"gordon" poems
The roses aren't as pretty
The sun isn't quite as high
The birds don't sing as sweet of a lullaby
The stars are a little bit faded
The clouds are just a little more gray
And it feels like things won't ever be the same
Heaven got another angel the night you left this world behind
Heaven got a little better the day that it took you away from me
I'm missing you tonight
I'll see you again sometime
For now, I'll close my eyes
And dream of heaven tonight
The beaches aren't as lovely
The sky isn't quite as blue
Still, they're sweetened by the memory of you
The rain is a little bit colder
The fire is never quite as warm
Still, it seems that heaven isn't all that far
Heaven got another angel the night you left this world behind
Heaven got a little better the day that it took you away from me
I'm missing you tonight
I'll see you again sometime
For now, I'll close my eyes
And dream of heaven tonight
I'm spending a little more time now with the things that mean a little bit more
I'm noticing the wonders of this world
I love with a little more hope now
I live with a little more peace
Cause I understand how precious life can be
Heaven got another angel the night you left this world behind
Heaven got a little better the day that it took you away from me
I'm missing you tonight
I'll see you again sometime
For now, I'll close my eyes
And dream of Heaven tonight
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I know that I will never marry Jimmy Fallon or Donald Glover or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I know that despite the myths, Brussels sprouts taste awesome.
I know that one too many tequila shots will automatically turn you into a philosopher.
I know that the sun sets in the East and rises in the West (or is it the other way around?)
I know that I am most happiest when I'm surrounded by amazing friends in the unseasonably warm March sun and a banjo is playing.
I know that a smile straightens everything out.
I know that although you can't forget the past, you can't let it dictate your future.
I know that having *** for the first time is weird, and so is ****
I know that my hair is golden, my eyes are blue and I will never be stick-thin as hard as I try.
I know that there are 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 12 months in a year. But it never seems to be enough time to figure out who you are.
I know that people come and go but those that love and care for you will stay glued next to you no matter what.
I know that as much as it hurts, you will get over love.
I know that I will never have the courage to rap publicly.
I know that Kim Kardashian's *** is most likely not real.
I know that travel truly broadens the mind.
I know that I'm insecure and over analytical and anxious and easily frustrated.
But I know that I'm also passionate and determined and a hopeless romantic and a picky eater and a restless sleeper.
And above all:
I know that when I look at you I see past your eyes.
I know that when you're around I smile wider and laugh louder and flip my hair more often.
I know I dress nicer to remind you how beautiful you think I am.
I know that I forget to inhale and that the butterfly on my shoulder has to fly up to my ear and remind me to breathe.
I know that I care about you more than anyone.
I know that I let you into every pore of my body, every opening: my heart, my head, my...
I know that I am willing to jump in with my whole body and risk being drenched in water for you.
I know that I can make you as happy as you make me
But I know that you're scared and vulnerable and hurt
But if I'm sure of anything (and mind you, I'm not sure of much)
I know that I will hurt and be afraid and breathe with you to make you love me.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
In my mind, I raced against time
I smoked peyote with the Apache
I chased Kangaroos
Through the bush with the Aborigine
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I outpaced time
I drew cave art with the Neanderthal
I climbed to the top of the mountain with the Sherpa
I hunted seal out on the frozen tundra with the Inuit
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I eclipsed time
I wrote poetry while under the tutelage of Langston Hughes
And I created visual greatness while apprentice to Gordon Parks
I even stood on the wall with Che' Guevara, like a Sentry standing watch
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I turned to face time
I wrote an addendum to the Emancipation Proclamation
And I saw the ugly truths
Of freedom's farcical Declaration
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I embraced time
I sought to free my nation from the pandemic perils of *******
And I prayed that we Americans would be free of
The snares of racial and economic divide that still has us chained
I did this while searching for truth, in this, our most tenuous hour
...then empyreally, God reached for me, touching me, and I finally found my power
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Take a butchers at this me old Chinas.
Slip ya Plates o' Meat into ya Jacks,
brew up a nice cup o' Rosy,
and if you haven't got a Scooby what I'm on about,
feel free to fire me off a Jimmy Nail
and tell me it's a load of old cobblers.
Can you Adam an' Eve it,
I left me Dog 'n' Bone on the Apples
and when I went to call the Trouble 'n' Strife
some joker had Half-Inched it.
But that's not the worst of it.
When I got back to the Cat and Mouse
she'd done a bunk in me shiny new Jam Jar.
I couldn't believe me Pork Pies!
So here I am all on me Todd,
me only transport a ****** old **** van ****
Gordon Bennett!
I'm goin' down the ****** for a few Britneys,
gonna get totally Brahms and List
and blow a big fat raspberry at the whole thing.
