IF - Kipling was pissed
 

101% of the poetry we were forcefed at schools was bulls*it...so in tribute Ive combined the only decent poem ever written with bull****....enjoy



IF - kipling was pis*ed


IF you can keep talking bull**** when all about you
Are losing the plot and throwing bulls*it at you,
If you can trust yourself to bull**** as all men bulls*it you,
But make allowance for their bull**** too;
If you can bulls*it and not be tired by bulls*iting,
Or being bulls*itted about, don't deal in bulls*it ,
Or being bulls*itted, don't give way to bulls*iting,
And yet don't look too good a bullsh*tter, nor talk too much bullsh*t too

If you can bulls*it - and not make bulls*it your master;
If you can bulls*it - and not make bulls*it your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and bulls*it
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the bulls*it you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for bulls*itters,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, turn to bull****,
And stoop and scoop them up with a poopascoop

If you can make one heap of all your bulls*it
And risk it all and not give a toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never talk bulls*it about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve bulls*it long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'bulls*it on!'

If you can talk with crowds and talk your bulls*it ,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common bulls*it ,
If neither foes nor loving friends can bulls*it you,
If all men bullsh*t with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of bulls*it run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a bulls*itter, my son!

*chuckles* well it certainly puts a different slant on it :p

Most of the poems we did at school were good...

here's one of my favourites: This be the Verse, by Phillip Larkin.. (oh how we giggled when the teacher read this to us :P)

They **** you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone


W. H. Auden


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Wouldn't he wait till he was sober before tidying it up?

He seems a very angry drunk.

Haha! excellent and so true :laugh:

That's Alan Bennett's favourite, I think. He said it works really well with the last of the summer wine theme tune.

Has the poetry thread been moved?

The cow is of the bovine ilk.
One end is moo, the other milk.

Ogden Nash.

crikey imagine a piss up with this lot and Dylan Thomas? bunch of raving loons mun