"footman" poems
Let us go, Oedipus, let me walk you
'Twixt towers reaching to heaven,
Where women are charged to be patient and perfect.
You will not stay upon your leash.
We walk through Mandalay, not Paris,
Where the women have no face.
'Tis but a siren of emergency
That sings to me.
What worth I am to you, Oedipus,
What worth am I to them?
When the footman holds my coat, and snickers,
What worth am I to them?
Every man is a piece of the continent!
She may love me for the dangers I have passed,
And I her that she did pity them,
But she cannot, now and forever.
And while the sun excludes me,
I am not them and they not I,
And the waters do not glisten,
She is their chattel and not mine.
I gaze upon her ornate face and sing,
Her eyes are pools of wonder that see me, and swing away.
I am older, I have sense,
Like Oedipus my King,
But when I see her ornate face
I very nearly sing.
After many lonely nights
In shirtsleeves and not silk,
I went to her, and said:
Here, take this silver, for my milk.
And she may have loved me once
But for my thought and sense,
I'm but a bumblebee today -
I left at some expense.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 6:04 AM UTC
Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
Cared for by servants to the number of four.
Now when she died there was silence in heaven
And silence at her end of the street.
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet—
He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
The dogs were handsomely provided for,
But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees—
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
4.5k
How wise I am to have instructed the butler
to instruct the first footman to instruct the second
footman to instruct the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and a
woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between
flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam,
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people
one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other
never forgetsam,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all right,
it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
2.9k
171
Wait till the Majesty of Death
Invests so mean a brow!
Almost a powdered Footman
Might dare to touch it now!
Wait till in Everlasting Robes
That Democrat is dressed,
Then prate about “Preferment”—
And “Station,” and the rest!
Around this quiet Courtier
Obsequious Angels wait!
Full royal is his Retinue!
Full purple is his state!
A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat
To such a Modest Clay
Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords”
Receives unblushingly!
1.8k
206
The Flower must not blame the Bee—
That seeketh his felicity
Too often at her door—
But teach the Footman from Vevay—
Mistress is “not at home”—to say—
To people—any more!
1.5k
The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.
The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’
The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.
The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’
She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’
She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.
Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’
She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Whats your problem with the way I live?
The story of man is always never ending
me n hastings just dropped some acid
here I go again
like sgt. Peppers I’m just experimenting.
Were lighting up the grass
here comes the world through eyes misunderstanding
But we’re just a generation misunderstood
Occupy all streets *****
this is our revolution
They say its all just evolution
uprising is just a way to stop prostitution
But ya no were all just part of this revolution of evolution
its always in season
the mass media fixation
on the problems of obamas nation.
You kno I say whats your problem with the way I live?
They say get an education
open your eyes to the beauty of a nation
We’re all just problem children
only stuck inside the hate of our lives left broken
So we drink a lot of beer
smoke a lot of ****
I’m not obamas footman
Ya but Were young and that’s our excuse
Don’t be a ******* hypocrite
your just like great britain
Whats to say its not just part of who we are
We’re all ****** up man
why can’t we all see it
I guess you have a problem with the way I live
You kno it doesn’t even exist
so I’m not getting in
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
*"The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived"
— From "Aunt Helen" by T.S. Eliot*
It's laugh-out-loud funny
how
one death
can change things.
If she were here
I'd blame
it
on a lifelong ill-
fascination with
Charlie McCarthy
or a hang-up
that's lingered since
the bourbon-scented Santa
invited me to sit.
At some point
you've got to
get back on the horse
though my levers
aren't so
easy to work
and, I better get
more
than a stuffed Pooh bear
out of this trip.
It's still-deep
water under the bridge
because
she's not.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Nobody knows where the Ragman goes
In the wee, small hours of the morn,
When he’s taken the dray with your rags away
Through the pin-point eye of a storm.
He came to stay while you were away
And your sister gave him your dress,
The one with the dreams and the bright sequins
Sewn in to the lace at the breast.
She said that you wouldn’t be needing it
Since your dreams have faded to dust,
When all those hundreds of bright sequins
Were dimmed, and turning to rust,
But the Ragman knew that he’d capture you
If he made away with your dreams,
And sits unpicking your party dress
With a razor blade at the seams.
