Lines on London
They once in wilderness did ride
On beast with horn and shaggy hide-
A savage goat or unicorn,
But now parade in uniform ;
As gay as ancient Knight or Lord,
With their grand plumes, and belt and swords.
Their graceful movements at their drill
Doth all with admiration fill,
And the chief glory it was won
By the encampment of London ;
For they at every tournament
For drill are the chief ornament.
So skillfully they sword do wield,
Victorious on every field ;
For victory's graven on their shield
Doth make their rivals for to yield ;
Drill companies they out maneuver
From Newfoundland to Vancouver.
poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Drill Baby Drill
DRILL BABY DRILL
“Oh-oh say can you see”
Any beach-sand oil free
This pollution debris
A gift from corporate B P
DRILL BABY DRILL
This sea-borne disaster
Oil hardened like plaster
Needs a plug-the-leak master
To stop the oil gushing faster
DRILL BABY DRILL
Beautiful pelican creatures
Once with beautiful winged features
Now bogged down in oily slime
No longer enjoy their flying time
DRILL BABY DRILL
B P drilling for profits and dividends
Caused havoc with too many of natures friends
Along with much of the seafaring life
Who share the pelicans’ oily strife
DRILL BABY DRILL
The Gulf of Mexico now in distress
Is due to B P’s preventable oil laden mess
We’ve only one planet so we better beware
No more DRILL BABY DRILL-give Earth its due care
poem by Stanley Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The fact is that we cannot drill our way to independence. We cannot drill our way to freedom, and we cannot drill our way to create jobs in this country.
quote by Jay Inslee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Time...
time
drills
into me
like a screw
inching into me
relentlessly
a trail of frayed edges
as it teaches me
to value him
like the tickler
mother has used
that leave behind
time-capsuled
wam memories
drill, drill, drill
drill into me
with your magic
giving me
your magic
in the form of
mother, brother, sister,
friend, heroes and heroines
as i try to keep up
with your adventure
both in and out
time runs, runs, runs
never waits for me
even when i'm
six feet underground
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Australia
I SEE a Land of desperate droughts and floods:
I see a land where Need keeps spreading round,
And all but giants perish in the stress:
I see a Land where more, and more, and more
The demons, Earth and Wealth, grow bloat and strong.
I see a Land that lies a helpless prey
To wealthy cliques and gamblers and their slaves,
The huckster politicians: a poor Land
That less and less can make her heart-wish law.
Yea, but I see a Land where some few brave
Raise clear eyes to the struggle that must come,
Reaching firm hands to draw the doubters in,
Preaching the gospel: 'Drill and drill and drill!'
Yea, but I see a Land where best of all
The hope of Victory burns strong and bright!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Drill
WHEN day's hard task's done,
Eve's scant meal partaken,
Out we steal each one,
Weariless, unshaken.
In small reeking squares,
Garbaged plots, we gather,
Little knots and pairs,
Brother, sister, father.
Then the Word is given.
In their silent places
Under lowering heaven,
Range our stern-set faces.
Now we march and wheel
In our clumsy line,
Shouldering sticks for steel,
Thoughts bitter as brine!
Drill, drill, drill, and drill!
It is only thus
Conquer yet we will
Those who've conquered us.
Patience, sisters, mothers!
We must not forget
Foiled dead fathers, brothers;
They must teach us yet.
In that Hour we see,
The Hour of our Desire,
What shall their slayers be?
As the stubble to the fire!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Sons Of Labour
GRAVE this deep in your hearts,
Forget not the tale of the past!
Never, never believe
That any will help you, or can,
Saving only Yourselves!
What have the Gentlemen done,
Peerless haters of wrong,
Byrons and Shelleys, what?
They stand great famous Names,
Demi-gods to their own,
Shadows far off, alien
To us and ours for ever.
Those who love them and hate
The crime, the injustice they hated,
What can they do but shout,
Win a name from our woes,
And leave us just as we were?