Tomorrow's another bale 'o' hay.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
Hidden Weapon
By: James Desire
See me walking on the vacant street
What’s your first thought?
Black kid up to no good
See me- surrounded by others, my brothers
What is your second thought?
Black kid in some gang
Must be tattooed and tough
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
See the clothes I am wearing
Big baggy pants, dark Du-Rag and Ripped shirt
What is your final thought?
Poor old ****** living in a ghetto
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Now Listen,
You see me jetting through the silent streets
What would you assume then?
Arrest!
Call the cops
Must have been a ****** a robbery,
Another black boy crime
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
I am just a black boy trying to survive
Trying to enjoy-just to stay alive
On the street
People judging me cause
The blackness of my skin
The types of clothes I’m in
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Unsuspecting black child taunted, haunted…
Fearing that one word-nigga
Should I be blamed for crimes committed in the past?
Choice-less decisions made
Pressure reaches ******
Everything seems lost
At the end
I feel blamed
Nevertheless, I blame you
Whites
Rejecting
Hurting
Me- hopeful
Pride-earned-not given
Defending
Defending my dignity
Discrimination- Hidden Weapon
Should I be judged/blamed for past generations?
Then, blame me for…
The jazz of Louis Armstrong
The voice of Billie Holiday
The poetry of Langston Hughes
The photography of Gordon Parks
The character of Martin Luther King Jr.
The power of Coretta Scott King
The dignity of Fredrick Douglas
Finally, the individuality of James Desire
You seek evil in blacks
The past has also proven a positive…
A positive outcome
That helped the development…
OF OUR WORLD!
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 11:07 AM UTC
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore —
No doubt you have heard the name before —
Was a boy who never would shut a door!
The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,
And teeth be aching and throats be sore,
But still he never would shut the door.
His father would beg, his mother implore,
'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,
We really do wish you would shut the door!'
Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;
But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore
Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.
When he walked forth the folks would roar,
'Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,
Why don't you think to shut the door?'
They rigged up a Shutter with sail and oar,
And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore
On a voyage of penance to Singapore.
But he begged for mercy and said, 'No more!
Pray do not send me to Singapore
On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!'
'You will?' said his parents; 'then keep on shore!
But mind you do! For the plague is sore
Of a fellow that never will shut the door,
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!'
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
#prairiegrass dreams
*Across the Sandhills
wading into the untamed Niobrara
barebacked.. brown, and beautiful
Within her Misty Mountain dreams
she is heading my way.
Ah, sweet lord God almighty,
look at her go..
Westbound, she is best-found
right there.. on the edge
of these dreams of my own
Oh my lord..
look at that beautiful horsedream go
Will I be able to survive her..
I don't know
. . .
You feel him.. don't you, sweet one..
my beautiful Snickers
on that Gordon, Nebraska hill--
his home, his birthplace..
Until his beautiful spirit
one day.. finally found me
Striated and stoic
he is waiting for you..
To bring, you
the rest of the way home.
North now, into Dakota
as you bleed
with the Lakhóta
on a trail, split
between Pine Ridge..
and Wounded Knee.
Feel your war-torn Spirit
melt in to them
(you will not fall)
As you ride this black-maned dream
just a bit further North..
towards a man, named Paul
Within my own, I can feel you both
Ah hell, babe..
I can feel you all*
#
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 9:09 PM UTC
Chef Gordon Ramsay
Cooking food in the kitchen
Yelling at people
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
For centuries we have all been fighting wars.
Taking up arms and going off to fight.
Fight because we’re told to or because we think it’s right.
Taking up arms to fight the good fight.
War becomes a habit – If you let it.
So we all go out and **** all our foes.
We gun them down and pick over the bones.
We leave them for dead rolling about in pain.
And sing Christmas Carols when it’s over.
War became a habit – And we let it.
Copyright: Gordon Warren (1980)
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
Try this! Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:
Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.
Here was my submission....does it make sense?
Yours Truly
(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)
No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns. A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.
07Jan12
D66d
By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
DRESSMAKERS to the stars J’Aton have turned designer detectives after one of their most valuable couture gowns was stolen from a bride’s home last week.
The one-of-a-kind gown, which was stolen from Leanne Bartucca’s Greenvale residence along with other valuables, is estimated to be worth more than $40,000.
It weighs more than 18kg, and features intricate 100-year-old vintage French lace that has been carved and sculpted onto leather and layered tulle.
J’Aton designers Anthony Pittorino and Jacob Luppino, who also made the wedding gowns of Rebecca Judd, Nadia Bartel, Jodi Gordon and Yvette Prieto, wife of Michael Jordan, are appealing to the public in the hope that if it goes for sale online, someone will recognise the distinctive dress.
“We are so devastated for our dear friend Leanne; that dress has a special place in our hearts and is so sentimental to us all,” the pair said.
