The devil gets into the belfry by the vicar's skirts.
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Rose Across The Sea
For My Good Friend JoAnn McGrath
Not so long ago I was joking
with a young lady across sea.
I told her that I was a vicar,
or at least pretend one.
My name was Dodgy Dave the Vicar.
A little while later
she wrote a poem aptly named,
The Vicar Is Quicker.
Since then she has written
quite a number more.
I tell her a funny story about me.
No sooner do I tell her the story
it appear as a Dodgy Dave Poetry.
In the time I have known her
not once have, I wrote a poem for her,
that rose across the sea.
She thinks of me as her big brother.
I find that as a compliment you see,
as my own real sister
does not want to know me.
Therefore, I have an adopted one
far away from me,
a rose across the sea.
Therefore, Joann
this poem is just for you,
from your friend,
that Dodgy quicker vicar
who rhymes with liquor.
A substance he never touches,
but I will raise my cup of tea
and say again,
this poem is just for you,
my rose across the sea.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The devil lives beneath a slattern woman's skirts.
Skirt Machinist
I am making great big skirts
For great big women—
Amazons who've fed and slept
Themselves inhuman.
Such long skirts, not less than two
And forty inches.
Thirty round the waist for fear
The webbing pinches.
There must be tremendous tucks
On those round bellies.
Underneath the limbs will shake
Like wine-soft jellies.
I am making such big skirts
And all so heavy,
I can see their wearers at
A lord-mayor's levee.
I, who am so small and weak
I have hardly grown,
Wish the skirts I'm making less
Unlike my own.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Vicar's Coming To Tea
Eh?
What's that you said?
Oh dearie me,
You told me the vicar's coming to tea.
What shall I wear, what shall we eat?
I'll have to go shopping down the village street.
What shall we say to him?
Think on it do!
He's more intellectual
Than me and than you.
Though wait just a moment,
I'm giving some thought
As to why we lament,
Just as if we know nought.
For we are all different.
Thank goodness for that!
Don't let's be diffident,
Or feel we are prats.
All humans have something
To offer you see.
The things we are good at
Will be different to he.
So I'm now looking forward
To taking his hat,
And sitting with vicar enjoying a chat.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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At Burgos
Miraculous silver-work in stone
Against the blue miraculous skies,
The belfry towers and turrets rise
Out of the arches that enthrone
That airy wonder of the skies.
Softly against the burning sun
The great cathedral spreads its wings;
High up, the lyric belfry sings.
Behold Ascension Day begun
Under the shadow of those wings!
poem by Arthur Symons
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I love shopping. I wear skirts and dresses, because I really think guys like girls in skirts. And I always wear nice underwear.
quote by Christa Miller
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Long skirts carry dust, but short skirts carry away souls.
Vicar In A Tutu
I was minding my business
I was lifting some lead off
The roof of the holy name church
It was worthwhile living a laughable life
Just to set my eyes on the blistering sight
Of a vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
A scanty bit of a thing
With a decorative ring
That wouldn't cover the head of a child
As rose collects the money in the cannister
Who comes sliding down the bannister ?
The vicar in a tutu
He's not strange
He just wants to live his life this way
Oh, the monkish monsignor
With a head full of plaster
Said : "my man, get your vile soul dry-cleaned"
As rose collects the money from the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again
My god !
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh ...
The vicar in a tutu
Oh yeah
Oh ...
The next day in the pulpit
With freedom and ease
Combatting ignorance, dust, and disease
As rose counts the money in the cannister
As natural as rain
He dances again and again and again
In the fabric of a tutu
Any man could get used to
And i am the living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
I am a living sign
I'm a living sign
Sign ...
I am a living sign
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Devil With The Black Dress On
Wash off those scabs dear
or fingernail pick them clean
Pray to all your long lost demons
and justify your means
Devil has a new shape
Devil has a new ride
Devil has a problem but he locks it up inside
Shit angel
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to own me angel
cause I own you now you're gone
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hate me angel
cause I hate you now you're gone
Did you believe it cause I said so
Did you believe it was true
Did you believe it cause I said so angel
I sure lied to you
Did you believe it cause I said so
Did you believe it was true
I'm eternal and infernal and I sure lied to you
Shit angel
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to own me angel
cause I own you now you're gone
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hate me angel
cause I hate you now you're gone
Good girl with the black eyes
Believe in future past
Everything that I want happens
See how long that lasts
Devil has a hot rod
Devil high on speed
Devil has a black dress
So her arms can bleed
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to know me angel
cause I know you now you're gone
Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hurt me angel
cause I'm hurting now you're gone
Go go go gone
Go go go gone
Go go go go go go go
Gone
song performed by by Jack Off Jill from Sexless Demons And Scars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Devil eyes
You had eyes like the devil.
So red and angry.
You were by far vile.
You were and are pure evil.
You have eyes of the devil.
You are evil.
Your a match for santon himself.
All you can do is hurt little girls.
Its all you know how to do.
You hurt me and probaly others.
You had a smile of the devil.
To go with your devil eyes.
You were luaghing the whole time.
As I lay crying.
Begging you to stop.
But you were the devil.
And the devil dosent stop.
I was 11 when you had your go.
But rape was all I had known.
You werent the first
And you werent the last.
By bludy god I hate you.
Your worse than the devil.
But you have the devils eyes
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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When I Was The Devil
When I was the devil
I sent many a devil
To my brother the devil
In Hell his abode.
.
When I was the devil
I lived half my years
In darkness and fear
I never had rest.
.
So glad I found Christ
Who brought me light
Never again shall
I wander from your sight.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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After 'To Joanna
In his company Joanna laughed:
Clear she thought that he was daft
When he heard the mountains laughing
In his ravishment of mind.
Now the vicar who'd upbraided him
For carving in the rock
Upon whose meditation
The ravishment occurred,
Instead of laughing loudly
At his loftiness of word,
Smiled and looked astonished
Thinking, 'Jackass of a bird.'
Realising that he'd lost him
The poet came to earth,
Told the vicar in plain language
Of Joanna's certain anguish
As she drew into his side
For fear of something that she heard
But to which could put no word.
Now she's gone back to the city,
I miss her laughter, that's the pity.
That's why 'JOANNA'S ROCK'
Is what he's chiseled,
This jackass of a bird.
I wrote this in October-November 2011 mainly in my bed in Adelaide
after reading Wordsworth's
'To Joanna'. The thought about the jackass (kookaburra) I put into
the mind of the vicar comes from an
experience in which I was camping with a friend. Our tent blew in on us one
night and we couldn't be bothered getting out to re-erect it. Instead my friend
laughed hysterically all night. Next morning I overheard the man in the
nearby caravan muttering that if he'd had an axe he'd have killed that
laughing jackass last night.
My friend was like the poet, I was like Joanna, amused by rapture, and
the guy in the caravan was the vicar.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Harmony restored for M lady Ernestine
The vicar, such a nice old gent.
Sees both sides of the argument.
But there is little he can do.
He will not choose between the two.
Maintains a strict neutrality
and prays for guidance reverently
The Sabbath should pass peacefully,
quite free from all hostility.
But Oh Dear Me it isn’t so
the organist will have to go.
So we regain tranquillity
and hear the choir properly.
The organist will take offence.
But we must act in self defence.
The vicar acts reluctantly
and grants the choirmaster’s plea.
The organist just has to go.
He played far too fortissimo.
05/11/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Skirt
Hallo Germaine that's a fine skirt you have
A fine skirt for a queen A cruel queen
Let's feel the silk of it Silk from Japan
And trimmed with wide lace made on no machine
Your skirt's a silken bell whose double clapper
Your legs have struck the passing of my fancies
O Germaine now I ring it my breast heaving
My hands press down upon your willing haunches
Your bedroom O my bell is a fine belfry
My hands touch silk and seem to tear my ears
Those pegs are gallows on which skirts are hanging
Those hanging men are dazzling my eyes
Motionless as an owl the oil lamp watches
poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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devil In Heaven
The devil is weak,
The devil is ill,
The devil is dying.
The clergy comes around,
The clergy offers prayers,
The clergy offers him the keys to heaven.
The devil collects the key,
The devil dies and soon is at the gate of heaven,
The devil unlocks the gate and now he’s in heaven.
The angels on guard knew him as a devil, but
The angels on guard made no attempt to stop him,
The angels on guard even said 'welcome'.
The devil is in heaven, ‘coz
The clergy gave him the key,
The clergy asked us to let him,
The clergy asked God to let him,
The key made the guards to let him,
Now the devil is in heaven,
And there’s nothing even the Devil can do about it.
poem by David Oluwatobi Akinola
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The Vicar Of Bray
In good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant;
A furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd preferment.
Unto my flock I daily preach'd,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When Royal James possess'd the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The penal law I houted down,
And read the declaration:
The Church of Rome, I found would fit,
Full well my constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When William our deliverer came,
To heal the nation's grievance,
I turned the cat in pan again,
And swore to him allegiance:
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive obedience is a joke,
A jest is non-resistance.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When glorious Anne became our queen
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damn'd, and moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such prevarication.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
When George in pudding time came o'er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
My principles I chang'd once more,
And so became a Whig, sir:
And thus preferment I procur'd,
From our faith's great defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
The illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my faith, and loyalty,
I never once will falter,
George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the times should alter.
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoer king shall reign,
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Time Has Come...
The vicar went to the valley,
A mountain on either side,
He built a small log cabin
To comfort his future bride,
The wind between the mountains
Brought echoes of far-off plains,
More often than not in the heart of the night,
Someone called his name.
The voice was sometimes muffled,
The voice, it sometimes screamed,
Whole sentences were chanted
Broke in on the vicar's dreams,
The sounds were like a mirage
Half heard from a distant town,
Whenever the wind would begin to rise
He heard the strangest sounds.
A tap-tap-tap in the morning,
A tap-tap-tap at night,
As if someone was typing
Up on the mountain's height,
The rhythm was pervasive
As it typed some ancient log,
He heard the words: 'The quick brown fox
Jumps over the lazy dog.'
He ran from out of the cabin
And scanned the dusty plain,
His trusty dog was lying
Asleep on the track again,
When out from the brittle bushes
Aside of the narrow track,
A quick brown fox with a startled look,
Jumped over his old Ridge-back.
The vicar ran to the cabin
And fell on his knees in prayer,
What are you trying to tell me, lord,
That you're really, really there?
I thought you were, but I wasn't sure,
It'll take some getting used to!
A voice intoned: 'England expects
Each man to do his duty! '
The vicar jumped up off his knees
And praised the lord again,
You've saved my very soul, my lord,
From Hell, and the pits of pain,
I'd thought that God was mine alone,
And not for everyone,
But now I find - and it blows my mind;
'God is an Englishman! '
The wind was slowly rising,
It whined and whooped and roared,
It swooped along the valley,
Came in at the cabin door,
The vicar, sleeping restlessly
Heard everything, hale and hearty:
'The time has come for all good men
To come to the aid of the party.'
The vicar's not been seen of late
He's busy, light and dark,
With hammer, nails, and canvas sails
He's building himself an Ark,
While in a tiny township that
Lies hidden in mountain haze,
A typing teacher has just locked up,
And gone on his holidays.
12 April 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Unconventional
The day was cold but she was not in point of fact she was too hot.
So she stripped off all of her clothes because she chose to I suppose
Her neighbours thought it rather quaint but only one raised a complaint
The vicar did not think she should do her gardening in the nude
But she replied acerbically that if he did not want to see
Then he should look the other way. She did not tell him how to pray
He should not tell her how she must dress. For all his show of piousness
She had seen him gazing lustfully when he was no one could see
Upon young school girls passing by from whom he could not tear his eye. What right has he to condemn me when I display quite openly
All that I have quite naturally with no false show of modesty
I’m not ashamed why should I be.I am the way that God made me
But he conceals his prurience behind an air of innocence
By advocating nudity at least I’m acting honestly.
I have no time for pious frauds who secretly gain their rewards
by using their imagination to enjoy what they would dearly like to do.
I told the vicar to his face I thought he was a black disgrace
He mumbled something in reply but could not look me in the eye.
He knew I had divined his lustfulness. He knew I knew no need to guess.
He thought it best to move away but where he went I cannot say.
We have a lady vicar now who does not try to tell me how
I ought to dress for gardening.content to let me do my own thing.
She says that sometimes she, wishes she could act as naturally.
26-Oct-08
http: // blog my space.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Owl
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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In the Great Metropolis
Each for himself is still the rule
We learn it when we go to school
The devil take the hindmost, O!
And when the schoolboys grow to men,
In life they learn it o’er again
The devil take the hindmost, O!
For in the church, and at the bar,
On ’Change, at court, where’er they are,
The devil takes the hindmost, O!
Husband for husband, wife for wife,
Are careful that in married life
The devil takes the hindmost, O!
From youth to age, whate’er the game,
The unvarying practice is the same
The devil take the hindmost, O!
And after death, we do not know,
But scarce can doubt, where’er we go,
The devil takes the hindmost, O!
Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro,
The devil take the hindmost, O!
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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