No, but resolutely turned,
Our wants, our desires made clear,
And clear the means that shall win them,
Drill and drill and drill!
Then when the day is come,
When the royal battleflag's up,
When blood has been spilled in vain
In timid half-hearted war,
Then let the Cromwell rise,
The simple, the true-souled Man;
Then let Grant come forth,
The calm, the determined Comrade,
But deep in their hearts one hate,
Deep in their souls one thought,
To bring the Iniquity low,
To make the People free!
Ah, for such as these,
We with the same heart-hate,
We with the same soul-thought,
Will fall to our destined places
In the ranks of the Great New Model,
In the Army that sees ahead
Marston, Naseby, Whitehall, The Wilderness, Petersburg — yes,
But beyond the blood and the smoke,
Beyond the struggle and death,
The Union victorious safe,
The Commonwealth glorious free!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Staff Meeting at Auschwitz
We dare not tell
the Fuehrer that
we failed to get
the rabbi's wife
to tell us where
the rabbi is so
now we have to
call the plumber.
Tell Old Franz
to bring his drill.
He has a way
with women.
Old Franz
will have to
rod this lady out
so we can ask her
once again
where the rabbi is
and if she still
won't tell us
Franz will have to
rod her out again.
Remember Mrs. Stein,
zaftig in her dirndl?
She wouldn't tell us
where the cantor
and his wife were
hiding till she saw
Old Franz's drill
and then she told us
where they were
and we found 30 more
silent in the attic.
If Mrs. Stein were
still alive, she'd tell
the rabbi's wife
about the drill
and that would
be enough to save
Old Franz a trip.
He's getting weary.
He had to use
a cane the night
he came to call
on Mrs. Stein.
poem by Donal Mahoney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nostril Noise
Do you not know...
you can also operate
on the nose u know...
to eradicate
that irritating
nostril noise
those thunderous claps
those cloudbursts of buzz saws
those bewailing banshee cries
those sirens ill sung upon pillow rocks
where only softly lapping waves should lull
where only silver sands of sleep should fall
where only waterfalls of dream love should flow
where only whispered pillow talk should soft caress
take out the liberating knife by all means...
a practiced cure is open heart surgery
for that feeble failing ailing heart...
but while he is asleep upon the table
and opportunity comes medically a knocking
drill out that boisterous problem fog horn nose
drill clear hose bent unruly problem passages
drill clear that insidious nostril night disorder
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
From: War Is Kind
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cavity Search
Listenin to the muzak
Hearin people scream
Sittin in the waiting room
Readin crappy magazines
With a toothache
This is it, pal
Root canal
My molars are impacted
Im gettin gum disease
Im gonna need some fillings
Got twelve cavities
Can you help me
Have mercy
Doctor, please
My teeth are a fright
Got a huge overbite
Numb me, drill me
Floss me, bill me
You jab at my nerve endings
Its driving me insane
Just give me nitrous oxide
Shoot me up with novocaine
Help me out here
cause Im in severe
Pain
Please stop for a bit
Now let me rinse and spit
Numb me, drill me
Floss me, bill me
You validate my parking
I think that Im okay
But you my one more appointment for
A week from saturday
cause you came upon
A little problem on
My x-ray
Oy vey!
Its getting absurd
Well, I hope Im insured, now
Numb me, drill me
Floss me, bill me
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Cells
I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick:
I've a mouth like an old potato, and I'm more than a little sick,
But I've had my fun o' the Corp'ral's Guard: I've made the cinders fly,
And I'm here in the Clink for a thundering drink
and blacking the Corporal's eye.
With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
And a beautiful view of the yard,
O it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard!"
Mad drunk and resisting the Guard --
'Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard."
I started o' canteen porter, I finished o' canteen beer,
But a dose o' gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.
'Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt;
But I fell away with the Corp'ral's stock
and the best of the Corp'ral's shirt.
I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,
And Lord knows where, and I don't care, my belt and my tunic goed;
They'll stop my pay, they'll cut away the stripes I used to wear,
But I left my mark on the Corp'ral's face, and I think he'll keep it there!
My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard,
It ain't that I mind the Ord'ly room -- it's ~that~ that cuts so hard.
I'll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
But as soon as I'm in with a mate and gin, I know I'll do it again!
With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
And a beautiful view of the yard,
Yes, it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard!"
Mad drunk and resisting the Guard --
'Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard."
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In my almost ten years in the House of Representatives, I have voted consistently to allow companies to drill for oil and natural gas in environmentally friendly ways.
quote by Virgil Goode
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
For A Lady Who Must Write Verse
Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well-
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.
Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride.
Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart.
When your pain must come to paper,
See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
Let it lick the words away.
Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, "Silly little thing!"
poem by Dorothy Parker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Peacekeeper
We make all of our suns the same
Every one will suffer the fire weve made
They all explode just the same
And theres no going back on the plans weve made
Peacekeeper take your time
Wait for the dark of night
Soon all the suns will rise
Peacekeeper dont tell why
Dont be afraid to fight
Love is the sweet surprise
Only creatures who are on their way
Ever poison their own well
But we still have time to hate
And theres still something we can sell
Chorus
When the night is cold and still
When you thought youd had your fill
Take all the time you will
This is not a test, its not a drill
Take no prisoners, only kill
You know all of our friends are gods
And they all tell us how to paint our face
But theres only one brush we need
Its the one that never leaves a trace
Chorus
When the night is cold and still
When you thought youd had your fill
This is not a test, its not a drill
Take no prisoners, only kill
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Brantford
In these sketches of towns in Western Ontario, we are not vain enough
to suppose that because we have produced some rhymes thereon
that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam,
like a dewdropp sparkling in the sun, it is all we dare hope for.
Brantford as thriving city's famed,
And after Indian chief is named ;
And here the sparkling Grand river,
It doth flow a joy forever.
Campbell, he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyonming's vale;
The tale one's mind doth ever haunt,
The cruelties of monster Brant.
But the chief's son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.
Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake,
When Brantford thinks of her namesake ;
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold, heroic name of Brant.
We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
Of the historic name of Brant.
The city's pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.
poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XX
IN vaine I seeke and sew to her for grace,
and doe myne humbled hart before her poure:
the whiles her foot she in my necke doth place,
and tread my life downe in the lowly floure.
And yet the Lyon that is Lord of power,
and reigneth ouer euery beast in field:
in his most pride disdeigneth to deuoure
the silly lambe that to his might doth yield.
But she more cruell and more saluage wylde,
then either Lyon or the Lyonesse:
shames not to be with guiltlesse bloud defylde,
but taketh glory in her cruelnesse.
Fayrer then fayrest let none euer say,
that ye were blooded in a yeelded pray.
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Habour: Victor And Vanquished
As one who long hath fled with panting breath
Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
I turn and set my back against the wall,
And look thee in the face, triumphant Death,
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
With armor shattered, and without a shield,
I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, but will not yield.
This is no tournament where cowards tilt;
The vanquished here is victor of the field.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet LIII
THe Panther knowing that his spotted hyde,
Doth please all beasts but that his looks the[m] fray:
within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,
to let them gaze whylest he on them may pray.
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play,
for with the goodly semblant of her hew:
she doth allure me to mine owne decay,
and then no mercy will vnto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so diuine in view,
made for to be the worlds most ornament:
to make the bayte her gazers to embrew,
good shames to be so ill an instrument.
But mercy doth with beautie best agree,
as in theyr maker ye them best may see.
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Marching Band
Marching at the football game
Gives me a sence of a unique fame
Peeking for the drummajors beat
Keeps us bound like an elite
Increasing the hours of our drill
Does not make us yearn to thrill
Spending time with the band
Makes the hot days seem grand.
poem by Brie Carter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!