"stoat" poems
Thus the Mayne glideth
Where my Love abideth;
Sleep ’s no softer: it proceeds
On through lawns, on through meads,
On and on, whate’er befall,
Meandering and musical,
Though the niggard pasturage
Bears not on its shaven ledge
Aught but weeds and waving grasses
To view the river as it passes,
Save here and there a scanty patch
Of primroses too faint to catch
A weary bee…. And scarce it pushes
Its gentle way through strangling rushes
Where the glossy kingfisher
Flutters when noon-heats are near,
Glad the shelving banks to shun,
Red and steaming in the sun,
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat
Burrows, and the speckled stoat;
Where the quick sandpipers flit
In and out the marl and grit
That seems to breed them, brown as they:
Naught disturbs its quiet way,
Save some lazy stork that springs,
Trailing it with legs and wings,
Whom the shy fox from the hill
Rouses, creep he ne’er so still.
2.6k
I said...
Ribbons lemon chewing gum
Daisies dandelion
Button teabag souvenir
Cheese cake Uncle Brian
Pepper buses diary
London *** Nantucket
Leaves carrot underwear
Ten piece bargain bucket
Raisins phone apple pie
Sock key Zanzibar
Duvet sausage dinosaur
Peanut bumper car
Mouse banana chicken wing
Fleas vermilion
Elephant soda stream
Stoat pavilion
Moose flower stickleback
Garlic salted butter
Taco dragon paper cut
Poison pizza cutter
Sandwich Batman coffee cake
Vaseline grape snow
Golf ***** haberdashery
Weasels tally-ho
:o)
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
I once ****** a girl on a bus;
She had pimples, all oozing out pus;
She said, feigning shock,
"My, what a huge ****
But she never noticed my truss.
I once ****** a girl in a train;
She was short, rather fat and quite plain;
The smell of stale *****
Which arose from her bunk
Obliged me to **** her again.
I once ****** a girl on a boat;
She smelled awful, worse than a stoat;
I fingered her ***
Which made us both come
And I wiped the **** off on her coat.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Eye of bat and bowels of mice
Mixed into a cauldron cold as ice
Claw of rabbit, tooth of goat
Stir with a tale of a smelly stoat
Add two pints of stale perfume
Two rats whiskers and an ounce of misfortune
Ignite the mixture with a match
And burn it down to blackened ash
Gather the ashes and grind to powder
Add some Arsenic to make a chowder
Invite your enemies round for luncheon
No need to bludgeon with a truncheon
Sit back and watch the final show
Love your friends and **** all foe
This witches brew should do the trick
If they don't die they'll all be sick
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
Prayer Before Birth (1944) - Poem by Louis Macneice
I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.
I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.
I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they ****** by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.
I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.
I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.
I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise **** me.
Louis Macneice
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
through the cusp of
predawn heavy dark i woke,
one knee too cold to
feel. stars imperfectly ablaze;
radial fractions between
soft fingersplits in overlying canopy.
at ground level, spinning
slowly, i pried a small hole
out of my cocoon of moss. drew
legs to chest. felt clean air wash
up and over me. this is all that
matters. everything. acres alone,
save trapped stoat or the small
hawk in my ribcage. kea call
up at pearl flat; hours later,
i thaw. i rescind no sentiment.
and i dare not take back a
mote of motion. my
hands mend you sweetness on hazy
days the sun careens through
dust and valleys.
endless spurs
on all horizons to clamber to
you, or just to find me. endless
convection to spread wing under.
endless permutations of lovers; but,
of course, nobody else
would near suffice.
down a darkened trail, sleep
heavy on shoulders, i waltz with
torch dying in one hand. beating
heart in other. a fine
day crawls up over
peaks; i sigh, smile,
endlessly think
of you.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
I once ****** a girl on a boat;
She smelled awful, a bit like a stoat;
I fingered her ***
Which made us both come
And I wiped the **** off on her coat.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
I knew he was cheating, the crafty ****
A little discovery lead to it.
A box of condoms, and one was gone!
He said he only tried it on.
Tried it on now there's a joke.
Test drove it as well the lying stoat.
Being a lady I held my tongue and waited for my moment to come.
So there was I in the sky, twenty thousand feet to be precise.
I thought it fitting as we met on a plane, to dump the ******* the very same way!
The moral simple for all to see
I don't advise ******** with me.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Summer days are past and gone,
And colder days now hurry on.
The lily draws her tender bloom
deep into the cloudy gloom, and
soft mists risen in the night,
turn to frost at dawns first light.
In the margins of the pond
The ice holds fast the frozen frond,
and under hill the mole curls tight,
safe and warm throughout the night,
pink paws, pink nose, a velvet coat,
all safely hidden from the stoat!