Your sister Grace has a second face
That she turns when she’s not near you,
In a zealous, jealous and carping place
That she keeps well hidden from view,
For nobody gives her a second glance
While she schemes and dreams and plots,
To plant your beauty deep in the ground
With a host of forget-me-nots.
Don’t peer too long from the balcony,
Don’t stand too long at the edge,
She’s loosened the rail you lean upon
And thrown the bolt in the hedge,
A sudden rush and a simple push
Will send you a long way down,
While she prepares her look of despair
As they plant you there in the ground.
I’m only a menial footman here
But my love is stamped on my face,
I’m going to track the Ragman down
And bring him back to this place,
I’ve seen his dray by a cottage door
In the forest of chills and frost,
And seen the women he buys and sells
Who wander the forest, lost.
Your sister sips on a nightly draught
As she sits and watches the Moon,
Plotting to see the end of you,
I know that it’s coming soon.
I’ll drop a potion into her drink
And tie her up in a sack,
Then throw her up on the Ragman’s dray,
She’ll never be coming back.
He’ll take her deep in the forest there
To the caves of unshriven souls,
Then put her up on the auction block
And sell her to one of the trolls.
The bolt is back in the balcony rail
And the potion’s in her drink,
The Ragman’s dray is coming today
And your sister’s at the brink!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
Weary footman
Relax your vanities
Your possessions
They are mine
Leave hurriedly
Lest our minds
Also cross paths
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
A car arrives in the drive
and stops outside
the front door
all the servants are there
and George's parents
wait there all importantly
watching the car door
the chauffeur gets out
and opens the back door
and George back
from the hospital
for shell shock
gets out and puts a hand
over his forehead
to block out sunlight
then looks around the grounds
around the house
his mother steps forward
and takes his hand
welcome home George
she says
George stares at her
he nods but doesn't smile
he looks into the faces
of all those standing there
by the front door
as if amongst strangers
his father moves forward
and gently takes his son's arm
George moves forward uncertainly
his feet unsteady
his hands shaking slightly
his eyes move over the servants
wide and staring
then he stops
and points to Polly
Polly
he says softly
almost a mumble
she gazes at him
uncertain what to do
the mother looks at Polly
come help Polly
Master George recognizes you
and indicates
with her other hand
that she should come
so Polly walks
to George's side
and says nothing
but smiles at him
and he smiles back
we'll go to his room
the father says
a footman takes the bags
and follows George
and his parents and Polly
inside the house
and up the wide staircase
the other servants
including the butler Dudman
move away from the door
and go about their tasks
Dudman goes in
and stares at the party
walking upstairs slowly
and sighs
Polly has overstepped the line
as far as he is concerned
he'll have to watch her
he muses watching the party
disappear from the stairs
and gives the absent Polly
one of his cold stares.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
I'm just one twisted Cinderella.
The Footman my devoted sub
And every night my feet would get rubbed.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
It's not for the want of wanting that I wish I wanted you,
but you make it easier to make my mask and disappear into the blue.
I could wonder all the wondering what this wonderful life has been and I'd never know the half of all those things I used to dream, but you thought of me in sepia, someone old that fades too soon while I thought of you as crescent shaped like the beginnings of the moon.
We have to live to understand yet can't stand ignorance and yet again we wash out pain, pretend like Gene to sing and dance when it's pouring down with rain.
We're all the films that we used up and time just clicked away and now the shutter shuts with a final clang and
the footman comes in slowly saying,
'was that you that
rang'? but
I never called for the thin man in the black car to come by and it's not for the lack of living that I found my time to die.
'Don't waste a minute', said the miser, 'in yer bin', the cockney cried and for the want of wish of wanting I curled up and then I died.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
The sky was dark, it was overcast
When the hearse rolled into town,
The people stopped in its passing,
And stood, with their eyes cast down,
Four black, high stepping, friesian mares
Stepped proud, ahead of the hearse,
While a man was following close behind
But sat on his horse, reversed.
