"venison" poems
You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue,
Whilst loit'ring hinds
Lurke here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long,
Quickly aboard bestow you;
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by South forth keep;
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need nor fear,
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold;
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only Paradise.
Where Nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish;
And the fruitfull'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the golden age
Still Nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the sea that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell,
Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore,
(Thanks to God first given)
O you, the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let canons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven!
And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,
Apollo's sacred tree,
You may it see
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hakluit,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after-times thy wit.
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'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
4.4k
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
The first shots slammed across the woods at dawn
Into my sleep, there taking down my dreams
Which can’t be slung into a pickup truck
And carried to the processors by noon
Venison is a bit gamey, of course:
That’s why they call it game, wild game, then food
Blended with pork and spices for Thanksgiving
And that’s a nice little dream in itself
Let’s not indulge sentimentality here
In forest glades or on china plates – it’s just a deer
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
I went into the woods today
to feed the little birds
the squirrel in his little drey
and the roe deer in their herds
went in feeling confident
walked out tired and grey
now I need some counselling
and this is what I'll say!
Those little ******* birdies
had set a trap for me
dug a hole with mickey the mole
they knew I would't see
fell right down
and bashed my head
they laughed so much,
thought I was dead
all they wanted was my seed
No! not my *****
Oh, please take heed
the rabbits kicked earth into the hole
****** lagomorphs got no soul
except for hares
they are classier
even though
the females are sassier
I climbed back out
the birds got miffed
"there is no doubt,
he must be biffed!"
so into the fray
they sent their trump
a ****** great stag
to give me a thump
spent ten minutes dodging round
running like a good'un
until I ran into a tree
solid and pretty wooden
"my sodding nose,
that ****** hurt!
I'm bleeding down
into the dirt!"
tough they told me
with their eyes
that tree will cut you
down to size!
I got away at half past six
how was purely luck
I fed the stag some weetabix
and he got hit by a truck
So now we're having venison
and gravy for our tea
and if I go to the woods again
I'll take some friends with me!
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
2.6k
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' and tending their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
I know a lot of eve's and some get naked
But, I got drunk somehow after shopping and banking
Now I don't need no how on keep waking up wasted
I shot him in his brain and sliced his neck
I wacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
Now it's Christmas Day, I have him here
He's hung in my backyard. Oh, what a deer!
Today's a holiday. We'll serve what's near.
And Rudolph's venison will bring on cheer
I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
I'm slicing jerkey
I'm slicing meat
I'm cutting steaks
I'm slicing lean
I cut his brains out
Threw them away
His guts and his *****
Have been turned into hay
I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
You talk about your past lovers like cuts of meat;
The big ******* on this one, the thick thighs on that one, the firm *** on the other.
You call them Chicken, Cow, Pig.
You call me Dear.
I walk into your abattoir of my own accord
and tie myself to the gambrel,
ask you to slaughter me, please, slaughter me.
Always the slaughterer, never the slaughtered,
I want to know what it feels like.
You do as I ask: strip away my skin, slice open my chest, remove my vital organs.
You have to separate my consciousness
from my carcass
to finish.
I am venison, fresh.
You mount my head on your wall
next to the others and
shut my eyes.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
Eat Venison
strike fear into his bones
appeal to his intellectual bankruptcy
make it run
make it hide
under his own verbal garbage disposal
conquer him
little man
squash egos into fertilizer
for your plants
turn his nothing
into another form
negative
to positive
as he decomposes
inside his tinfoil crap
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
Bunny Rabbits
Bunny rabbits are cute,
But with out pity they root,
our hard-tended vegetable garden.
Deer, majestic, beauteous to look upon.
But they fine dine with a good vine,
on our expensive shrubbery.
******* rabbits and deer.
No earthly good for anyone,
but poets and kids.
So I guess its's ok.
Let the ******* rabbits and deer,
chomp away....
Maybe some day I'll return their favor,
With venison and stew on
my dinner menu.
Grinchy Seuss
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Yellow jackets’ yellow jackets
Licorice made of Venison
Stand over there, quite queer, my dear
While I drink a handle of Jameson
**** wizards and Eddie Izzard
Speak to me in glad tidings
Astronauts, sweet lizards' space gizzards
Jump over the back of book bindings
***** the misconceptions
Drive off the road into gravy
Split the checks, and **** on decks
Mistake my sound perceptions
Habeus Corpus
Parlay with ***
Start with darts
And move to the porpoise
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
God is good & God is great
He hates queers that levitate
Momma said that God is dead & I can touch a thousand men
We're not hippies, we're just dumb
We do drugs. We Have fun
(No Brains!)
Obama, I wanna go-bama
I know you know I wanna
go-bama to a sauna
in the Bahamas, bring iguanas
Obama, I think
I think you know-bama
I wanna go, I wanna wear pajamas
in Bahama mama sticky saunas
(No Brains!)
I don't know how to think
The clock goes " tick tick tick tick"
Gotta speak quick, gotta think big
Gotta beat kids with a big stick
God told me I wrote the bible
Jesus had a black disciple
Jesus got behind the wheel
He'll make Obama great again
He'll make it rain and bring the pain
He'll make it make it make it
(No Brains!)
Jesus cured all my diseases
He taught me what cottage cheese is
Analingus teachers taught the preachers how to feed us
eat a fetus
Jesus teaches
(No Abortion!)
but I don't really think that it's that important
but if you really think that its that important
there's pre-abortional baptism
America runs on fascism
American chicks like circumcision not activism
if it lacks vision then
police could release the crack
in the ghetto snacks
in the ghetto shacks
In the fellow stacks, it'll make a better tax return
I'm like,
(No Brains!)
It's metal, baby
Obama, I wanna go-bama I think
I think, you wanna know-bama,
I wanna go-bama I think
I think, you wanna know
It's metal, baby
Don't touch me, I'm beautiful
Touch me touch me, I will sue
Don't touch me, I have a crush
Watch me crush, watch me ****
Armageddon veterans take armadillo medicine
I eat you like venison
Watch me crush, watch me ****
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."
Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.
"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds
of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer,
Half a **** of Rudeheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?
1.8k
Snowed in,
We prepare peasant food:
Simmering onions
Then broth
Base for boiling fish stew
Cooled in the snowbank beside the brown ale
The pineapple pies
and the venison steak.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
Barbi is on Prozac and Percoset
her ******* are too large
for her back
so now she is no good in the sack
thus Ken left her for Kim Possible
Snow White is a *** addict
so many princes so little time
Alice has OCD
she shares a half way house
with the hatter
G.I Joe is AWOL
last seen by Camp Pendleton
and
oh no
Bambi is venison stew
what is true
where is childhood
for me
and you?
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Rain forest warm,
predicting a storm,
hippos, giraffes and more
Parumping the water hole.
didn’t take us long, to slap a crown
on a fools heart.
Everything the light touches
made the lions cold.
had to many sad boys in your bed.
(To tune of: Nants ingonyama bagithi baba from: Lion king intro)
Moat of toys,
prey on canniballs,
venison visceral
Drop your bridge Shallow moat.
Midus touch,
rabbit didn't quite touch
lucky enough, your trust, bust
The weatherman cuts.
Can't fight a storm with a pack
Of lions, and djarum butts
Cool Cats don't like the water
won't splash,
might soil their tight pants
Sea captain called
old Horizen won't dance
"listen to your old man".
not worth a penny of your sand.
but if we weren't so green-headed,
A compas might save our hand
for marriage
we don't want plans
They don't understand
want to roll around with simba
Giggling in the butterflies
when they're gone, find another man.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
There Was Always A Fall Feast,
Way Before The Pilgrams Even Came,
Squanto Was A Prisoner,
Taken Over To Europe,
And Worked As A Slave To Spanish Monks,
He Was Captured From His Village,
And Returned There 5 Years Later,
Where His Tribe Had Died From The Disease,
The Europeans Had Brought Over,
The Pilgrims--Savage And Starving,
Were Rading Near By Villages,
Scavenging In The Tribe's Food Storages
Since Squanto Knew How To Speak English,
He Befriended The Pilgrims And Taught Them,
To Fish And Hunt Off The Land,
When The Fall Feast Arrived,
They Did Not Eat Turkey (Yes You Read That Right),
Squanto And Some Other Natives Brought,
Venison, Crab, Lobster, Fish,
And Feasted....
So You Can See--That What We Learned In School,
Is Not True,
It's Just One More Common Misconception,
Just Another Secret,
This Country Has Tried To Mask
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
Our mystic alabaster satellite
rules the midnight sky
casting shadowy silhouettes
of all our trees and houses.
Rational tri-millennial me
chooses not to bay about it
or worship its fabled godly essence
(long since neutered by geology).
Casting aside the chains of time
I sidle up to Cenozoic me
munching on a leg of venison
staring at that improbable hanging ball
suspended in the southern heavens.
Wonder and vexation cloud his hairy face -
hunting vainly for a clue.
I whisper in a secret tongue
that only he and I can comprehend,
"You may not get it yet, grandpa
but soon enough you will."
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.
I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.
Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.
I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.
Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.
Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
Alas, poor venison salami, I knew ye well!
You were a dear, dear friend
But then you met your sorry end
at my fair cat’s royal command
I'll sing a dirge & sound the Bell
I'll tip my hat & say farewell
to your sweet, succulent delight
may we ne’er lose it out of sight.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
You eat a lot of things from tuber ware containers with a ***** fork
you haven't washed in weeks.
You pile mounds of ketchup on anything
literally everything you eat,
and you hold your utensils like a sandbox shovel
just stuffing the food in your mouth, filling your cheeks like a chipmunk,
yet somehow you still think you have the ability to talk.
You wash everything down with beer.
One kind of beer- nothing else.
I always ask for a sip and you just pull it away while pulling me in.
Your lips are warm and taste like venison, and the yellow light
of the kitchen makes your complexion look a little off
but your eyes are bluer than they've ever been.
You should see yourself stand there at the counter
trying to tell me some story I can't understand about what happened to you that day,
or that night, or maybe it was last week.
Your timeline's never been quite accurate, your memory skewed.
Sometimes I'll look at you in moments like this and mumble, "you're so ******* weird"
but truth is I love all the things you do.
It's bits like this that I miss when you're not there.
Like how you sleep with your elbows under the pillow, snoring so loud
I can't hear myself dreaming.
How you think just because you've memorized every movie ever
that means I have too,
and why it is I just laugh when you quote something I've never seen.
Especially, those times you look at me with this quizzical look
a great idea just sitting on your tongue, expecting something
when really it's just some silly thing you've thought about all day
just didn't know how to say.
I tell you constantly that I can't stand how you wait until the very last clean shirt
before you do the laundry,
how those loads and loads are a ***** to fold
but truth is I love how worn everything is.
I even love the way you sing in the shower, or in the car, or in after dark, or all the time.
I love the way you moan as the sunlight peaks through the window in the morning.
I love when you rustle up my hair after I just did it.
I love how you smear my make-up.
I love you all the time, when you're smart, a ******* rude.
And even though I'll say 100 times in a day that you drive me crazy.
I love all the things you do.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC