London Types: Sandwich-Man
An ill March noon; the flagstones gray with dust;
An all-round east wind volleying straws and grit;
St. Martin's Steps, where every venomous gust
Lingers to buffet, or sneap, the passing cit;
And in the gutter, squelching a rotten boot,
Draped in a wrap that, modish ten-year syne,
Partners, obscene with sweat and grease and soot,
A horrible hat, that once was just as fine;
The drunkard's mouth a-wash for something drinkable,
The drunkard's eye alert for causal toppers,
The drunkard's neck stooped to a lot scarce thinkable,
A living crawling blazoning of Hot-Coppers,
He trails his mildews towards a Kingdom-Come
Compact of sausage-and-mash and two-o'rum!
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Aint No Drunkard
Baby I aint no
Drunkard I've got
Self-control
Baby I aint no
Drunkard, I'm just
Addicted to alcohol
Baby I aint no
Drunkard on alcohol
I don't depend
Alcohol is just
My best friend
Baby I aint no
Drunkard its just
That simple
Baby I don't need
No crutch
Because I aint
No cripple
poem by Dorsey Baker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A drunkard is like a whisky bottle only neck and belly but no head.
A Drunkard Is A Madman
If you watch their steps
A drunkard is a madman
The wine kills their shame
poem by Efe Benjamin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Margerittea, He Butchered Her!
Widowed
A bundle of fire wood
At the market place, she sold
Her baby son, would be fed
Educated and sheltered.
Margerittea, now old,
Her baby son, grown, he had,
Her security, she had hoped
Lo! He, now man, a drunkard
Margerittea, still a bundle of firewood
She sold
This man! She fed
A night there was no food
The man, always a drunkard
Margerittea, he butchered
Margarittea, he cried
Searching for food
Margerittea, we wailed
A life without reward.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A drunkard in the gutter is just where he ought to be, according to the fitness and tendency of things. Nature has set upon him the process of decline and dissolution by which she removes things which have survived their usefulness.
quote by William Graham Sumner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The old friends met in a quiet starlit night
He hums his unwritten song
Who's a famous drunkard in the village.
It's a quiet starlit night
And stars twinkle to his sad rhythm.
Passing the isolated graveyard nearby a stable
He stopped for a while.
And his old friend speaks from a broken tomb;
'Hey! There October Moon peeps like your innocent Auschwitz fiancee
And how the crawling life goes on chum! '
Could you please pass me a non-filter cigarette
If you have any spare one? '
He thinks on his way to the lonely Inn
That his dumb friend never smoked before.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Then not only an old man, but also a drunkard, becomes a second time a child.
You can always tell a drunkard by his actions.
A red-nosed man may not be a drunkard, but he will always be called one.
The innkeeper loves the drunkard, but not for a son-in-law.
For a drunkard the sea only reaches his knees.
A drunkard is one thing, and a temperate man is quite another.
quote by Arthur Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He is a drunkard who takes more than three glasses though he be not drunk.
The innkeeper loves a drunkard, but not for a son-in-law.
The Rolling English Road
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire,
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread,
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Even the smallest drop is appreciated by the drunkard.