Bobs
(Field Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar)
There's a little red-faced man,
Which is Bobs,
Rides the talliest 'orse 'e can --
Our Bobs.
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
'E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both 'is ears --
Can't yer, Bobs?
Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur -- little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
'E's our pukka Kandaharder --
Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
'E's the Dook of Aggy Chel;
'E's the man that done us well,
An' we'll follow 'im to 'ell --
Won't we, Bobs?
If a limber's slipped a trace,
'Ook on Bobs.
If a marker's lost 'is place,
Dress by Bobs.
For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat,
An'a a bugle in 'is throat,
An'you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.
'E's a little down on drink
Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink --
Don't it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho' 'e's water on the brain,
If 'e leads us straight again --
Blue-light Bobs.
If you stood 'im on 'is head,
Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart ot lead
Outer Bobs.
'E's been at it thirty years,
An-amassin' soveneers
In the way o' slugs an' spears --
Ain't yer Bobs?
What 'e does not knowv o'war,
Gen'ral Bobs,
You cun arst the shop next door --
Can't they, Bobs?
Oh, 'e's little but he's wise;
'E's terror for' is size:,
An' -- 'e -- does -- not -- advertize --
Do yer, Bobs?
Now they 've made a blooimin 'Lord
Ou ter Bobs,
Which was but 'is fair reward --
Wheren't it, Bobs?:
So ell wear a coronet
W'here 'is 'elmet used to set;
But we know you won't forget --
Will yer, Bobs?
Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur -- little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs,
Pocket-Wellin'ton 'an arder --
Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
This ain't no bloomin' ode,
But you've 'elped the soldier's load,
An' for benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Bobs!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Related quotes
Bobs Party Time Lounge
Glad you came, glad youre here.
Have some champagne, imported beer.
Dig down in your dirt bag
And roll us out a spleef.
Been erect here now for thirteen days
And I came to get relief
At bobs party time.
Pack my nose with cocaine
Feed my filthy hole.
Bust out the dancin women
Im prone to lose control.
And if by chance I fall down
And bust my head on the floor,
Just wrap my wound in a porterhouse steak
And point me towards the shore.
At bobs party time.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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sound of waves
a boat bobs up
and down the sky
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Global Warming
so it's true we
shall perish by fire
even the ice of the poles
has shuddered
from the heat
whispered a sad note
and cracked
and slowly it bobs
up and down
reprising another
mankind's ice
cold destiny
humanity
to drown
in a few more
degrees of warmth
the sea refuses
to give way
and the sun
closes in on them
like hell
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Inevitable
At the beginning of the week
A strictly rigid path I seek,
And vow the only state for me,
In finance, is stability;
I sternly view all borrowing
As an absurd and evil thing.
But, as old Time slips by on skids,
And, with him sundry 'bobs' and 'quids,'
And my financial state gets low,
With pay-day still some laps to go,
I have to own - twixt me and you
It is inevitable, too.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Playing At Bob Cherry
Playing at bob cherry
Tom and Nell and Hugh:
Cherry bob! cherry bob!
There's a bob for you.
Tom bobs a cherry
For gaping snapping Hugh,
While curly-pated Nelly
Snaps at it too.
Look, look, look -
Oh what a sight to see!
The wind is playing cherry bob
With the cherry tree.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Extent of Cookery
Aliusque et idem.
(Another and the same).
When Tom to Cambridge first was sent,
A plain brown bob he wore;
Read much, and look'd as though he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's-Inn repair,
His resolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the House,
And soon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags! give place;
Full bottoms come instead;
Good L-d! to see the various ways
Of dressing-a calf's head!
poem by William Shenstone
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The Extent of Cookery
Aliusque et idem.
Explanation.
Another and the Same.
When Tom to Cambridge first was sent,
A plain brown bob he wore;
Read much, and look'd as though he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's-Inn repair,
His resolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the House,
And soon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags! give place;
Full bottoms come instead;
Good L-d! to see the various ways
Of dressing-a calf's head!
poem by William Shenstone
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Are you familiar with the 'Nana Nap'?
Are you familiar with, the Nana Nap?
Have you yourself fell victim to its pull?
The head bobs down, tho' not quite to your lap
as conversation changes to your drool.
These senior moments when the lights go out
and dentures dangle from the pink abyss.
The REMs confirm, there is no doubt
and from the nether regions, there's a hiss.
And all this happens unexpectedly
when you pretend to listen with intent.
As consciousness returns, it's plain to see
you're thinking 'Shit! I wonder what they meant! ! '
With confidence you combat the surprise...
'Och no dear, I was just resting my eyes'.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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If Johnny Only Had An Eight Inch Foot
I remember being in elementary school,
And on the very first day of fifth grade...
The teacher said to us,
'Always know this...
No question asked is a stupid one.'
We all looked at each other.
To then compete to ask,
Some of the most stupidest questions...
We could create she could not possibly answer.
Because we all lived in a low income project,
It was believed we were deprived of intelligence as well.
And we, then, as children...
Did not want to disappoint her expectations.
'If two shoes were on the wrong foot,
Would that be twelve or twenty-four inches missed...
If Johnny only had an eight inch foot? '
~I don't know.
Is there a Johnny in the classroom? ~
'No!
We only have Mikes and Bobs.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lust Unseats Love in Modern Life
In a small circle they moved in the past
And lean books they read and got fit to jobs.
As good they were, love till the end did last.
Now one's love another man plans and robs.
From the dawn, everywhere life is fast
To harm the good, evil gathers in mobs.
A lover to Sciences be an outcast.
So rein your lovely heart that often bobs.
Till you settle down, deny access to love
and to shut the door to glances make a vow.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Owl House Blues
The spotted owl
Let out a howl!