“It’s a dress that we created especially for Leanne, it has her and her husband’s initials embroidered into the train and we just hope that if anyone recognises the distinguishable design for sale on websites or social media, that they report it to the police.”
Ms Bartucca, who wore the dress in March, 2014, says she has been devastated by its theft.
“It’s such a sentimental thing; my family and the J’Aton boys have been checking the internet daily in the hopes that we will see it for sale,” she said.
“I had dreams of using the fabric from it for my children’s christening gowns, and even framing a section of the fabric for our home.
“[The thieves] definitely knew what they were doing. As a former fashion buyer, I was surprised how much they knew — what they left behind was just as telling as what they took.
“They could tell the difference between real and fake jewellery, they left certain shoe brands behind and obviously went straight for the J’Aton dress, which was covered in tissue paper and in a white box at the top of the wardrobe.”
Police said they were investigating whether the burglary was in relation to another in the same area.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Almost a week has past
Since it was announced you will die
A day like that was always destined to come
But I am still not ready
Gordon Downie I want to write your eulogy now
And maybe you will see it
And understand how you've changed the life
Of this child of America
Gordon Downie you have made me scared
And if any sort of courage is going to come
Let it come now
I can't think of a worse time than this
Why must all my heroes leave me here?
But I understand that before a person becomes a saint they must perform miracles after their death
The three words I would use to describe you, you already know
Gordie you are a man
A machine
And a poem
The first song I remember learning how to sing, you beckoned me in from the wicked prairie winds
And now I just hope that when I hear the news of the final words I smile
And it will be fine
But Gordie
I have avoided all the trends and clichés a young man of 20 can
I have sat in parking lots and coffee shops and witnessed beautiful things continuing as long as this world will let them
But it is you who has traveled to the hundredth meridian
The man who can get behind anything
The man who stood neck deep in the lake and yelled "you are not the ocean" and refused to swim
I learned that I must be ready to live my life because we get no dress rehearsals
I learned to be honest with who I am because no one's interested in the things I didn't do
Gordon Downie you are the machine that powered my childhood so this poem is for you
And when you die Heaven will truly be a better place
And one day I will meet you there
But until then
I will go to Bobcaygeon
And watch those constellations
Reveal themselves
One star
At a time
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
Close your eyes now and you can see it
A quietly flowing stream
The sunlight through tree limbs
You are in the mountains again, if only in your mind
And if only for a moment
Time and time again I would think about it
And other times I would write about it
I’m in a cabin in the woods alone and nobody knows and I’ll come back to civilization when I want to if I ever want to again
I will grow what I need or steal it if I have to
That’s my dream I guess
The kind of solitude that drove Kerouac to Big Sur
“Something good will come of all things yet”
He whispered to me
“Golden and eternal just like that”
That’s the dream I hope to wake up to
But for now I wake up to closed curtains and toilets that won’t flush properly and all the weight I have gained since high school
I’m a wanderer but not in the way I hoped
I wonder down aisles at work
I wander back and forth from my living room to my bedroom
And my mind wanders every moment
The words that leave my mouth are never what they were in my head
I wonder if anyone takes me seriously
And sometimes I’m afraid to write it because I don’t want anyone I know throwing back any validation I don’t need
I’m a **** good man but I sure as hell ain’t happy
Happiness is so fleeting regardless
I’m not happy but I am content
Let that be my concern
Don’t fret over me
And don’t remind me who I am or tell me what I do
I know that
I live that
Let me talk **** about myself if I want to
Let me pat my own back by myself
If I need I’ll ask
Just give me the space I need
To introduce myself
Give it Time
You’ll understand
Close your eyes now and you can see it
A quietly flowing stream
The sunlight through tree limbs
You are in the mountains again, if only in your mind
And if only for a moment
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
3-D
popcorn
and kisses in the balcony
little soldiers
showing dogtags
to get a free refill
before duck and cover drills
at intermission
it's all one big movie
whether the summer rockets
arrive with Flash Gordon
or by way of Cuba
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
Todey they told me that I shud rite a powm for you Algernon
Mr. Strauss sed that youre sick
I dont want you to be sick
Youre smart
Remembir the amazed
Youre a white mouse
Youre smarter then other mice
So please *** well soon
Goodbye
- Charlie Gordon
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
He put a flint to the lantern once
They’d walked across the crest,
Were lost in a group of headstones that
Lay hidden from the rest,
And down in a slight depression he
Lit up a certain tomb,
Where the name of Elspeth Trelawney
Was reflected in the gloom.
Trelawney held up the lantern high
While Corby held the *****
And Gordon Bracks with an old pick-axe
Stood back, he was afraid.
‘I fear the spirits are out tonight
In this graveyard of the ******
‘Get on, and turn up the sod,’ he said,
Trelawney forced his hand.
The Squire was quiet and ashen-faced
As the two had bent their backs,
Corby tipping the earth aside
Then standing aside for Bracks,
‘The earth is solid, it’s packed right down,
We need to pick it loose,’
‘Just do whatever you have to do,
There’s little time to lose!’
The Squire had buried his Elspeth back
In eighteen twenty-four,
For seven years he had held his grief
But he couldn’t take much more,
‘I have to see her again,’ he said,
To kiss her pale, dead lips,
To stroke the hair on my darling’s head
And caress her fingertips.’
She’d taken the coach and four one day
Way out in the countryside,
The coachman, used to a horse and dray,
Had begun to speed the ride,
He whipped the horses and lost the reins
As the coach began to slide,
Tipped the coach in the watercourse
Where Elspeth drowned and died.
He hadn’t looked at his lover’s face
Before she was interred,
But tried to avoid the loss of grace
In her face that was inferred.
‘I only want to remember her
As she was in the flush of life,
Not in the throes of death,’ he’d said
When talking about his wife.
They’d rushed to hurry the burial,
On the day that she was found,
Popped her into a coffin, then,
Planted her in the ground,
Trelawney later had agonised
That he hadn’t let her lie,
‘I couldn’t bear her to be around,’
He said, with a tearful eye.
But now he wanted to see her face,
They lifted the coffin lid,
While Gordon Bracks had turned his back
To see what Trelawney did,
The horror showed on the Squire’s face
As he gazed into her eyes,
For Elspeth lay in a bleak dismay
As her fate was realized.
Her hands were raised and they looked like claws
They’d scratched at the coffin lid,
The clumps of hair she had torn right out
Was the final thing she did,
And on the lid she had scratched his name
In the torment of the ******
‘Trelawney, may you be cursed by God!’
She’d scratched, with her dying hand.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Batman in his belfry
Robin at the all you can eat buffet
Batgirl in my bedroom
things going, all my way
Riddler plying his prose
Gordon on patrol
Catwoman in my trousers
happily, loosing all control
Joker playing the saboteur
Penguin relaxing at the shore
Harley-quinn in my shower
as golly gee and will-a-curs
I can't ask for nothing more
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
A friend of mine was unemployed,
he didn’t know what to do.
So he went down to the Army office and
said “I want to join you”.
So they sent him off to war,
for something he didn’t know.
They put a gun in his hand and
said “shoot the ones across the road”.
So he squatted down in the mud,
with the **** the bullets, the bodies and the blood.
Trying to think of the ones he loved.
Trying to ignore all the death and the pain.
Then he saw the enemy come up to him.
He got his gun and went over to them.
He looked him straight in the eyes,
“That’s the first mistake”, the Officers replied.
For he saw a young man about his age,
he said “You’re the enemy, I must shoot you dead!”.
The man said “Why?” and stood there still.
My friend was silent and thought a lot.
His mind went crazy, he couldn’t shoot.
He couldn’t see why the war was on.
Why was he fighting? What’s to be won?
Why shoot a man the same as him?
So he put his gun on the ground,
and the enemy did the same.
Then the Officers went up to them,
and shot them both in the brain, and said
“They should have played the game”,
and went back from where they came,
to carry on the war,
like all those times before.
Safe in their bunkers,
with a gin and a straw!
Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Went for a cruise on the maiden ship Titanic,
A wonderful ship everyone said would be epic
I was not scared because it was unsinkable
To be in fear would for me be unthinkable
Wanted to sail far away to another land
Where my life, I think could be quite grand
Unpacking my suitcase in a luxurious liner
This is the one yacht that could not be finer.
Passengers enjoyed dinner, dancing, and other entertainments.
All the days of the trip they would enjoy the embellishments
I heard that people like Astor, Guggenheim Straus, Thayer and Gordon
Would be on this ship including Stead, Fulrelle, Gibson and Morgan
On April 14, 1912 I was that evening returning to my room
Walking down the corridor I heard a deafening boom
Went to find an RMS crew member
When I was told on deck to assemble
He handed me a life jacket just in case
And to get in the lifeboat because there was space
Passengers were lowered down by the crew
The first little boat had just a few
A man started quickly paddling our tiny boat
Once far away he stopped and we would just float
Everyone watched as we heard screaming, crying and yelling
Amongst the chaos we heard music and saw the flares flying
In the early hours of April 15, the ship’s lights flickered out and then went straight up vertical
We all heard the moans of the iron and watched it break in half and it sank uncontrollable
From quite a distance I saw an ocean of people
Out in the middle of the sea, no one felt hopeful
Soon there was no sound
As we all looked around
Shivering crying and wondering
If we are going to live or die pondering
published in the Crawfordsville, Indiana newspaper
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
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