mean say
the sky is *******
yeah! the sky is *******
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
it swamped all the Englishmen
and drowned Big Ben
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
Easily the best remedy
Ailments and sorrow washed away
Restored inner vitality
Liquid aromatherapy
Golden tea bergamont infuse
Relax, enjoy, repeat at will
Englishmen at 5 won't refuse
You can be sure I will not spill
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
The Italian coast is a dangerous place for an American
Its full of sharks, so I’ve heard.
Englishmen consider the wogs chums
Americans more as the singular
With a hat from Chile,
pants assembled in Mexico,
and bananas grown in Venezuela,
The whole seems to be lesser than its parts.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Eleven strong went in to bat
When dusk was in the air,
Eleven strong did face the wall
For others had shown flair.
They'd mustered up a goodly score
They’d shown they had pinache,
They'd demolished Tunnel bowling
And made our field work look a hash.
Eleven strong went into bat
With gritted teeth and ire,
Eleven set the pitch alight
With galantry and fire.
The leather ball was massacred
A pounding it did score
With repetitious boundaries,
Drilled cover drives and more.
The marker looked excited
The sweat ran down his brow
And as the score did level
He had to ask the Angels how?
And the providences shone
Upon this galant Tunnel team
For Claude's classy, deft square cut
Ensured we grinned the winning gleam.
Cricket is to Englishmen
As golfing is to Yanks,
And cricket played with pageantry
Make the civilized give thanks.
And cricket played with elegance
Fills the English heart with joy,
And Victoria Park Tunnel Team
Have downed an ale to victory's ploy!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
Auckland
17/2/2010
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
I wanted to speak of his powers
As King preached for liberty
The world seems to know of legends and Englishmen behind platforms
of heroes and villains on stages
and maybe of some med students explaining how unprotected *** leads to ***
But tongues have not yet spoken of his rampant ability
to be a beacon and a tempest
how he could raze and raise
abate and abet
I wanted to tell them
Why the soil recall his footsteps
And the leaves hiss as he exhales
But he dresses in polyester and he even walks unmasked
Everyone speaks of anarchism and GMOs
Then fetch a beer and watch the football game on live stream
I wonder if roses are cowards which embrace their raspy thorns
But then I remember how I would grasp you in a heartbeat
And I wanted to tell the world of your powers
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
All Understanding uncovers
ugliness, usury.
Unifying utopians
uncorruptable,
unmoveable.
Dashing Prophets promoted
promiscuous personalities.
Promethus’s powers
persisted
purposelessness.
Do Postmodern proletariats
protest phantoms?
Puckering proudly,
pondering
paraphrases?
If Egyptians engineered
excessive egoists,
Englishmen evolved
ethical
endgames.
Tradition Rules reformed
rednecks, remobilizing,
romanticizing, recursions
rose
remarkably.
If Caesar costumed
cabals crafted carefully,
Christianity calibrated
circumferential
conflicts.
Vigilantism Unveils unlucky
usurper, undoes underachieving,
unemotional, unconsciousness
unlearning
unhumanness.
Every Tadpole’s talents
triumphs titan’s tricks
tip toeing
towards
truth.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
I would be in heaven,
if I have the style of David Niven.
Or the voice of George Sanders.
I would be in heaven,
if I had the comedic style of Benny Hill.
It would be a delight.
It would be a thrill.
To have the qualities of these Englishmen.
I been in heaven,
if I could play the guitar of Eric Clapton.
Or the theatric of **** Jagger.
Say, what you want?
He knows how to thrill a crowd.
Not once, will you not see them going wild.
Even the gent Peter O' Toole was the best of the cool.
Same, with the great actor Michael Caine.
And it never could be a hurting to not be Richard Burton.
Who had style and grace?
Dalton, Moore and Connery, all contributed a personal style to James Bond.
And , even this man named Daniel Craig.
Not to over look Pierce Bronsnan.
It's something about the guys of the United Kingdom.
We see coolness even in Prince Charles.
Whom probably learn this from his lovely mom.
Notice, the way ladie admires Hugh Jackman.
Only, if I had these gents accent.
I probably could try to fake it.
Except, who woud I be fooling?
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
*philosophy: and yes, we all believed in the insane asylum in the first place... at least the theists are suicidal... the atheists are hanging-on, mundane boors... listening to atheists is like listening to someone trying to erradicate the thesaurus... like someone trying to sharpen a staff... atheism is case of: stoppage of synonyms... because no philosophy book i've read invokes grammatical words, i.e. nouns, verbs... no argument in this direction is cool... the *** knows Tai Chi... i'm just waiting for a ******* to say it's Chinese!*
and beyond the counter to worship,
the atheistic argument
is bound to a lot of talk and thought...
when atheism does do much away with
prayer...
then secularism does...
let's just say: acknowledge the idiot...
either pray... or think or talk
and subsequently acknowledge
that sort of ultimatum...
i can't agree on either pathos...
pray... or talk...
find enough Goebbels, and you'll
find enough like-minded manifestos
of Englishmen...
and esp. Jews attired as
such... cos you weren't gangraped enough.
if you were a friend of a friend... and a friend that
said: biology... via the pharaoh's gambit...
you still wouldn't
consecrate their friendship over a steak,
but you would.
atheists don't have an argument,
they still abide to arguing his existence,
by thinking about him, or talking about him,
prayer seems the most lazy escapism
to the caged compensated comparison,
given we're all caged...
and escapist... and bound to escapism...
you construct the pyramids!
you do!
a bunch of quasi intellectuals!
plainly stated: brick on brick!
you lay it down: down to: a word on word!
i can have an argument...
but i can't be even bothered to keep it...
it just gets boring after a while,
and given that i'm not keeping the argument
for a way to shove food down my mouth...