(Being a Howl Owl
Not a Hoot Owl)
"I'm being treated most fowl!
"Bunyan Bobs
Worry about jobs,
While baby owls
Tote teary towels
From homeless sobs!
"They don't give a hoot
When we have a scoot!
We catch their mice
And treat them nice,
And, we get the boot!"
"They call Us a thief,
Never mind our grief!
We'll be out
In a treeless rout
And maybe called chief!
poem by Hugh Wallace
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London Types: Mounted Police
Army Reserve; a worshipper of Bobs,
With whom he stripped the smock from Candahar;
Neat as his mount, that neatest among cobs;
Whenever pageants pass, or meetings are,
He moves conspicuous, vigilant, severe,
With his Light Cavalry hand and seat and look,
A living type of Order, in whose sphere
Is room for neither Hooligan nor Hook.
For in his shadow, wheresoe'er he ride,
Paces, all eye and hardihood and grip,
The dreaded Crusher, might in his every stride
And right materialized girt at his hip;
And they, that shake to see these twain go by,
Feel that the Tec, that plain-clothes Terror, is nigh.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Butterflies And Kites...Goodnight
Balloons on strings,
Sailing, bouncing June
Into July kites skimming
Tails like afternoon
Mosquito hawks on quiet
Water. There! The butterfly
Making its rounds of
Moonflowers' snow petals
Enticing emerald hummingbirds,
Giant moths soundlessly
Fluttering topaz and ruby
Wings. Again! The butterfly
Dips, bobs angel-blue wings.
Balloons, kites, put away
For the night. Hummingbirds,
Butterflies vanish....
There is peace....
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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Scenes of the Brokenhearted
I.
His arm falls across her like a broken limb
over a stream. Their legs wind like roots around,
she feels his breathing slow to a dreaming
rhythm. His breath is warm on her neck
II.
If you kill an ant near its colony
the others will come for the body
If you crush the ones who come
more will follow
III.
The grass on the golf course
can see over fences
IV.
The quarry plummets in large, orderly steps.
From a distance it seems he could just step
right down into the rock
V.
The tiny bird flaps rapidly and then, pinning
its wings to its side, plummets.
It bobs
through the maze of naked branches
like a yo-yo. She knows what it feels in its stomach, why
it lets itself fall like that for
just a moment
in the air
poem by Kelly E Gemmill
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Warmth
The days warm wraps itself...
Secure in this heat---
Cozy and at ease-in the sun...
But my yawn betrays me--
As sleep is beckoning me...
As my eyelids droop--
Halfway over my green...
Wanting to shut completely;
My head bobs-quickly abrupt--
And for a second i sleep;
Back awake immediately-on alert...
Wide-eyed but not bushy tailed! ! !
Not wanting to miss--
The days tender kiss...
From the Sun--
Before day is done;
The warm engulfs me once again--
Like a comforter...
Or patchwork quilt...
Oft' used in the Winter;
It is here...
I finallly succumb...
To the sun;
For: The Cats In The Cradle
August,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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Signs Of Winter
The cat runs races with her tail. The dog
Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.
The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,
Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack.
Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow
Unceremonious visit pays and croaks,
Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl
Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon,
As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild
And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel
A circle round the village and soon, tired,
Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste
Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes
And laughing hurry in to keep them dry.
poem by John Clare
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Everybody's A Critic
Oh, to pontificate
on parakeets and poetry
Of birds and words
Of posting and tweets
Of prose and bird beaks
Desk chairs and perches
Of cuttlebone and corn pone
Comments and peeps
Perusal of newspapers
In search of inspiration
Silly words, unruly rythme
seeds plucked from my lips
replacing newspaper
in bottom of cages
Little swings, tiny bells
Head bobs and nips
Beady little bird eyes
Watch, shine and glitter
My green and blue critics
My inspiration wreckers
Reading what I write…
They give in to titter
My boon companions
With little pointy peckers
poem by David Whalen
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Museum Of The City Of...
It beats Keats for frozen motion-
this gelatin-silver 8 by 12 glossy
from nineteen seventy eight or seventy nine
(ancient history in American time-
why, James Schuyler was alive and living at the Chelsea!) ,
of frogmen dropt from a low-hovering chopper
down into a stream of turgid riverwater
two, just off, suspended giddily in mid-air,
fuselage portals yawning wide behind,
one on either side, neatly clearing the skids,
like dancers in an aerial dance,
or human hieroglyphs
eternally outspread-while a third,
sleek noggin bobs below, already down in the drink,
(this, not, mind you, being the sea,
since off on the distant, further shore repines
the faint exosketeton of Queens;
and there where the isle of Manhattan nearest draws
it's Queenly Abydos-the ghostly tracery of
the Hellsgate.
Behind their...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Nothin' To Say
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!
Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me--
Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?
You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;
And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:
Like her, too, about _livin_' here,--because _she_ couldn't stay:
It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page--
And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.
I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away--
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!
And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not '_twenty_!' When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?
... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!
There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round.
(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Little Romance
A Little Romance
Bob and MaryAnn walked in hand in hand
To listen to the band
That night they danced damn near all the songs the band played
Bobs knee hurt so bad
It was New Years Eve
MaryAnn couldn’t believe Bob never once complained
Just for her twice that night he got on the stage
And sang
MaryAnn felt like a warm summer rain
Washed her heart free of pain
And all her worries went down the drain
When Bob sang and played his guitar
In that smoked filled bar
Where they danced enjoying a little romance
That night while they were dancing around the room
MaryAnn felt like she was swinging on a crescent moon
With her hand she could reach to touch the stars
Looking down she could see
The traffic the cars
poem by E.Marie AldrichCreasy
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