Money poems

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The Ballad of Mabel Clare

© Henry Lawson

Ye children of the Land of Gold,

  I sing a song to you,

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Not A Money Debt

© Edgar Albert Guest

YOU can't pay back in dollars what your father does for you,
You can't repay in kindness all the tenderness he shows;
You little know the perils he has safely brought you through,
And the wealth of Rockefeller this account would never close.

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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant

© Charles Bukowski

—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar

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Black Mousquetaire: A Legend Of France

© Richard Harris Barham

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-
No proud exulting look is there,-
His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earthward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by his side!

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The Old-Timer

© Arthur Chapman

He showed up in the springtime, when the geese began to honk;
He signed up with the outfit, and we fattened up his bronk;
His chaps were old and tattered, but he never seemed to mind,
‘Cause for worryin’ and frettin’ he had never been designed;
He’s the type of cattle-puncher that has vanished now, of course,
With his hundred-dollar saddle on his twenty-dollar horse.

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The Fovrth Booke Of Qvodlibets

© Robert Hayman


Sermons and Epigrams haue a like end,
To improue, to reproue, and to amend:
Some passe without this vse, 'cause they are witty;
And so doe many Sermons, more's the pitty.

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After The Play

© Robert Graves

  Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
  To a beggar I gave.

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Week’s End In Zummer, In The Wold Vo’k’s Time

© William Barnes

  Zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man,
  Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan
  Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome
  Down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

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Amnesiac

© Sylvia Plath

No use, no use, now, begging Recognize!
There is nothing to do with such a beautiful blank but smooth it.
Name, house, car keys,

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The Task: Book III. -- The Garden

© William Cowper

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes

Entangled, winds now this way and now that

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After Death

© Edith Nesbit

IF we must part, this parting is the best:
How would you bear to lay
Your head on some warm pillow far away--
Your head, so used to lying on my breast?

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Dante At Verona

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.

(Div. Com. Purg. xxx.)

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The Little Dog

© Jean de La Fontaine

'TWOULD endless prove, and nothing would avail,
Each lover's pain minutely to detail:
Their arts and wiles; enough 'twill be no doubt,
To say the lady's heart was found so stout,
She let them sigh their precious hours away,
And scarcely seemed emotion to betray.

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Philiper Flash

© James Whitcomb Riley

Young Philiper Flash was a promising lad,

His intentions were good--but oh, how sad

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The Federal City

© Henry Lawson

OH! the folly, the waste, and the pity! Oh, the time that is flung behind!
They are seeking a site for a city, whose eyes shall be always blind,
Whose love for their ease grows greater, and whose care for their country less—
They are seeking a site for a city—a City of Selfishness.

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The Borough. Letter XVII: The Hospital And

© George Crabbe

Govenors

AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,

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The Shadow-Third

© Roderic Quinn

THEY met in the old conventional way,
And married, and that was the end
Of a little matter that touched three hearts —
A girl, a man, and his friend.

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Mostly Slavonic

© Henry Lawson

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

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Toplesstown

© Sheldon Allan Silverstein

Talk about a hit! They're packed in and linin' up
A cover and a minimum--coffee $2 a cup
Lucy's pullin' down a thousand a week with tips and all
Workin' double shifts while startin' to bitch how
Her arches are beginning to fall.

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The Writer's Dream

© Henry Lawson

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.