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A selection of random funny poems from our vast
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Virginia--The West by Walt Whitman
The noble Sire, fallen on evil days,
I saw, with hand uplifted, menacing, brandishing,
(Memories of old in abeyance--love and faith in abeyance,)
The insane knife toward the Mother of All.
The noble Son, on sinewy feet advancing,
I saw--out of the land of prairies--land of Ohio's waters, and of
Indiana,
To the rescue, the stalwart giant, hurry his plenteous offspring,
Drest in blue, bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders.
Then the Mother of All, with calm voice speaking,
As to you, Virginia, (I seemed to hear her say,) why strive against
me--and why seek my life?
When you yourself forever provide to defend me?
For you provided me Washington--and now these also.
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The Centerarian's Story Part 3 by Walt Whitman
Twas a bold act then;
The English war-ships had just arrived--the king had sent them from
over the sea;
We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,
And the transports, swarming with soldiers.
A few days more, and they landed--and then the battle.
Twenty thousand were brought against us,
A veteran force, furnish'd with good artillery.
I tell not now the whole of the battle;
But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order'd forward to engage the
red-coats;
Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd,
And how long and how well it stood, confronting death.
Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting
death?
It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,
Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to
the General.
Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters;
Till of a sudden, unlook'd for, by defiles through the woods, gain'd
at night,
The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing
their guns,
That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy's
mercy.
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To Him That Was Crucified by Walt Whitman
My spirit to yours, dear brother;
Do not mind because many, sounding your name, do not understand you;
I do not sound your name, but I understand you, (there are others
also;)
I specify you with joy, O my comrade, to salute you, and to salute
those who are with you, before and since--and those to come
also,
That we all labor together, transmitting the same charge and
succession;
We few, equals, indifferent of lands, indifferent of times;
We, enclosers of all continents, all castes--allowers of all
theologies,
Compassionaters, perceivers, rapport of men,
We walk silent among disputes and assertions, but reject not the
disputers, nor any thing that is asserted;
We hear the bawling and din--we are reach'd at by divisions,
jealousies, recriminations on every side,
They close peremptorily upon us, to surround us, my comrade,
Yet we walk unheld, free, the whole earth over, journeying up and
down, till we make our ineffaceable mark upon time and the
diverse eras,
Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages
to come, may prove brethren and lovers, as we are.
= = = = = = = = = =
There was a Young Lady of Russia by Edward Lear
There was a Young Lady of Russia,
Who screamed so that no one could hush her;
Her screams were extreme,
No one heard such a scream,
As was screamed by that Lady of Russia.
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