[Nigel Holt]

Regime De Vivre

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk about seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.

Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.


(I love this sonnet!)

There seems to be little bawdy verse that I know by established poets - even this, attributed to John Wilmot, Earl of Rocester, seems not to be written by him.

Do 'Spherians know any other famous bawdy verse like this, or is all the bawd from traditional verses like 'Friggin' in the Riggin' and 'The Good Ship Venus'? It may be that verses such as this are not anthologised for reasons of 'propriety'. I would be delighted to hear more.

Nigel


NB: Alicia - if this is the wrong board for discussion, please move the thread.

[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 20, 2002).]

[A. E. Stallings]

Am delighted to host a "bawdy" thread... I'm still racking my brains, though. (A number of classical poets spring to mind, Catullus particularly...)

I may, if you don't mind, add a little warning to the thread title...

[Susan McLean]

Nigel, I suggest you get your hands on the collected works of Lord Rochester, the master of bawdy verse in English. Catullus is one of the masters in Latin, but most English translations tone him down a bit. I am working on translating all of Catullus into metrical verse, so to give you a sampling of his subject matter, here are a couple.

16

I'll bugger you and make you suck my cock,
Aurelius and Furius, you queers.
Because my verse is amorous, you think
that I am hardly decent. A sincere
poet should be pure himself, and yet
his verses needn't be. In fact, they're quite
witty and charming only when they are
amorous, hardly decent, and incite
sexual cravings--not just in the boys,
I say, but in those hairy fellows who
can scarcely budge their sluggish peckers, too.
But you, because you've read about my stock
of many thousand kisses, doubt I'm manly?
I'll bugger you and make you suck my cock.

32

Please, my darling Ipsithilla,
my delight, my clever one,
bid me come at the siesta.
If you do, make sure that none
will bolt the door, and do not be
inclined to go outside, but stay
at home and have in store for me
nine fuckings in a row. But say
the word, if you are willing, now,
for after lunch, I'm lying down,
supine and stuffed, about to poke
right through my tunic and my cloak.

[Hugh Clary]

Nine Inch Will Please a Lady
(Robert Burns)

Come rede me dame, come tell me dame,
My dame come tell me truly,
What length o' graith when weel ca'd hame
Will sair a woman duly?"
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready,
"l learn'd a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady."

"But for a koontrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're not sae gentle;
We'll tak tway thumb-bread to the nine,
And that is a sonsy pintle.
Oh, Leeze me on, my Charlie lad,
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie,
Tway roaring handfuls and a daud
He nidged it in fu' rarely."

But wear fa' the laithron doup
And may it ne'er be thriving,
It's not the length that makes me loup
But it's the double drivin.
Come nidge me Tom, come nidge me Tom
Come nidge me, o'er the nyvel
Come lowse an lug your battering ram
And thrash him at my gyvel!

graith=gear, equipment; clew=scratched, fondled;
tway thum-bread=two thumb-breadths; sonsy=healthy;
daud=a lump, a bit; laithron=lazy; doup=rump;
gyvel=gateway.


Auden's Platonic Blow is perhaps a bit TOO baudy, even for this type of thread.

[nyctom]

Hugh, they couldn't be any raunchier than Alan Ginsberg's sm poems (though I am sure many on this site would consider ANY Ginsberg poem an sm experience!).

Susan: finally! A translation of Catullus with cojones, so to speak. I look forward to hearing when they will be published. Catullus was the first poet I thought of when I saw the thread heading.

Here is one by our own Mr. Murphy (in The Deed of Gift)that I love. It gives a whole new twist to the idea of sex education. The fourth line should be indented:

Infernal Sonet

Which would provoke more joy,
to ravish you with Donne's
Holy Sonnets or poke your buns?
Cheeky boy
sleeker than any lumpish lass,
stop squirming and hear me read.
Your mind has greater need
of stuffing than your ass.

[Richard Wakefield]

Here's Robert Frost's "Pride of Ancestry," never published during his lifetime. It's mild as these things go, I suppose, but a new take on Frost.
RPW

The Deacon's wife was a bit desirish
And liked her sex relations wild
So she lay with one of the shanty Irish
And he begot the Deacon's child.

The Deacon himself was a man of money
And upright life and a bosom shirt;
Which made her infidelity funny
And gave her pleasure in doing him dirt.

And yet for all her romantic sneakin'
Out the back door and over the wall
How was she sure the child of the Deacon
Wasn't the Deacon's after all?

Don't question a story of high eugenics.
She lived with the Deacon and bedded with him
But she no doubt restricted his calesthenics
To the sterile arc of her lunar rhythm.

And she only had to reverse the trick
And let the Irishman turn her turtle
When by his faith as a Catholic
A woman was almost sure to be fertile.

Her portrait hangs in the family gallery
And a family of nobodies likes to think
That their descent from such a caloric
Accounts for their genius and love of drink.

[bear_music]

This is a very old one, I have seen many variations, as far as I know it's "Anonymous":

THE BANTAM COCK

He was a fine upstanding bantam cock.
So brisk and stiff and spry!
With a springy step and a jaunty plume.
And a purposeful look in his eye.
In his little black laughing eye.

So I took him to the coop and introduced him to.
Me seventeen wide-eyed hens.
And he tooked them a took as a hero tooks,
He bowed to them all, and then...
He up and took 'em all again!

Then upon the peace of me ducks and geese.
He boldly did intrude.
With glazed eyes and open mouths.
They bore him with fortitude.
And a little bit of gratitude!

He jumped me giggling guinea foul,
He thrust his attentions upon.
Me twenty hysterical turkeys and
A visiting migrant swan.
The bantam thundered on!

He groped me fantail pigeon doves.
And me lily-white colombine.
And his eye was alookin' at me budgerigar
When he jumped me parrot from behind.
It was sittin' on me shoulder at the time!

But all of a sudden, with a gasp and a gulp,
He clapped his wings to his head.
He lay flat on his back with his feet in the air.
Me bantam cock was dead.
And the vultures circled overhead.

What a noble beast, what a champion cock.
What a way to live and to die.
But as I dug him a grave to protect his bones.
From those hungry buzzards in the sky,
The bantam opened up a sly little eye.

He gave me a wink, and a terrible grin,
The way that rapists do.
He said, "You see them silly dark buggers up there.
They'll be down in a minute or two!
They'll be down in a minute or two!"

(music)

[This message has been edited by bear_music (edited January 22, 2002).]

[bear_music]

DOWN, WANTON, DOWN!

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach--
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,
When were you made a man of parts
To think fine and profess the arts?

Will many-gifted Beauty come
Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,
Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?
Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

— Robert Graves

[bear_music]

SUNG BY A YOUNG GIRL

Young I am, and yet unskill'd
How to make a lover yield:
How to keep or how to gain,
When to love and when to feign.

Take me, take me, some of you,
While I yet am young and true;
Ere I can my soul disguise,
Heave my breasts and roll my eyes.

Stay not till I learn the way,
How to lie and to betray:
He that has me first is blest,
For I may deceive the rest.

Could I find a blooming youth,
Full of love and full of truth,
Brisk, and of a jaunty mien,
I should long to be fifteen.

— John Dryden

[jack edwards]

And not a single limerick in the pile. I stand amazed.

*reeling*

jack