Americanisation (Gilbert Keith Chesterton Poems)
Britannia needs no Boulevards,No spaces wide and gay:Her march was through the crooked streetsAlong the narrow way.Nor looks she where, ...
Britannia needs no Boulevards,No spaces wide and gay:Her march was through the crooked streetsAlong the narrow way.Nor looks she where, ...
This restlessness with no name overcomes us and drives us onAnd we run away from home in thoughts or on trains or ...
First, London, for its myriads; for its height, Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite; But Paris for the smoothness of the ...
Truly, they're stupid, these village churchesWhere fifteen ugly chicks soiling the pillarsListen, trilling out their divine responses,To a black freak ...
Ow! Wow! Wow!(Funeral note sustained by flutes, suggesting a long-bodied, short-legged, large-headed dog in anguish.)Ow! Wow!We are the people who ...
And the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and lying policemen and the Capitalists proffer Napalm ...
That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull ...
(1) a great man there was a great man so great he couldn't be criticised in the light who died ...
Half past twelve. Time has gone by quickly since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp and sat down here. ...
Britannia needs no Boulevards, No spaces wide and gay: Her march was through the crooked streets Along the narrow way. ...
It was the first gift he ever gave her, buying it for five five francs in the Galeries in pre-war ...
First, London, for its myriads; for its height, Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite; But Paris for the smoothness of the ...
Zut! it's two o'clock. See! the lights are jumping. Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping. Waiters stack ...
We're taking Marie Toro to her home in Père-La-Chaise; We're taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place. Behold! her hearse ...
I'm one of these haphazard chaps Who sit in cafes drinking; A most improper taste, perhaps, Yet pleasant, to my ...
I. No one's serious at seventeen. --On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade And loud, blinding cafés are the last ...
There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown Out ...
--The Carpathian Frontier, October, 1968 --for my brother Once, in a foreign country, I was suddenly ill. I was driving ...
Rain filled the streets once a year, rising almost to door and window sills, battering walls and roofs until it ...
A good man is seized by the police and spirited away. Months later someone brags that he shot him once ...
Since I don't know who will be reading this or even if it will be read, I must invent someone ...
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