The swans, clothed in their purest white
glide, like ghosts in black of night
as safely on the lake they sleep,
while the coot and moorhen peep
in their dark and sombre suits,
from the tangled willow roots.
The fox that cunning red marauder
creeps stealthily along the border,
as the weakling winter sun
Announces a new day begun.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
It scurries upon each tainted step,
Countless of seeds sprung beneath its paws,
Beckoning the way to its meal,
Stirringly commends its scheme to await,
Treacherous pounce from a rock to another,
Claiming its place beneath the trees,
A knowing nod to the skies above,
As it leaps towards the clueless quarry,
The mice squeals at the sudden departure of its own life,
Wrangling between the jaws as it shuts it close,
A lively tether released from its tenure,
With a feast to *****
A burrow from where it thrives,
Invaded by its own demise,
The content stoat gnaws the brown fur,
A mouthful filled with the recently deceased.
By Sarah Shahzad, June 2025,
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 3:06 AM UTC
yes, sundays seem quiet . were like that when i was a kid. enjoy that yet i know some find it arduous.
like to hear you will have company in the garden again other than the cats.
when initially awake it was golden with sun yet now the softest cloud has covered.
Asda van is due today and i go to buy petrol early. except is diesel.
no more news really. except I saw a stoat thingy yesterday.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 1:16 AM UTC
I once ****** a girl on a boat;
She smelled awful, a bit like a stoat;
She fingered my ***
Which made us both come
And she wiped the **** off on my coat.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Oh Word,
whose language can be lily or rose,
rain, dewy cloud, scaly fish
or feathered bird,
whose music trumpets in morning
and plays out night,
orchestrates stars, speaks thunder
and sunshine.
Word, who composes lion, dolphin
or lively stoat,
inscribes wisdom in insect, gorilla
and mountain goat,
writes perfect signatures in each
atomic thing,
whose silent symphony mystifies
with symmetry.
Word, praise to thee who sang Self
into humanity
for looking we find in thy grammar
superb diversity.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 6:43 AM UTC
I knew an old stoat to relieve his throat
drank custard from his fungible boot
Be mine dear Prunus, be mine
He sang
Never mind dear Dulcis, never mind
And as he drank and sang, and sang and drank
I began to thank, and thank so hard I nearly sank
too depths so depthed too deep to see
the rolling mood washed over me.
*Let’s link arms dear Prunis
and turn our noble gaze
and together ride the ocean swell
until the end of days*
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
He stands like a Michelangelo
Statue of David;
Naked, perplexed
Shoulders - flexed
Abdomen, stretched.
In his **** glory
He carries a pitchfork, a warning glare.
Ready to slay Goliath, with his bare snare.
A symbol of strength, youth, beauty
And I must protect his duty.
For he loved me as the stoat loves the hare.
And I loved him as the poor girl that loves the rich, old man.
I all but food for his stomach
A helpless maiden, haunted puppet.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
No Bumblebee.
No blackbird, swallow, swift or Robin.
No buttercups or poppies swaying in the breeze.
No hedgehog, weasel, stoat or mole
Almost silence.
Just one sound.
The sound of property developers chewing then choking on money.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Buttercups,
yellow like honey,
become peculiar sweets
towards the sea
-line where I sit
slighting the grey.
Stars, bubble-topped,
in champagne rise
the firelight of this beaded day.
Blow the blue swallows,
loops of the air,
whose south and southern fragrance
sow the summer day down to the –
say of nowhere newly made somewhere.
Lift all the wheat
the harvester the combine
combining to bind
binding the bound the golden.
Slip all the day
down to the throat
the ear stray
for the sea terns’ splash
or the noise of the stoat.
Graft till the grip
is the tight of crowded lines,
and the seaward trip
whitely stars
as phosphorescence drips
pleasure-presents, those
lips on lips.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
**** backed Tilly, was moonstruck mad and silly
Leaning on a stile with her pail upon her arm
Muttering the while; a curse, perhaps a charm?
****** backed Tilly tells of things I never knew
Of maggot pies, chocolate skies, and monkeys painted blue
She kept a nanny goat, a weasel; a long haired stoat called *****
Folks said she was moonstruck, du dilly mad and silly
She kept a bird that couldn’t sing, a battered bat without a wing
Was there ever a stranger thing, than ****** backed Tilly?
She said her humps were presents, they didn’t weigh her down
She said her humps made her special; she wore them like a crown
She didn’t have much schooling, yet she can milk a cow
She’s a wizard when the butter turns,
A healer when the sunlight burns
A sayer of the sooth; ****** back Tilly tells the truth
I’ve loved my ****** back Tilly girl, ever since I was a youth
Oct 18, 2022
Oct 18, 2022 at 1:58 PM UTC