The Poetry Thread

We had one on TIA so thought I’d start one here. I wanted to get down in writing, before I forget it entirely, a poem I memorised over 20 years ago. I don’t know who it was by.

The Bitter End

He grabbed me round my slender neck,
I could not call or scream,
He dragged me to a dingy room,
Where we could not be seen,

He stripped away my flimsy wrap,
And looked upon my form,
I was so cold and damp and scared,
While he was hot and warm,

He pressed his feverish lips to mine,
I could not make him stop!
He drained me of my very self,
I gave him every drop

He made me what I am today,
That’s why you see me here,
An empty bottle thrown away,
That once was full of beer.


roses are grey
violets are grey
everything’s grey
i am a dog


You can’t have a poetry thread without some John Donne:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.


Roses are red
Lillies are white
We conquered all of Europe
Everton are shite

Derek Mahon:

Everything is Going to be All Right

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The day rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

(Except of course on TAN if the poem or your post mentions the banned word s*n … substituted by ‘day’ here…)
I’m pretty sure he didn’t have that organ of the gutter press in mind when he wrote it…sigh)

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For those of us not living with a super-model, but somebody ‘right’ -

Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that’s honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world seem bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.

Edwin Muir

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There once was a man from Madras,
who’s balls were constructed of brass,
in stormy weather, they clanked together
and sparks came out of his ass


There was a young girl from Cathay
On a slow boat to China one day
Was trapped at the tiller
By a sex-starved gorilla
And China’s a bloody long way!

Spike Milligan

Ah…so this is the level, eh?

I was actually told the following by a teacher…

There once was a man from Bombay,
Who fashioned a cunt out of clay,
The heat from his dick,
Turned the clay into brick,
And shredded his foreskin away.

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Baa baa black sheep have you any wool?


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