His wrists were bound with a length of twine
Were tethered behind his back,
His eyes were well blindfolded,
Under his black top hat,
His leather boots had glistened and shone
And they rode right up to the knee,
There was something about his stately mien
That said, ‘Aristocracy’.
The horses were decked with ostrich plumes
Fine harness and plaited tails,
The coach shellacked in a shiny black
And fitted with silver rails,
The coffin lay on a satin tray
In the hearse, was covered in lace,
Inscribed with scrolls from the honour rolls
Of a noble house, disgraced.
And far at the rear of the slow cortege
Was a line of women in black,
Carrying jewellery fashioned in jet
As black as the coach shellac.
There wasn’t a tear amongst them all
Nor a smile for the ruined man,
The blindfold merciful, like a pall
In front of his ruined clan.
The hearse rolled into the cemetery
And stopped by the gallows tree,
A footman took off his blindfold then,
‘I hope that’s not meant for me!’
They dragged the coffin out of the hearse
And the man looked once, then twice,
‘I’m not your common old peasant, sir,
I’m the Lord of Mecklen Weiss.’
They dragged him ****** off his horse
And lifted the coffin lid,
‘You’re the Lord of six square feet of earth,
And the Lord of all you did!’
They ****** him into the coffin then
Encased his struggling form,
‘He’ll have some time to consider now
It were best he’d never been born!’
They lowered the coffin into the ground
To the sound of shrieks and cries,
But not one woman who watched it fall
Had a need to dry her eyes.
They say that some heard muffled cries
At that grave for a week or more,
But then, the peasantry always lies
For they hold the Lords in awe.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker
As life passed through me
I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker
Leaving in this world only my memory
As life passed through me
I can hear my daughters cry
Leaving in this world only my memory
I know she only wonders why
I can hear my daughter’s cry
It hurts her this I know
I know she only wonders why
Her mother, did she have to go
It hurts her this I know
But she will learn to mend her heart
Her mother did she have to go
And soon my absence becomes a part
But she will learn to mend her heart
Blocking out the painful thought
And soon my absence becomes a part
Forgetting what should be forgot
Blocking out the painful thought
Moving on to better things
Forgetting what should be forgot
Finally spreading wide her fixed up wing
Moving on to better things
Sometimes now she will rejoice
Finally spreading her fixed up wing
She did forget the sound of her mother’s voice
Sometimes now she will rejoice
But other times things get sad
She did forget the sound of her mother’s voice
She is strong, just like her mom, and knows that this is just a fad
But other times things get sad
I see my girl and know she’ll grow
She is strong, just like her mom, and knows that this is just a fad
She will survive, so now I must go
I see my girl and know she’ll grow
I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker
She will survive, so now I must go
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker
To nothing
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
The greatest tactician
Makes plans using every
General and footman,
But you all,
You're happy to make plans without me.
It's just as well.
I don't want any part in this Waterloo.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
At my door, he stands.
At my bed, he lands.
At my soul, he stabs.
At my heart, he grabs.
My last breath, he laughs.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
Why err on the side of caution when I can
Breathe in vast amounts of cold air without a jacket on
So I intentionally freeze
At midnight;
Get back home and invite the bed bugs to bite?
Why err on the side of ******* caution when I can
Talk to strangers in the dark and
Walk home along the train tracks,
In the hopes a spark will shock me back to life?
*
I just want to feel something.
Anything.
To feel anything other that the weight of my duvet,
Holding me still, but threatening to pull me back to rock bottom
As time draws in and tells me
“What a waste”.
As the Eternal Footman looms over me and peers into my soul-
He laughs.
This is not a life worth living, but it’s also not a life worth taking.
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 3:21 PM UTC
The Lady Mary had locked the door
And called the scullery maid,
The Boots was called and the Footman,
So they thought they were being paid,
She lined them up with the Butler,
The Housemaid, skivvy and Cook,
‘You’re not to go wandering out the door,
Not even to take a look!’
She knew her word, though the very law,
Was never to go down well,
For Alice was sweet on a lawyer’s clerk,
A lockdown seemed like hell.
The Footman needed his racing mates
To place a bet on the book,
So the Lady Mary had made it plain,
‘Not even a peep or a look!’
The grumbling went with the Cook downstairs
As they stood, and waited for tea,
‘It’s all very well for the likes of her,
There’s places I have to be!’
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ the Butler said,
‘We’re lucky to grace her floor,
If you want to leave in a fit of peeve
You’ll never get back in the door.’
They huddled down for a week or more
It was better than paying rent,
But a silence settled on every floor
For nobody came, or went,
The pantry shelves were emptying out
But the tradesmen never came,
‘We’re going to starve,’ was the one lament
When they ate the last of the game.
The Footman called the Scullery Maid
And they huddled up on a pew,
‘If you sneak out for an hour tonight,
Then I will cover for you,
And you can visit your lawyer’s clerk
Then place a bet on the book,
I’ll let you in when it’s nice and dark…’
‘I will, by hook or by crook!’
She slipped on out by the kitchen door
And he turned the key in the lock,
Watched the Butler heading for bed
And sat by the kitchen clock.
At ten o’clock, with a tiny tap
She had made her prescence felt,
And tumbled in as he opened the door,
Went straight to the hearth, and knelt.
He locked the door, then he heard her sob
And saw that her head was bent,
She stared so long and hard at the floor
That he thought his bet was spent.
‘What ails you Alice, now what went wrong,
Don’t give me none of your lies!’
She looked up into his face just then
And he saw blood stream from her eyes!’
‘They’re dead, all dead,’ were the words she said
As her tears had mixed with the blood,
Your racing pals and my lawyers clerk,
And the horses, down at the stud.
The Lady Mary, she should have said…’
But he cut her off right there,
Leapt up, unlocking the kitchen door
He dragged her out by her hair.
He locked the door and he scrubbed his hands
But he’d locked the beast within,
As blood then streamed from his Footman’s eyes
And he earned the wages of sin.
The Lady Mary came down the stair
To find him, dead on the floor,
And said to the Cook, with blood red eyes,
‘You’d best fling open the door!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
I shall be thine Atlas, thine scapegoat with a shoulder
That I with weary back might take position as the holder
Of all the items you have boiling up within thee; take them out!
Instead of boiling up, project them unto me and thusly shout:
"Thou art truly a disgrace, a mere construction of a lie
You exist as foul temptation, but you tempt no more, for I
I have gained more pressing matters; I have larger game to shoot
To me, thou art but humble grass smear'd 'neath the footman's boot
And I've become an heiress, or a prince, perhaps, a king!
I've left behind the people who wish to control my everything
My every waking moment is now in my control
You disapprove? Excuse me, but I never asked thee for a poll!"
I shall be thine Atlas, and I'll gladly take your spite
I would also take thine fists, if thou so wish'd to fight
But ne'er in my life would I, lift fist nor finger to you
That's one thing that I wouldn't, nay, couldn't ever do
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
What a crime it is that a man ought to die.
That our feeble lives, like calendar marks,
pass by so quickly and without warning.
What is 70-80, 90 if you're lucky, years
really worth in the big picture?
What can a man amount to honestly
when as soon as he breathes, he dies?
He can do a lot and achieve much, sure,
but imagine what more could be done,
what could be made, with just a
few centuries more time to play with.
Imagine the discoveries we could find,
the secrets of time and space unraveled,
the elixirs of health that could destroy disease,
and everything else on earth that could
be made better if we only had the time.
Imagine the weight off our shoulders lifted,
when no longer must we fear the Eternal Footman,
no longer must we fear the passing of the seasons,
or the changing of the times, or even the start
of a new day, as we would all be there together.
People could live fully and happily,
knowing they had all the time in the world,
and no sick, twisted date with Death
awaiting them on the gilded horizon.
As it is now, time passes us by,
before we know it, and in the dust,
we pathetic humans are left.
In the scheme of the grand design,
a life is just a few puny particles,
of a few tiny granules of sifting sand
in a cosmic sandbox.
For humanity to truly continue its noble path,
we must find the secret code to stop aging,
to make our cells replicate anew forever,
or at least, for a few more centuries,
so that our destiny can be achieved,
to make a world truly terrific.
A world of youth, a world of beauty,
A world of truth, a world of joy.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC