Lines On H---'s Foot
It may be you've seen her eyes,
Dark and deep like midnight skies;
You mayhap have seen them flash
Underneath the drooping lash,
And been dazzled by the light
Of those orbs, so dark and bright;
But-have you seen her foot,
In its little gaiter boot?
You have noticed, maybe, how
The lily spreads from chin to brow.
You have thought her cheek more fair
Than if roses lingered there;
(Roses would seem out of place
On her pale patrician face)
But-again I question you,
Have you seen her tiny shoe?
You have thought her mouth, no doubt,
Like a blush-rose half blown out;
Small and sweet, withal, beside,
Touched with scorn and curved with pride;
(Innate pride-not meant to chill)-
You have seen it there, and still-
Answer one more question, pray-
Have you seen her boot? I say.
Such a tiny, tiny thing,
Is that foot of which I sing;
No. 3 would hide it so
It could not be found, I know.
No. 2 must stand aside
All too long and large and wide,
No. 1
must
be the boot
For this maiden's little foot.
You may envy, sir, the clerk
In the shoe-store, hard at work,
Who tries the gaiter boot
On this cunning little foot.
On his knee, supporting it,
Saying, 'It's a perfect fit,'
Buttoning on the No. 1,
Looking sorry, when it's done.
You have seen her, slight and neat,
As she tripped along the street,
You have
heard
the pit-pat-fall
Of that foot so very small.
That she's fair, and pure, and good,
Bright, and sweet is understood,
But-have you
seen
that foot-
In its dainty gaiter boot?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Related quotes
Is Bliss then, such Abyss
340
Is Bliss then, such Abyss,
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?
I'd rather suit my foot
Than save my Boot—
For yet to buy another Pair
Is possible,
At any store—
But Bliss, is sold just once.
The Patent lost
None buy it any more—
Say, Foot, decide the point—
The Lady cross, or not?
Verdict for Boot!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Straw Foot
I guess you didnt hear me
When I told you for the first time
Well dont you worry
It wont be the last
All I need a floorboard
An a wooden shoe
Step aside an let my lady through
Hey foot, straw foot
Low we lay em down
Hey foot, straw foot
Up an back around
See the high priest
He took my place
When the judge looks to me
He saw his sons face
Not gonna join you in
Your tower of babble, boy
Tired o that talkin
Im sick o that noise
Hey foot, straw foot
Low we lay em down
Hey foot, straw foot
Coverin ground
Im not alone
An looks can be deceivin
When we get down to it
Youre talkin when you
Should be leavin
Ive been to nebraska
It reminded me of spain
All the questions loaded
All my answers same
Hey foot, straw foot
Low we lay em down
Hay foot, straw foot
Coverin ground
Let us not mince our words
Lets say it true this time
I need your forgiveness
Just like you need mine
Tell me how it is that
You dont want what hes given
It aint no sin son
To be forgiven
Hey foot, straw foot
Low we lay em down
Hey foot, straw foot
All over town
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A foot soldier
When I was hurt & lost someone dear
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
When the going got tough with nothing to gear
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
when the faith felt small & doubts really bigger
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
When the sky was dark & nothing seemed near
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
when the wounds were hurting with no immediate cure
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
when the hopes were grim & nothing was clear
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
When storms came hard striking some fear
I did go on because I am a foot soldier
I fought & fought & I fought till the victory was sure
Yes, I could do it because I am a foot soldier
poem by Ameya Deshpande
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Whose Boot Is It Anyway?
Alone & footless,
Sideswiped on the highway,
South of Grand Canyon,
The boot weathers the rain.
Whose feet had felt its pain?
The absent man hurdled from a car,
Dead, now a ghost among the juniper flat.
Gone now, but a pariah to his own left boot's wall.
A bum, a hectic gambler, a heretic,
Or just some dozing motorist;
Another question remains;
Was the little white cross sticking out of the pavement
His? Or was that happenstance,
Laced up to the top, some unlikely chance?
No man is here.
Yet a man was there.
A man who lost his life & line,
Leaving one boot as a puzzle to find.
It gives me a chasm of a feeling,
& at 80 mph my mind is reeling,
Where in all this wilderness
Is the fellow with at least one bare foot
& what fate did he meet?
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Keep the Boot
My foot finally struck,
Upon you in a place...
I promised you it would land.
And with that imprinted there,
And in your mind...
I hope where 'something' cements,
Let us remember the day you dared.
And your eyes,
Glistening with a stare.
And opening wider...
As you were not prepared,
For the swift arrival of my foot...
Up in your der·ri·ère.
Are there any more bets you would like to place?
You should know by now,
I do all I can to keep my promises.
Keep the boot.
I have a new pair.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fannie
Fannie has the sweetest foot
Ever in a gaiter boot!
And the hoyden knows it,
And, of course, she shows it-
Not the knowledge, but the foot-
Yet with such a modest grace,
Never seems it out of place,
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or wickeder than Fannie.
Fannie has the blackest hair
Of any of the village girls;
It does not shower on her neck
In silken or coquettish curls.
It droops in folds around her brow,
As clouds, at night, around the moon,
Looped with lilies here and there,
In many a dangerous festoon.
And Fannie wears a gipsy hat,
Saucily-yes, all of that!
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or wickeder than Fannie.
Fannie wears an open dress-
Ah! the charming chemisette!
Half concealing, half revealing
Something far more charming yet.
Fannie draper her breast with lace,
As one would drape a costly vase
To keep away mischevious flies;
But lace can't keep away one's eyes,
For every time her bosom heaves,
Ah, it peepeth through it;
Yet Fannie looks the while as if
Never once she knew it.
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or innocent than Fannie.
Fannie lays her hand in mine;
Fannie speaks with naivete,
Fannie kisses me, she does!
In her own coquettish way.
Then softly speaks and deeply sighs,
With angels nestled in her eyes.
In the merrie month of May,
Fannie swears sincerely
She will be my own wife,
And love me dearly, dearly
Ever after all her life.
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
As my true-hearted Fannie.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Being Tall
Those men who are considered tall,
defined as more than five foot nine,
are smarter than the ones who’re small.
that’s less than five foot nine. That’s fine
by me, for I was, in my prime,
a little more than five foot ten,
and though I’ve shrunk, it’s not yet time
for me to join the little men
who’re under five foot nine, becoming
less smart than I was when I stood
as tall as smart men, not down dumbing
myself so I’d be understood
by those who are so tiny that
they cannot follow mighty minds
of those who’re tall. Nobility
of soul I claim so long as I
retain with my virility
the size that girls like in a guy,
not small but smart. I’ll deal with fat
in my next poem. Big behinds
don’t correlate with smartness but
that topic is on my agenda
in what I'll call 'Of Brain and Butt, ”
which is a head and tail rear-ender.
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Yo' Bootay to Hoottang Boot
Youcanbuttonupyourcollarfromthebottomtothetop.
So-no-onebothersyouforwhatyou'vegot.
Pretendi ngyou'vegotsomethingyouhavenot.
Or-youcoul dchoosetokeepitlockeduptight.
So-youdon'thavet odropittofeedanappetite.
It's-yo'bootayhoottan gtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
It's yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
Letothersm isunderstandyourstimulationindebate.
Inplayerh atecasestheywannamandate.
Letothersdecidewhosi detoride...
Withwideyedliestheytrytohide.
I t's-yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
It's yo'bootayhoottangtopootang,
Whoyouchoosetoscrewandboot.
It's-yo'bo otaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
It's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
Youcanbuttonupyourcollarfromthebottomtoth etop.
So-no-onebothersyouforwhatyou'vegot.
Pretendingyou'vegotsomethingyouhavenot.
It 's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
It's-yo'bootaytohoottang,
Whoyoupootang.
Hoot!
Letothersmisunderstandyourstimulationinde bate.
Inplayerhatecasestheywannamandate.
Le tothersdecidewhosidetoride...
Withwideyedliest heytrytohide.
It's-yo'bootayhoottangtopoot ang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
oooowww....
Boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
oooowww....
Boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
oooowww....
Boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
Yo'bootay to hoottang...boot!
oooowww....
Boot!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Give Me No More Booty
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
Ah
Booty is too good
Ah
Your booty is too good.
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
I can never stop,
When you give it out a lot.
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
Giving me so much,
Makes my head get such a rush.
I can't sustain my game with it!
Or sustain my need to be relieved.
I'm whipped!
Quick.
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
Ah
Booty is too good
Ah
Your booty is too good.
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
I can never stop,
When you give it out a lot.
I'm no beast to eatcha.
When you are in heat.
I'd rather just keep ya...
Between sheets,
Beneath.
Oh,
I'm no beast to eatcha.
When you are in heat.
I'd rather just keep ya...
Between sheets,
Beneath.
Oh,
But...
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
Ah
Your booty is too good
Ah
Your booty is too good.
Give me no more booty,
'Cause your booty is too good.
I can never stop,
When you give it out a lot.
You make it hard...
To give that booty a boot.
Make it hard,
To give that booty a boot.
You make it hard...
To give that booty a boot.
Make it hard,
To give that booty a boot.
You make it hard...
To give that booty a boot.
Make it hard,
To give that booty a boot.
You make it hard...
To give that booty a boot.
Make it hard,
To give that booty a boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
Got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
Got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
Got to,
Get up off your booty and boot.
I've got to,
Get up off your booty.
Get up off your booty.
Get up off your booty.
And boot!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walking
Take your left foot,
Bend the knee.
Move the foot forward.
Place it down.
Then do the same thing,
Wth the right foot.
'Suppose I started with my right foot?
Would that make a difference? '
Try it and see which makes you feel comfortable.
'I like this.'
Now...
Don't be frightened.
But next week,
'We' are going to attempt to do this...
From a standing position.
One moment.
Do you have a question.
~Yes.
Is it possible you can slow down a little.
I am taking notes and you are going too fast.~
No problem.
'What are you calling this? '
~Right.
What is this called? ~
Walking.
~Do you mind spelling that? ~
W-a-l-k-i-n-g.
Walking.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Boots
INFANTRY COLUMNS
We're foot--slog--slog--slog--sloggin' over Africa --
Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin' over Africa --
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an'-tw enty mile to-day --
Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before --
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Don't--don't--don't--don't--look at what's in front of you.
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again);
Men--men--men--men--men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Try--try--try--try--to think o' something different --
Oh--my--God--keep--me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Count--count--count--count--the bullets in the bandoliers.
If--your--eyes--drop--they will get atop o' you!
(Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again) --
There's no discharge in the war!
We--can--stick--out--'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But--not--not--not--not the chronic sight of 'em --
Boot--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
'Taint--so--bad--by--day because o' company,
But night--brings--long--strings--o' forty thousand million
Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!
I--'ave--marched--six--weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It--is--not--fire--devils, dark, or anything,
But boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Free Verse
I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!
poem by Robert Graves
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With A Slacking Done To Piggyback
With a slacking done to piggyback.
Some boot the doer,
Strapped in a saddle and allowing that.
Some boot the doer,
All day long.
And showing strength,
With a disposition strong.
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Slapped and smacked back...
Some boot the doer.
Pity patters chit chat.
Some boot the doer.
And all day long...
Showing strength is the doer.
The doer shows strength and is strong.
Que cherche-tu mais oui beaucoup...
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
It's true.
Very much of this if you look for it.
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
And quick!
Strapped in a saddle and allowing that.
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
With a slacking done to piggyback.
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Slapped and smacked back...
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
Que cherche-tu mais oui beaucoup...
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
It's true.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Left Foot, Right Foot
left foot, right foot,
left foot, right foot,
eyes fixed straight ahead....
drawn by the spectre
of our own greed;
use it up, throw it out,
use it up, throw it out....
hardened and lifeless,
eaten from within
by the maggots of ego...
deaf to the cries
of our own children,
blinded by the 'God'
of cyber technology...
strip the fields,
cut down the forests...
mine the mountains,
we pee in our own
drinking water, and
walk away....
leaving nuclear tracks
in the womb of time.
left foot, right foot,
left foot, right foot...
marching blindly to hell
with drool on our chins!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I remember feeling that technology was like trying to draw with your foot. In a ski boot. It was the most indirect way to work imaginable, but the potential had us all excited. I started in stop motion.
quote by Chris Wedge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Foot On The Path
You say, come over baby, come talk to me
Then you drive me so crazy
I cant hardly see
If this keeps goin on
I might just leave and not come back
I got one foot in your doorway
I got one foot on the path
Well you beg me to stay
Then you order me to go
All this up and down
Is wear and tear on my soul
Im wonderin if our future
Is gonna look just like our past
I got one foot in your doorway
I got one foot on the path
Now I love you, baby
Dont get me wrong
But this heart of mine
May not be that strong
You got me on your line
Reel me in or throw me back
I got one foot in your doorway
I got on foot on the path
Youd best thing about it, baby
But dont take too long
If we cant get it right
Ill just be movin on
I cant wait forever
For us to get this thing on track
I got one foot in your doorway, baby
I got on foot on the path
song performed by by Kenny Wayne Shepherd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Car Boot
They sleep in twos and eights
With hopes and expectations
Pornographic dreams of cleanliness
Car boot
Tip tap little star
I hope that you are not thirsty
My vision has evaporated
Car boot
The giants house is burning
Smoke invades the eyes
Goodnight my dear cretin
Car boot
poem by James Clive
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Warned
They stood at the garden gate.
By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
In a little thing he did.
He plucked a beautiful flower,
Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower,
And held it against his face.
Drank in its beauty and bloom,
In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
And dust of the garden walk.
Ay, trod it under his foot,
As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
Because it had ceased to be fair.
Ah! the maiden might have read
The doom of her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
And thought him the king of men.
She looked in his eyes and blushed,
She hid in his strong arms' fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
And spurned, was once more told.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Boot and Saddle
I
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,
Chorus. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
II
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—
Chorus. "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
III
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
Chorus. "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
IV
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?
Chorus. "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
poem by Robert Bloomfield from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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