Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves
"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your pot?
How do you melt the multy swag?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You can not bank a single stag;
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL
It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Related quotes
I Don't Need The Booze
(toni dae/joy swines)
I've been known to tie one on and honky tonk til half past three
But the party don't get started til my baby pours her love on me
She's a hundred proof, lord she's smooth
She makes me moan all night long
So i don't need the booze to get a buzz on
I've tried it all from tennessee whiskey
To ozark mountain moonshine
But it's her sweet love that packs the punch
And keeps me higher than a georgia pine
Mr southern comfort don't come in a bottle
I get a double shot of love home grown
So i don't need booze to get a buzz on
My little country girl makes my head whirl and my knees begin to shake
No i can't walk no chalk line i ain't a talking or a thinking straight
I'm hooked on my baby's love there ain't nothing in a jug this strong
And i don't need the booze to get a buzz on
I've tried it all from tennessee whiskey
To ozark mountain moonshine
Bu it's her sweet love that packs the punch
And keeps me higher than a georgia pine
Mr southern comfort don't come in a bottle
I get a double shot of love home grown
So i don't need booze to get a buzz on
I wear a blue ribbon grin every now and then
But i don't need that to get stoned
I don't need the booze to get a buzz on
No i don't need the booze to get a buzz on
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solid Booze
And we are growing along spiritual lines
Will never mean we should stop to have big fun time
Oh oh oh
Should it be for the very first of all to pray
And to report it to your next in an effective way
But whatever our ideals turn to be
We must be willing to break it through
We must be willing to make amends where we
Ever have to put some harm on too
She is my she's my all
She is my all surrounding solid booze you know
She is my all surrounding solid booze you know
She is my all surrounding solid booze you know
And we are growing along the spiritual lines
Would never mean we should believe in all those
Different kinds
Oh oh oh
Could it be the very first of all to recognize
Its the better sense to take it once and give it twice
But whatever our ideals turn out to be
We should be willing to break it through
We should be willing to realize
That attitudes have got us too
She is my
She's my all
song performed by by Falco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Doughboy's Horace
Horace: Book III, Ode 9
"Donec eram gratus tibi--"
HORACE, PVT. --TH INFANTRY, A.E.F., WRITES:
While I was fussing you at home
You put the notion in my dome
That I was the Molasses Kid.
I batted strong. I'll say I did.
LYDIA, ANYBURG U.S.A., WRITES:
While you were fussing me alone
To other boys my heart was stone.
When I was all that you could see
No girl had anything on me.
HORACE:
Well, say, I'm having some romance
With one Babette, of Northern France.
If that girl gave me the command
I'd dance a jig in No-Man's Land.
LYDIA:
I, too, have got a young affair
With Charley--say, that boy is there!
I'd just as soon go out and die
If I thought it'd please that guy
HORACE:
Suppose I can this foreign wren
And start things up with you again?
Suppose I promise to be good?
I'd love you Lyd. I'll say I would.
LYDIA:
Though Charley's good and handsome--oh, boy!
And you're a stormy fickle doughboy,
So give the Hun his final whack,
And I'll marry you when you come back.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Bottle 'O
I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
I drives me bottle cart around the town;
A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob --
I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard,
There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro,
And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take 'em off their guard
And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!
Chorus --
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"
You can hear us round for half a mile or so
And you'll see the women rushing
To take in the Monday's washing
When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"
I'm driving down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes,
A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me,
An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose;
I stops the cart and walks across to see.
"There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge,"
"No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know
What right 'ave you to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge,
If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!"
I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me
We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay.
Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea
And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away.
But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "scrap",
There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw:
But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap"
There's nothing like an Empty Bottle-O!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The night wind
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
When folk should be asleep,
And many and many's the time I've cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?"
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
My mother told me long ago
(When I was a little tad)
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then, when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I'd think of what my mother'd said,
And wonder what boy she meant!
And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
That this was true I must allow -
You'll not believe it, though!
Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose, when you've been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away
From mother and the rest -
Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
And then you'll hear what's true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
poem by Eugene Field
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When U Drink Ur Booze
When u drink ur booze
N u drink it slow
N reach for the doorknob
N miss the whole do’
Ur not drunk, u just been drinkin
When u drink ur booze
N u drink it red
N reach for the pillow
N miss the whole bed
Ur not drunk, u just been drinkin
When u drink ur booze
N u drink it fast
N reach behind u
N can’t touch your own ass
Ur not drunk, ur wasted
poem by P.R. Prosper
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Each To His Or To Her Own
I only came into the pub for to have a quiet beer
But talk of football all I hear I ask what brought me here
And I thought there was more to life than talking of football
But with that at the Local Pub few would agree at all.
One fellow said my team doing well with stress on the word my
Methought he thinks he owns the team or so he seems to imply
And then he sang a line from the anthem of his club 'When the Saints go marching in'
His voice was booming loud and clear above the bar room din.
Suppose it beats talking of war or politics maybe
Though football a boring subject or so 'twould seem to me
But each to his or her own as they say and those words seem so true
And to them I seemed a boring man one of the unenlightened few.
One asked me what team do you barrack for mate, I said who win or lose
Won't matter much to you or I it won't pay for our booze
At which he only laughed aloud saying you must have a team
Or in your present company you are out of place 'twould seem.
Indeed I said how right you are on this we can agree
For you are you and I are I we see things differently
He shouted to the barman give the man a beer he's not a bad old boy
Though on a few important things we do not see eye to eye.
I bought him a beer before I left, thank you old boy he said
And he started to sing 'Good Old Collingwood' the booze had gone to his head
And as I walked out in the night the moon shone in the sky
And a boobook owl called on a gum in the Parkland nearby.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Premier and the Socialist
The Premier and the Socialist
Were walking through the State:
They wept to see the Savings Bank
Such funds accumulate.
"If these were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be great."
"If three financial amateurs
Controlled them for a year,
Do you suppose," the Premier said,
"That they would get them clear?"
"I think so," said the Socialist;
"They would -- or very near!"
"If we should try to raise some cash
On assets of our own,
Do you suppose," the Premier said,
"That we could float a loan?"
"I doubt it," said the Socialist,
And groaned a doleful groan.
"Oh, Savings, come and walk with us!"
The Premier did entreat;
"A little walk, a little talk,
Away from Barrack Street;
My Socialistic friend will guide
Your inexperienced feet."
"We do not think," the Savings said,
"A socialistic crank,
Although he chance just now to hold
A legislative rank,
Can teach experienced Banking men
The way to run a Bank."
The Premier and the Socialist
They passed an Act or so
To take the little Savings out
And let them have a blow.
"We'll teach the Banks," the Premier said,
"The way to run the show.
"There's Tom Waddell -- in Bank finance
Can show them what is what.
I used to prove not long ago
His Estimates were rot.
But that -- like many other things --
I've recently forgot.
"Advances on a dried-out farm
Are what we chiefly need,
And loaned to friends of Ms.L.A.
Are very good, indeed,
See how the back-block Cockatoos
Are rolling up to feed."
"But not on us," the Savings cried,
Falling a little flat,
"We didn't think a man like you
Would do a thing like that;
For most of us are very small,
And none of us are fat."
"This haughty tone," the Premier said,
"Is not the proper line;
Before I'd be dictated to
My billet I'd resign!"
"How brightly," said the Socialist,
"Those little sovereigns shine."
The Premier and the Socialist
They had their bit of fun;
They tried to call the Savings back
But answer came there none,
Because the back-block Cockatoos
Had eaten every one.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Old Main Drag
When I first came to london I was only sixteen
With a fiver in my pocket and my ole dancing bag
I went down to the dilly to check out the scene
And I soon ended up on the old main drag
There the he-males and the she-males paraded in style
And the old man with the money would flash you a smile
In the dark of an alley youd work for a fiver
For a swift one off the wrist down on the old main drag
In the cold winter nights the old town it was chill
But there were boys in the cafes whod give you cheap pills
If you didnt have the money youd cajole or youd beg
There was always lots of tuinol on the old main drag
One evening as I was lying down by leicester square
I was picked up by the coppers and kicked in the balls
Between the metal doors at vine street I was beaten and mauled
And they ruined my good looks for the old main drag
In the tube station the old ones who were on the way out
Would dribble and vomit and grovel and shout
And the coppers would come along and push them about
And I wished I could escape from the old main drag
And now Im lying here Ive had too much booze
Ive been shat on and spat on and raped and abused
I know that I am dying and I wish I could beg
For some money to take me from the old main drag
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who You Are
Someone's drinking all alone
Someone's left the TV on
I don't suppose, no I don't suppose
Someone's sleeping in my bed
Someone's let the genie in
I don't suppose, no I don't suppose
You know who you are
Who you are, who you are today
Baby's gone and died again
Taken by the tide again
And it's no surprise
She hates goodbyes
Someone's folding paper planes
Someone's on the line again
Someone's crying at the sonnet
Someone's hiding from someone
I don't suppose, no I don't suppose
You know who you are
Who you are, who you are today
song performed by by Tears For Fears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Booze
When I booze
I cruise into a world where I never win but loose
Losing momentarily every sight of my intellectual views
As I suffer from the undesirable up and down blues
Champagne, wine, beers and spirits I abuse
O! dear - There are so many alcoholic drinks to choose
And I speak of this as if it is news
But I do give the perfect snooze
While others stand by and accuse and provide undesirable reviews
When I booze
I hope my actions will be excused
For I could be a total screw
I know that this is bodily abuse
When I see one appear as threes or twos
And I talk like flies with their sounds of ooze
Leaving all those around me feeling very amused
When I booze
I become bold in the midst of my crews
Swimming in unearthly spews and in and out of loos
Demanding regularly my next mixture of alcoholic brew
I have even awoken to find myself covered in tattoos
And I'm always soberly left dazed and confused
As I try to digest and diffuse
But when I booze in moderation
Acquired is good health and life elongation
And I smile for I know
Tomorrow my livers will face no condemnation
And I shall stand and smile knowing that yesterday
I was no fool but rather I was a charming sensation
Copyright 2012 Sylvia Lovina Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did
426
It don't sound so terrible—quite—as it did—
I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "Dead."
Put it in Latin—left of my school—
Seems it don't shriek so—under rule.
Turn it, a little—full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest—
Shift it—just—
Say "When Tomorrow comes this way—
I shall have waded down one Day."
I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb
Like other new Things—shows largest—then—
And smaller, by Habit—
It's shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance—a Year—
How like "a fit"—then—
Murder—wear!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Glad To Live
With blues sung,
And the drinking of booze done...
Strung out I am now,
On life.
Habits and addicting vices,
Once craved to feed my appetite...
Are gone.
There are much fresher commitments,
I anticipate to visit.
With blues sung,
And the drinking of booze I use to do,
Done and not missed.
I am here!
And no longer curious...
about that happiness I use to fear,
I'd never know.
And I am glad to live to know and show,
This life within me I've got!
Oh yes,
I am glad to live!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Little Guy
I know this little guy, he stands, oh so, about knee high.
He's got the cutest dimples on his cheery face,
Got a smile that lights up the whole place.
He's got the knack for chatter, he invites himself if you won't:
"I'll have that muesli bar please cause my brother don't."
Suppose to have a nap, and in the a tragic voice he confides,
"I was crying the whole time." Ok, please don't make me cry.
Apparently being bounced on the trampoline is hilarious,
But all I can think of is how dangerous.
Not enough sleep is constantly plaguing me,
But he don't care if in bed he's suppose to be.
In the middle of a rousing game of hide-and-seek,
He'll curl up and go to sleep.
Wish I could do just that, and live a bit more like him,
So unaware of all the dangers and troubles surrounding,
Spend a bit more time enjoying the little things
Get the chance to take them all in.
"Can I have a drink? " he toddles up the sink.
"Why of course, here's your drink."
Watch his little legs carry him off to some new adventure,
"You can't catch me! " wait, "I gotcha! "
You're running out of time, little guy,
If only you could stay knee-high.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Once Too Many Times
I had one too many
A thousand would'nt be enough
Yesterday is gone
Today is a new day
Insanity! go away
I've accepted the things I can't change
If tragedy hits
Life is the pits
So don't turn to booze
You'll surely lose
I can't drown my sorrows
In booze no more
I'm gonna hit a meeting
Instead of a liquor store
I'm sick and tired of living in pain
Sick and tired of living in shame
I must change my ways
Before I go insane
So young lads
Please, don't tread on the rocks, I stumbled on
Don't be a boozer
Sure enough
You will be a loser
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Mulligan's Mare
Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place
To drink, and to fight, and to gamble and race;
The height of choice spirits from near and from far
Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar.
There was "Jerry the Swell", and the jockey-boy Ned,
"Dog-bite-me" -- so called from the shape of his head --
And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang,
Designated the "Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang".
Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show,
A bad un to look at, a good un to go;
Whenever they backed her you safely might swear
She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare.
But Mulligan, having some radical views,
Neglected his business and got on the booze;
He took up with runners -- a treacherous troop --
Who gave him away, and he "fell in the soup".
And so it turned out on a fine summer day,
A bailiff turned up with a writ of "fi. fa.";
He walked to the bar with a manner serene,
"I levy," said he, "in the name of the Queen."
Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law,
To pay out the bailiff with "one on the jaw";
He drew out to hit him; but ere you could wink,
He changed his intention and stood him a drink.
A great consultation there straightway befell
'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell,
And the man with the head, who remarked "Why, you bet!
Dog-bite-me!" said he, "but we'll diddle 'em yet.
"We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack,
And put in her place the old broken-down hack;
The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear
The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare.
"So out with the racer and in with the screw,
We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do;
And if he gets nasty and dares to say much,
I'll knock him as stiff as my grandfather's crutch."
Then off to the town went the mare and the lad;
The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was "had";
But marched to the stall with a confident air --
"I levy," said he, "upon Mulligan's mare."
He watched her by day and he watched her by night,
She was never an instant let out of his sight,
For races were coming away in the West
And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best.
"Here's a slant," thought the bailiff, "to serve my own ends,
I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends:
'Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare
And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.'"
The races came round, and the crowd on the course
Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse,
And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense,
They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence.
But think of the grief of the bookmaking host
At the sound of the summons to go to the post --
For down to the start with her thoroughbred air
As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare!
They started, and off went the boy to the front,
He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt;
He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled,
Then gave her her head -- and she smothered the field.
The race put her owner right clear of his debts;
He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets,
He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf,
And gave him a hiding to keep for himself.
So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray,
Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay;
For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week
Is never to bet on a thing that can speak.
And whether you're lucky or whether you lose,
Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze,
And fortune in season will answer your prayer
And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Ballad of G. R. Dibbs
This is the story of G.R.D.,
Who went on a mission across the sea
To borrow some money for you and me.
This G. R. Dibbs was a stalwart man
Who was built on a most extensive plan,
And a regular staunch Republican.
But he fell in the hands of the Tory crew
Who said, "It's a shame that a man like you
Should teach Australia this nasty view.
"From her mother's side she should ne'er be gone,
And she ought to be glad to be smiled upon,
And proud to be known as our hanger-on."
And G. R. Dibbs, he went off his peg
At the swells who came for his smiles to beg
And the Prince of Wales -- who was pulling his leg
And he told them all when the wine had flown,
"The Australian has got no land of his own,
His home is England, and there alone."
So he strutted along with the titled band
And he sold the pride of his native land
For a bow and a smile and a shake of the hand.
And the Tory drummers they sit and call:
"Send over your leaders great and small;
For the price is low, and we'll buy them all
"With a tinsel title, a tawdry star
Of a lower grade than our titles are,
And a puff at a prince's big cigar."
And the Tories laugh till they crack their ribs
When they think how they purchased G. R. Dibbs.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Suppose a smile.
Suppose a smile.
Suppose it always, with a smile.
Suppose the sun to shine,
shine with a smile;
suppose the rain to fall and smile
smile at the earth;
the snow, with gentle smile,
protecting tender shoots;
suppose the wind to smile
mysteriously, about its secretwork;
suppose – that’s easy – flowers
to open with a smile; and
smile as they fade and wave farewell,
a smile that says, that’s how it is…
suppose some patient smiles:
as rain-forests say to those who cut them down,
you’ll live to regret this; here’s
your chance to learn;
suppose the desert sand to smile
and say, you took the trees, and now
I’m here; plant, call down rain, store, irrigate…
suppose the ice-cap, melting with sad smile,
saying, I did not choose…
suppose that Abraham, Moses, Christ, Mohammed
spoke their uncompromising, uncomfortable truths
always with a smile; a gentle smile;
a smile to say, I'm here, you're here to learn...
suppose the spear to smile,
hammered into pruning-hook..
suppose smile met with smile.
Suppose.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Grown-Up Talk
Half-Past-Six and I were talking
In a very grown-up way;
We had got so tired with running
That we did not want to play.
"How do babies come, I wonder,"
He said, looking at the sky,
"Does God mix the things together
An' just make it-like a pie?"
I was really not quite certain,
But it sounded very nice;
It was all that we could think of,
Besides a book said "sugar and spice."
Half-Past-Six said--He's so clever--
Cleverer than me, I mean...
"I suppose God makes the black ones
When the saucepan isn't clean."
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Merry Bloomin' Christmas! ! ! ! !
Now, I know that there's a recession
And the message is all 'doom and gloom',
But I really don't need to remind you
That it'll be Christmas soon!
So I don't want to hear "Bah! Humbug! "
Or "Christmas is cancelled this year! "
Let everything be tinsel and holly,
Sleigh bells and words of good cheer!
Yes, we've had to pull in our belts
(The bills still have to be paid)
But dig out last years decorations
And give cards that you've lovingly made.
No need for extravagant spending:
One good gift per head will suffice.
And I'm sure that, wrapped up in brown paper,
Your parcels will look just as nice.
And as for Christmas dinner -
Chicken nuggets will do for the meat!
After all, when the booze hits their systems
Your guests will be too drunk to eat!
In fact, if you take some sound advice
You'll be tanked up right through till next year.
I, in turn, plan to drink myself senseless -
Now, that's my idea of "good cheer"!
So, here's to you and yours, my friend!
Let all your burdens be light.
May your Christmas spirit be 40% proof
And your days be more merry than bright! ! !
poem by Dawn Ferrett
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