Sen Say Jr. has to memorize and recite a poem in his 10th grade literature class....any suggestions? It has to be '8 lines'.
To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
-- Charles Bukowski
Something like this?
PISTOL PACKING PETE:
Yes! I'm Pistol Packin' Pete.
The baddest muthaf**ka to walk down any street.
You shoulda seen me in west Texas when the sun went down.
I ran the chief of police out the muthaf**kin town.
Troubles may come and troubles may go,
But I'd rather shoot my pistol than anything I know.
Anytime there's a killin' contest I know I'm gonna win it.
'Cause I'll f*ck up a muthaf**ka every fifteen minute!
I'm the bad muthaf**ka that walked the ragin' sea.
The water stood still and parted for me.
I had a fight with a battleship out on the sea.
Mr. Shark was the time keeper and Brother Whale was the referee.
I knew I had to finish this fight and finish it quick.
So I torpedoed that muthaf**ka with the head of my di*k.
I shot dice with a duke, played cards with a king.
You can ask me something nice and I can't tell you a muthaf**kin' thing.
I backed up to the white House, kicked Nixon in the azz.
Then I went on Pennsylvania Avenue
And told all those jive muthatf**kas to kiss my great black azz.
And lower the prices and get this shit straight.
'Cause this country's tired of hearing this shit about that muthaf**kin' Watergate.
Then I went to Alsaka where the weather was fifteen below.
I dropped my drawers and melted the muthaf**kin snow.
So I'm a hot muthaf**ka, can't you see?
So it's best for all you roody-poot, low-lifed, insecure, pepper-gut,
no-business born, rat soup eatin' muthaf**kas don't fuck with me!
edit: Sorry this may not work for a 10th grade class...unless its a Brooklyn School.
i like the poems from the book 'where the sidewalk ends'
Lynching in Denver by Pastor Niemoeller
First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the communists and I did not speak out
because I was not a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
Keep em coming fellahs!
Best thread on T-Nation!
Here's on by Shel Silverstein called "Weighliftress":
Nancy Bates can lift those weights
As well as any feller.
If you don't think it's ladylike
Then you go up and tell her.
Once upon a time,
Long and far away
There lived internet trolls,
Infected with teh ghey
They used to feed and thrive,
Leaving filth all on the boards
Until they found T-Nation,
And died upon they're swords
Title: Internet Trolls
Auguries Of Innocence
by William Blake
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands,
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright
And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands,
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough
To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
Nards missed the "it has to 8 lines" part, and instead read "it has to be 800 lines"
Nice, Nards! William Blake is awesome. Ever see his art? It looks incredibly contemporary for 250 year old stuff.
Twas a crazy old man called O'Keef
Who caused local farmers much grief
To their cows he would run
Cut their legs off for fun
And say "Look, I've invented ground beef!"
There. 8 lines on the money.
I've always liked this poem, Sen Say. It's a bit longer than 8 lines, but easy to memorize.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of the easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
OK, here's an 8 line poem. Your boy might get extra points for choosing a Welsh poet:
Clown in the Moon
by Dylan Thomas
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
Hickory dickory dock
Oleena can suck my cock
She looks for attention
Cuz daddy gave no affection
She can sit on my face
I'll blow past 1st 2nd and 3rd base
Her mouth she should shut
Or I'll Put It In Her Butt