The Villagers
Pop/du prey
The villagers are out tonight
Uptight and bored
Theyre pushing you
Underground
On wintry days they stand and gaze
Outlines in black and ignorant
Villagers
Dark shadows house a sleepy malice
In the backbrain
Of every body you meet
Man is the village animal
United by the glue
Of our loathsome qualities
We are sneaking peeping toms
In revolt against each other
The villagers are most insane
They live to die anonymous
And muted to... villagers
In revolt against the other
But not against the rules
So in the space age the village idiot rules
On tv for all to see while some good men
Walk the streets
Unh unh unh unh unh
The villagersssssss arghhh
You cant get lost you cant get lost
In the village of space you cant get lost
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Hound Of Bloody Night
There were a few villagers walking around at night
They heard a Howl from the Bloody Night Woods
They had no clue what could have made such a dreadful, shuddering shriek.
But as soon as they could realize what it was
It was too late.
A few days later the remaining villagers found the last remains the ignorant villagers.
The town sheriff said a few words of prayer to the remains of the young man at the looks of it. Then to the young baby. And last the priest.
As soon as they realized it was getting dark the last of the people who stayed and were possibly the family of the people were then gone as well for they didn’t here the howl.
poem by Nico Janik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Follow the villagers when you are in the new village.
Villagizing Their Villagicity
I'm not trying to disturb my peace.
I've been there before...
To give of myself and then some more.
But it takes a village of villagers,
With vlllageousness...
Villagizing their villagicity!
And without identity or a mindset agreed...
That village nonsense is an impossibility!
Since many would like to view it,
As a tribalistic thing.
You know...
With Tarzan swinging from a vine.
Swooping down from the heavens...
Looking tanned and Cary Grantish!
In full movie star splendor!
Seeing folks walking tall and being proud,
Is my ideal of a people in a village advancing.
Any other image...?
Flip it to the birds!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Shame On Humanity
'Pray God that you in next birth you remain childless'
The pain and agony was clearly seen on the villager's face
They had brought one old widow lady from the village
To her nephew's house when fell sick due to old age
The nephew shouted 'I don't know her please take back'
The villagers were shocked and taken a back
It was bolt from the blue and totally inhuman
He was directly descendent and related to old woman
We were all taken by surprise and lamented
He was unmoved and not in any way resented
It was an end of humanity and had lost all the relevance
He did not look back to old lady and left the place at once
I saw the death fear in old lady and just wept
She had given all her property to him and nothing was kept
It with only with one hope that he may take her care in old age
Where as he had inherited everything and now ended the bondage
The villagers were innocent and had brought lady in good faith
Now she was lying in taxi and waiting for last breath and death
I was watched her with so much of helplessness
The betrayal caused by nephew was clearly reflecting on face
The villagers provided her all relief by gracefully saying
'Remember almighty and wish that you have no such son staying away'
All people, who surrounded old woman, silently cursed
That nephew had no mercy at heart and failed to nurse
I came to know later on that old lady died on the way
But she had no remorse for her being pushed away
She had brought up that man when his parent had died
He was brought up with all the care but lastly he lied
What we comment on such behavior?
When person comes down so lower
Lower in thinking and with mean mentality
Certainly we can feel shame on humanity
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Deflower
Let us
wither
in our
remote village
And listen my old florist,
Your fingers are rough
As Blacksmith's
And it's really painful.
We have no intention
to exhilarate in your town showcases.
Village flowers belong to villagers
And not to cruel hands?
[You give but little when you give of your possessions.It is when you give of your heart that you truly give.-Unknown]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It's up to you for M lady Flora
The mist that crept in from the sea.
Advancing inexorably,
enveloped first the sandy beach.
Then well beyond the high tides reach
Invaded streets and avenues
the thoroughfares that people use.
To go about their business.
A wet and cold unpleasantness.
Which nobody had seen before
at least along that friendly shore.
Exuding sheer hostility
as if the demons of the sea.
Deciding that humanity.
had forfeited their right to be.
Had gathered there with one intent
to prove the sea omniscient.
The villagers were sore afraid
some cursed and swore while others prayed.
Though neither made much difference.
Against such mist there’s no defence.
The village disappeared from sight.
Hid by a mist as black as night.
When morning broke there was no one.
No body left to greet the sun.
Now to this day the village stands
although nobody understands.
What happened on that dreadful night
when the sea fret absorbed the light.
No one survived to tell the tale.
Enough to make the bravest quail.
Perhaps you think I’m telling lies
But you will find to your surprise.
If you should choose to visit me
from my front window you can see.
The evidence that what say
A village empty to this day.
Nobody dares to move into
the empty village and renew
a single house in which to live.
Because of legends kept alive.
By older folks who can recall
the night the demons came to call.
If you should wish to you could buy
the whole village and you could try.
To sell the houses one by one
if you’re convinced it can be done.
I think your work would be in vain
What happened once could come again.
To local folks it is taboo
and there is nothing you can do.
but try to sell to foreigners
Who do not know about the curse.
I own the site and I would sell
quite cheaply and I’d wish you well
If you’re prepared to take the chance
There’s been a change of circumstance.
For there are profits to be made.
Maybe the mist will not invade
maybe the tales I tell aren’t true
what you believe is up to you.
I am too old to change my ways
and I prefer to end my days
believing as I’ve always done.
This village should left alone.
24-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Village Idiot
Did you see the lad, on the corner
He was standing drinking wine
Wears his overcoat in the summer
And short sleeves in the winter time
Takes his holidays, down at the bookies
Well he knows how to pick a horse
Village tramping round the countryside
He wears a smile, but he doesnt say much
Village idiot, hes complicated
Village idiot, simple mind
Village idiot, he does know something
But hes just not saying
Dont you know hes onto something
You can see it, you can see it in his eyes
Sometimes he looks so happy
As he goes strolling by
Oh village idiot, hes complicated
Village idiot, hes got a simple mind
Village idiot, must know something
But hes just not saying
Well you all know hes onto something
You can see it in his eyes
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by
Sometimes he looks so happy
When he goes walking by.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
041410f Eat, Drink And Clean Up
men are helping conductor to load up
my bag is still hanging there innocently
villagers came with trinkets and food
they are selling, boiled corn, sweet
potato, banana, chicken on stick, drinks
they are buying, it must be good but me
we have rested almost twenty minutes
their faces are brighter now than few
minutes ago, villagers also made money
i also wash my face; still brown thru n thru
i didn't tried their food nor their drinks
i have my orange juice bottle and sandwich
poem by Manonton Dalan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Village
In the village where I usually stroll along and live
An ominous plot against me is put into high contrive
These villagers do not like whoever is not rich as their glamour
They hold deep rancor to whoever does not march and sing their hummer
I would not let you for long guess or think
What would happen if into their hand a silk noose will sink
Upon my fragile neck they will happily let it fall
As they push and tight me against an ancient stone wall
Once when my leg by the river was broken
No one stopped by to offer any help or even a token
Beneath an old oak by the village side
I sat in long weeping, in the whole village wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept
And so for hours under summer heat I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
Dry and cold as my immense fears
The other time when walking down village streets
A guy pass me by and kicked my butt as a treat
He laughed and encouraged his fellow to follow the same drag
But the other wished he could, since he was missing a leg
Those people of village friendly and kind
Those who will not put an obstacle out of a mockery sooth
In front of my legs since practically in truth
They are themselves disabled blind
And those who will not mock
Me are simply dumb, they use their look
And around they go to hide behind a rock
With some friends who are deaf and cannot rebuke
Oh gentle folks of hostess village who owe a grudge
To my calm and unintegrated distant existence
Stay on your own hellish folish trudge
In spite of my unprovoking persistence
Copy rights 2010
All rights resereved
Giorno dei Morti
Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . .
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
The coming of the chanting choristers
Between the avenue of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Service of all the Dead
Between the avenues of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round, dark heads of men crowd silently
And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels
With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers
Between the avenues of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cannibal and Dhieu
Lion cannibal came
With three cubs
In evening to Dhieu home
Hide in shade of cattle byre
When wife took cooked bean to
Dhieu In byre
Cannibal attacked her
She poured down bean
She cried
Dhieu came out of byre
Cannibal attacked him too
Within three minutes Dhieu and
His wife were dead
Villagers rushed in
Cannibal and three cubs ran away
In dry season
Rainmaker was called in
To make rain
Rain poured that night
In morning, villagers moved out
In forest for big hunt for cannibal
Villagers moved for three hours in
Forest until they found
Claw prints in mud of cannibal and cubs
They followed claw prints for four hours
In hedge, found lion and cubs
Men killed cubs
But father lion ran away
Villagers chased him for six hours
Lion went got tired on Nyangdit pond
Entered hedge
Men surrounded Nyangdit
Moved in to kill lion
They never found him
Searched hedge on pond
And never found any traces
Of cannibal lion
When men about to leave
One man saw big non poisonous
Ghoor snake, He said ‘’ isn’t lion
that change Like this’’ and
he hit one eye of
Ghoor snake off
Snake eye watered down
But he didn’t kill snake
Because it non poison’s
In fact, it’s lion that metamorphosed
In snake
After men left lion metamorphosed
Back to lion and left for Juba town
When he saw men from Dhieu’s village
He sang
‘’ I destroy home of Dhieu by bit cunning
I attack wife, she poured down bean
I ate wife and husband by by bit cunning’’
When people put down ears to hear
He changed song and sang
‘’ my triplets remained at Nyangdit pond
My brothers
I am childless’’
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Grif, of the Bloody Hand
In an immense wood in the south of Kent,
There lived a band of robbers which caused the people discontent;
And the place they infested was called the Weald,
Where they robbed wayside travellers and left them dead on the field.
Their leader was called Grif, of the Bloody Hand,
And so well skilled in sword practice there's few could him withstand;
And sometimes they robbed villages when nothing else could be gained,
In the year of 1336, when King Edward the III. reigned.
The dress the robbers wore was deep coloured black,
And in courage and evil deeds they didn't lack;
And Grif. Of the Bloody Hand, called them his devils,
Because they were ever ready to perform all kinds of ills.
'Twas towards the close of a very stormy day,
A stranger walked through the wood in search of Grif, without dismay;
And as the daylight faded he quickened his pace and ran,
Never suspecting that in his rear he was followed by a man.
And as the man to the stranger drew near,
He demanded in a gruff voice, what seek you here;
And when the stranger saw him he trembled with fear,
Because upon his head he wore a steel helmet, and in his hand he bore a spear.
What seek you here repeated the dark habited man,
Come, sir, speak out, and answer me if you can;
Are you then one of the devils demanded the stranger faintly,
That I am said the man, now what matters that to thee.
Then repeated the stranger, sir, you have put me to a stand,
But if I guess aright, you are Grif, of the Bloody Hand;
That I am replied Grif, and to confess it I'm not afraid,
Oh! Well then I require your service and you'll be well paid.
But first I must know thy name, I, that's the point,
Then you shall have the help of my band conjoint;
Before any of my men on your mission goes,
Well then replied the stranger call me Martin Dubois.
Well sir, come tell me what you want as quick as you can,
Well then replied Dubois do you know one Halbert Evesham
That dwells in the little village of Brenchley,
Who has a foster child called Violet Evesham of rare beauty.
And you seek my aid to carry her off,
Ha! Ha! A love affair, nay do not think I scoff;
For you shall enjoy her sir before this time to-morrow,
If that will satisfy you, or help to drown your sorrow.
And now sir what is your terms with me,
Before I carry off Violet Evesham from the village of Brenchley;
Well Grif, one thousand marks shall be the pay,
'Tis agreed then cried Grif, and you shall enjoy her without delay.
Then the bargains struck, uttered Grif, how many men will you require,
Come sir, speak, you can have all of my band if you desire;
Oh, thanks sir, replied Dubois, I consider four men will do,
That's to say sir, if the four men's courage be true.
And to-morrow sir send the men to Brenchley without delay,
And remember one thousand marks will be the pay;
And the plan I propose is to carry her to the wood,
And I will be there to receive her, the plan is good.
And on the next morning Grif, of the bloody Hand,
Told off four of his best men and gave them strict command;
To carry off Violet Evesham from the village of Brenchley,
And to go about it fearlessly and to make no delay.
And when ye have captured her carry her to the wood,
Now remember men I wish my injunctions to be understood;
All right, captain, we'll do as we've been told,
And carry her off all right for the sake of the gold.
So on the next morning before the villagers were out of bed,
The four robbers marched into the village of Brenchley without any dread;
And boldly entered Violet Evesham's house and carried her, away,
While loudly the beautiful girl shrieked in dismay.
But when her old father missed her through the village he ran,
And roused the villagers to a man;
And a great number of them gathered, and Wat Tyler at their head,
And all armed to the teeth, and towards the wood they quickly sped.
And once within the wood Wat Tyler cried, where is Violet Evesham,
Then Grif, of the Bloody Hand cried, what ails the man;
My dear sir I assure you that Violet Evesham is not here.
Therefore good people I advise ye to retire from here.
No! I'll not back cried Wat Tyler, until I rescue Violet Evesham,
Therefore liar, and devil, defend thyself if you can;
Ay replied Grif, that I will thou braggart loon,
And with my sword you silly boy prepare to meet thy doom.
Then they rained their blows on each other as thick as hail,
Until at last Grif's strength began to fail;
Then Wat leaped upon him and threw him to the ground,
Then his men fled into the wood that were standing around.
Then the villagers shouted hurrah for Wat Tyler and victory,
And to search for Violet Evesham they willingly did agree;
And they searched the wood and found her at the foot of a tree,
And when she was taken home the villagers danced with glee.
And 'tis said Wat Tyler married Violet Evesham,
And there was great rejoicing among the villagers at the marriage so grand;
And Wat Tyler captured Dubois, and bound him to a tree,
And left him there struggling hard to gain his liberty.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love Unrequested
The lady across the road had beautiful grey hair, thick and
glossy, I admired her mane because she was eighty five.
Her hubby about her same aged died, I attended the funeral,
open casket, in death he looked handsome, old man asleep.
When people get old some do not realize how old they are,
and the old lady, since I had admired her lovely hair, thought
we could be a couple; only I was fifty two at the time and not
overly interested. The lady took offence felt humiliated since
she already had told the villagers I loved her.
A day when I was doing a bit of weeding around the house
She came out; called me a womanizer hit me with her umbrella.
Well I´m not heroic, fled into the house and bolted the door;
and the villagers were greatly amused. She moved to a rest
home and I could go out without being assaulted. I read in
the paper she had just died at hundred and five, but I will not
attend her funeral….I think.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Military visit to a rural village (rondine)
Harbouring terrorists, at the dead of night
we found the right dilapidated village,
terrorists were afraid to further war wage,
the stars, the yellow moon shone very bright,
and in armoured cars we were geared to fight,
all the villagers were scared, had no courage;
harbouring terrorists
I had no great sympathy with their plight,
as to farmers and women they did damage
were planting landmines at almost any age,
huddled together the were a sore sight,
harbouring terrorists.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Clintonobamanous
Something strange has developed.
A creature able to interchange
Both its sex and its name came.
With a power so intense...
It would sit and steam,
To gather its own wits!
That is how powerful the force,
It had over the unsuspecting villagers!
The ones who could, at first sight...
Make no sense of it!
Out of the darkened shadows it appeared.
And as it neared,
Not one of the villagers had minds that were clear.
They fought a leader blinded by arrogance.
Blinded by a need to sustain an ego...
Dressed by greed to deceive.
And as rumors of this creature spread across the land,
Few thought this was idle gossip.
Yet the whispers grew louder...
As the winds of it began to drift towards them.
Removing rusted visions no one could withstand.
And this creature...
Having the head of a woman.
Having the strength of a man.
Shocked those staring.
Shocking all who stood to stand!
And an old man cheered...
As the children to it ran!
'Clintonobamanous', this creature roared!
'Clintonobamanous', you will not ignore!
And on the fields...
Every hint of a 'bush' hiding misdeeds kept secret,
Lifted from the surprising eyes...
Who knew their lives would forever be changed!
Clintonobamanous came to reign!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Two on the Road
In later years, this day came back to you
as days of presence often do:
It’s the end of the midday break, and
the sun, already warm for Spring, is easing;
the sheep are grazing on the new grass;
two of them have jumped the low stone wall
to munch the juicier grass of the roadside ditch
which has spent the morning in dewy shadow.
Where the path to the stony fields
crosses the track back to the village,
you’ve found yourself walking just behind
a pair returning to the village,
father and son – or is it, grandfather?
You could overtake them, just to show
you mean no harm; but something about them
draws your attention; so you walk behind them
at a distance indicating that you know they know
you’re walking behind them, yet too far
to be listening to them…
which you’d dearly like to. They walk
slowly, deep in conversation,
this boy, this man; their relationship
catches your curiosity. You,
whose childhood was not always easy,
watch them with delight, a little mixed with envy;
you study their body language for some clues.
The man listens to the boy with such respect,
he could be a young grandfather,
marvelling that his son has fathered such a treasure,
quietly enjoying that unique blend
of bond and yet detachment which is grandfatherhood;
now and then, the boy touches his loose sleeve –
not in the way a child clutches, when he demands belief
in some tale of fantasy; more as if
the boy had discovered some gift
in what he says, and wants to share it with you.
And now and then,
the man touches the boy – as we do
when our child has said something so mature, so wise,
that we are speechless; and can only reach out
and touch them; as if some new relationship
had just been born; our touch
a mark of recognition beyond our words.
Just once, the boy turns his head, looks back at you,
briefly, but with that open look that village children often have,
when every stranger is a friendly curiosity;
you’re glad for him, of what that moment tells.
You follow them back to the village,
your curiosity aroused more than it should.
They open up the wooden front
of the lean-to where they ply their trade;
fascinated by their tender, deep relationship,
you’d really like to come back in an hour or so,
to look in on them, and hope to see the son
working on the wood as lovingly
as he has spoken to the man.. but
you decide against it. One day,
you might come back, request their careful skills -
perhaps a new cupboard for your house.
Their tidy, ordered workplace needs no craftsman’s signboard;
if there were, the villagers tell you when you gently ask,
it would be Joseph & Son.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Crack Attack
You stand there, stutter, brains like butter,
You dissed your father, sister, your mother,
Times have tried too hard to your answer to give up instead of live up,
To the stance of a man, understand that Im a right hand,
Five out of five will die, from crack and on my left the birth the same and the same birth (? ),
The kid once did and now his death is echoed around the world for all to hear,
So lets have a merry new year
Yo grace, school em.
Theyre lost now, taken over, crack attack,
Theyre lost now, taken over, crack attack,
Theres a little boy who lives down the way,
I heard hes crazy from crack in his brain,
Hes lost now, hes taken over, crack attack,
Lost now, taken over, crack attack,
Dont do it,cheap high,say no! (echoes).
Though I wonder who is to blame,
All this epidemic is driving me insane, all of it,
I see the kids dying in the streets,
Whoever makes one, theyre going lose his way,
Lost know, taken over, crack attack,
Theyre lost now, taken over, crack attack.
Stuck in the middle, and dont know where to go,
Theyve got so now, theyre living for the blow,
They get it babe, doing it for the thrill,
Its so insane, such danger for a thrill,
Lost now, theyre taken over, crack attack,
Dont do it, cheap high, break the tie.
You can turn it over, you can take control,
You want your mind, your body and soul,
Dont you let crack put you in a hole,
Youve done without and you can do it now.
Said crack attack, crack attack, crack attack,
Dont do it, say no!, give it up,
Lost now, lost now...lost now, taken over crack attack, crack attack,
Taken over, crack attack, crack attack,
Lost now...give it up, give it up, taken over.
song performed by by Grace Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Dark Forests
Dark forests...Northern...Sourthern Mountains,
Fierce tigers circle around the villages in broad daylight.
...To The red dawn of twilight
The skies shine bright
Protecting what is theirs
In the magic of the night
The tigers roam everywhere taking lives for food.
The Majesty of the tigers power,
The prey dare not make a sound.
The new kin tiger sprout every year
In the valleys low.
Male and female tigers come up and down the mountains in large groups.
There is a village near the tigers’ dens in the valley,
Where tigers often come and eat the villagers’ brown calves.
Rich young men dare not shoot the arrows at the tigers.
The Majesty of the Tiger lives forever
The Majesty of the Tiger
They only pretend to check for the tigers’ tracks in the forests.
poem by Peter LeBuhn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Giffen's Debt
Imprimis he was "broke." Thereafter left
His Regiment and, later, took to drink;
Then, having lost the balance of his friends,
"Went Fantee" -- joined the people of the land,
Turned three parts Mussulman and one Hindu,
And lived among the Gauri villagers,
Who gave him shelter and a wife or twain.
And boasted that a thorough, full-blood sahib
Had come among them. Thus he spent his time,
Deeply indebted to the village shroff
(Who never asked for payment), always drunk,
Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels;
Forgetting that he was an Englishman.
You know they dammed the Gauri with a dam,
And all the good contractors scamped their work
And all the bad material at hand
Was used to dam the Gauri -- which was cheap,
And, therefore, proper. Then the Gauri burst,
And several hundred thousand cubic tons
Of water dropped into the valley, flop,
And drowned some five-and-twenty villagers,
And did a lakh or two of detriment
To crops and cattle. When the flood went down
We found him dead, beneath an old dead horse,
Full six miles down the valley. So we said
He was a victim to the Demon Drink,
And moralised upon him for a week,
And then forgot him. Which was natural.
But, in the valley of the Gauri, men
Beneath the shadow of the big new dam,
Relate a foolish legend of the flood,
Accounting for the little loss of life
(Only those five-and-twenty villagers)
In this wise: -- On the evening of the flood,
They heard the groaning of the rotten dam,
And voices of the Mountain Devils. Then
And incarnation of the local God,
Mounted upon a monster-neighing horse,
And flourishing a flail-like whip, came down,
Breathing ambrosia, to the villages,
And fell upon the simple villagers
With yells beyond the power of mortal throat,
And blows beyond the power of mortal hand,
And smote them with his flail-like whip, and drove
Them clamorous with terror up the hill,
And scattered, with the monster-neighing steed,
Their crazy cottages about their ears,
And generally cleared those villages.
Then came the water, and the local God,
Breathing ambrosia, flourishing his whip,
And mounted on his monster-neighing steed,
Went down the valley with the flying trees
And residue of homesteads, while they watched
Safe on the mountain-side these wondrous things,
And knew that they were much beloved of Heaven.
Wherefore, and when the dam was newly built,
They raised a temple to the local God,
And burnt all manner of unsavoury things
Upon his altar, and created priests,
And blew into a conch and banged a bell,
And told the story of the Gauri flood
With circumstance and much embroidery. . . .
So hi, the whiskified Objectionable,
Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels,
Became the tutelary Deity
Of all the Gauri valley villages,
And may in time become a Solar Myth.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!