i just think atheism exists because
we have transcended so many natural obstacles...
personally? i'd rather hear a tsunami quake
than hear an atheist talk...
and that's because so few of us will have
the actual argument in this stratosphere...
since most of us will probably rather the thrill
of a tornado... than a **** on our daily commute...
even the Frankenstein monster will be more
attractive in experience than the roudabout of an atheist...
women are least likely to champion atheism...
might be a quest for feeling...
with all the pathology...
rather than that other quest for feeling:
apathy...
and that's really, truly, manly.
can we simply prescribe one label: i think?
no... evidently we need many more labels.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
Medical History
I believe it was Churchill who said
History is written by the victors
delivered, one imagines, dryly with
a dash of pith, an ounce or two of gin,
words clipped and formed in the space above
his derbied chalk hill dome from gathering
clouds of ominous blue cigar smoke,
veddy proper, tickety-boo and all
that rot. A life insurance policy
after all, read in a British accent
is boilerplate made sublime, all this
as I sit in the waiting room checking
off rows of little boxes, writing
my medical history, to be read
aloud in the event of my demise
by Englishmen; Bill Nighy on
the subject of my LDL levels,
Patrick Stewart breathing life into a
family penchant for colon cancer or
Gary Oldham giving a dignified
reading from the list of male fore-bearers
who’ve toppled headlong over the pale
clutching their chests. Perhaps Steve Coogan
or some surviving Python could coax a
chuckle at the expense of my total
hip replacement, snatching victory from
the jaws of inevitable defeat.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
I'm sitting outside my home in NDRI campus.
It is a place full of trees & plants and insects.
It is full of life and the natural ambience.
I sit on the bridge I hear many sounds.
The crickets are droning continually.
Are they celebrating the victory too?
The Indian national cricket team won.
They defeated the Englishmen in finals.
This tournament victory reminds of '83.
Kapil Dev led the men to victory that time.
It was really inspiring for the present team.
Interestingly, that event was also in England!
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
i brandished the inquisitive dream
and it flourished in the fading sunlight
like the fading glory of a dying empire
it spoke words of its own making
herald proclaiming loyalty to the house of windsor
it withdrew images from its ancient life
and spread them before me like a tapestry
full of the past splendor and beauty of king and country
of stalwart men of iron will striving against darkness
in a clash of steel and the roar of cannon
and the salty tears of the men who went to sea
conquer the seven seas that rise and fall to the words of a queen
its an englishmen's dream
dignified despair
tea and biscuits at a quarter past four
the queen's photograph hanging dusty but regal in the parlor
mad dogs and englishmen stand at the ready
at the gates of the empire
to keep safe the lords and ladies
to keep right the awesome might
of fine english blades
spilled blood on every continent
for king and country
just an englishmen's dream
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
To the greatest Englishmen I’ve ever known,
with thick skin quite like the strength of stone,
your charm has passed my comfort zone,
what a shame it is(not); we sleep alone.
Forced into writing a poem “on you,”
it sounds more like some type of odd goo.
I promise this poem is almost now through,
just swear to forget it by the time the day’s new.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
There they are again.
Or maybe they're different this time.
Different in looks at most.
Special brew in hand
they sit on the children's swings
watching the day go by.
I can't remember the last time
that I walked this way
and didn't see at least two of them
sitting on the swings,
hiding in the entrance to that small building
ruining what was a children's park.
Can't remember the last time
the playground didn't have empty
tinnies on the floor
and **** around the edges.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
*Goodbye Mr. Chips
England 1920
I’m well in my eighties now you see
The life of a school master was for me
Brookfield School is where I have been
A private school for the sons of Englishmen
I was a young man when I first came here
For years a stodgy boring bachelors life
Then in my middle age I met my darling wife
She brought me joy my heart’s desire
Having tea and scones beside our fire
She had the faculty eating from her hand
She got me noticed and life was grand
I became the head of these hallowed halls
A part of Brookfield like the walls
The boys all loved her she had such grace
As well as having the most pretty face
I think I was the happiest man on earth
Then I lost her as she was giving birth
All alone at Brookfield in my pain
Never to take a wife again
Then the war, the four horsemen rode once more
A war like nothing we had seen before
All my old students fought for the King
After Sunday chapel as hymns we would sing
I would read my boys names who gave everything
The war it stayed for several years
My eyes burned with the salty tears
To see my boys grown into young men
Dead in battle never to come home again
But the war ended and we survived
The sons of the fathers came to Brookfield alive
My years went by until I retired
Now I lie on my bed, my time expired
I hear them talking, outside my Door
Old Chips is Dying, it’s such a shame
He had no children to continue his name
But that’s not true.
I had a thousand little joys
And they were all my Brookfield boys*
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
Aliens disguised as Englishmen
proclaiming their right to be roast beef
and a Boers inalienable right to shoot at him
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
The song on loop
and yawn's a constant companion.
The bed invitingly soft and
the worn out cozy blanket.
A half finished cup of Joe
now gone cold
Picking it up not an option
for my lazy limbs,
Sleepish eyes carrying
Stone heavy eyelids
A caffeinated brain
Intoxicated with futuristic ideas'
Streams of probability
And possibilities
Running with Infinite paradoxes
The two eternal repellents'
Bookand iphone
Depicting angel and satan
One on each shoulders
Playing cold wars like
****** and Englishmen
With the hour of devil on clock
And Jesus on the lips
I slid into the eternity
Of pleasant thoughts
Of how to spend the next day
of my life.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 12:51 PM UTC
Give to me your old vagabond
Show me what side you’re on
Englishmen, weary and guileless
Or tannermen, charming and blessed
There’s no need for your splendour
When you believe in a saviour
Holding on to the sky
Wondering and answering, “why?"
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC