What is the poem about a man that freezes and his friends put him into a pot belly stove ?
923385
It is definently the cremation of sam mcgee. here it is:\n\nThere are strange things done in the midnight sun \nBy the men who moil for gold; \nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales \nThat would make your blood run cold; \nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights, \nBut the queerest they ever did see \nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge \nI cremated Sam McGee.\n\n\nNow Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.\nWhy he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.\nHe was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;\nThough he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”\n\n\nOn a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.\nTalk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.\nIf our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;\nIt wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.\n\n\nAnd that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,\nAnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,\nHe turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;\nAnd if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”\n\n\nWell, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:\n“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.\nYet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;\nSo I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”\n\n\nA pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;\nAnd we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.\nHe crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;\nAnd before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.\n\n\nThere wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,\nWith a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;\nIt was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,\nBut you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”\n\n\nNow a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.\nIn the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.\nIn the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,\nHowled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.\n\n\nAnd every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;\nAnd on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;\nThe trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;\nAnd I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.\n\n\n\n \n\n\nTill I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;\nIt was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”\nAnd I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;\nThen “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”\n\n\nSome planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;\nSome coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;\nThe flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;\n\nThen I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. \n\n\nThen I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;\nAnd the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.\nIt was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;\nAnd the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.\n\n\nI do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;\nBut the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;\nI was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep i
1124914
Tis now the very witching time of night,\nWhen churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out\nContagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,\nAnd do such bitter business as the day\nWould quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.\nO heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever\nThe soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:\nLet me be cruel, not unnatural:\nI will speak daggers to her, but use none;\nMy tongue and soul in this be hypocrites;\nHow in my words soever she be shent,\nTo give them seals never, my soul, consent!\n\nUnfortunately for everyone, he is about to do just that. (by stabbing Polonius.) He says that he'll keep his temper and not hurt his mother physically but does just the opposite thats the irony
1144225
John Denver-poems prayers and promise
1141111
A Poem Of Friendship\n\n\nWe are not lovers\nbecause of the love\nwe make \nbut the love \nwe have \n\nWe are not friends\nbecause of the laughs\nwe spend\nbut the tears \nwe save\n\nI don't want to be near you\nfor the thoughts we share\nbut the words we never have \nto speak\n\nI will never miss you\nbecause of what we do\nbut what we are \ntogether\n\nTheme: friendship\nTone: Intimate\nSpeaker: First person
328585
You should write some fiction books ... you are clever with that ... come on a Satan in the fridge hahahahaaaaaaa. You froze its ass
410426
The best poem is one you would write yourself. If you need help just contact me through my e-mail on my Q&A page. Here is a poem for you.\n\nIf I Never\n\nIf my days were untroubled\nAnd my heart always light\nWould I seek that fair land\nWhere there is no night?\n\nIf I never grew weary\nWith the weight of my load\nWould I search for God’s Peace\nAt the end of the road?\n\nIf I never knew sickness\nAnd never felt pain\nWould I reach for a hand\nTo help and sustain?\n\nIf I walked not with sorrow \nAnd lived without loss\nWould my soul seek sweet solace\nAt the foot of the cross?\n\nIf all I desired was mine\nDay by Day\nWould I kneel before God\nAnd earnestly pray?\n\n\n\nIf God sent no “Winter”\nTo freeze me with fear\nWould I yearn for the warmth\nOf “Spring” every year?\n\nI ask myself this . . .\nAnd the answer is plain\nIf my life were all pleasure\nAnd I never knew pain.\n\nI’d seek God less often\nAnd need him much less\nFor God’s sought more often \nIn times of distress\n\nAnd no one knows God\nOr sees him as plain\nAs those who have met Him\nOn the Pathway of Pain
666947
haha written just for you and thanks for another 2 pts. \n\ni wanted to write a poem to show you that i'm sorry\nbut my poor englsh is worst then dreaded cancers,\nso in order to appologise for my mistakes\nall i could do was ask yahoo answers,\nsome stranger wrote this poem for you\nbecuase i think as bad as i write,\ni just hope you will forgive me\ncause i do not want to fight.\n\n\ntada there you go :-)
751804
Sick of talking. \nTick. I’m tocking. \nDown the street and I’m sick \nOf the talk of the trick that’s every time we meet \nBut. \nOh, I don’t know why. Oh, I don't know why. \nBlinking, thinking something’s moving 'cross my skin \nAnd I scratch the spot, I watch the dot, that’s on the lens but \nOh, I don’t know why. Oh, I don't know why. \nSomething’s closing in and I can’t do a thing. \nNo, I can’t do a thing but wonder. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nAll I can say is that the drugs don’t work no more. \nMy face is shaking, \nKnees are breaking, \nTo all this and for once I’m mistaken \nThe rules I’ve been breaking, make you sick but \nOh, I don’t know why. Oh, I don't know why. \nMy mind is in an oily state of screaming sin \nAnd the moment I want to relax is when the shit kicks in, but \nOh, I don’t know why. Oh, I don't know why. \nNow he’s back again. \nAnd now he’s brought a friend. \nAnd his friends brought a whole dark army. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know \nAll I can say is that the drugs don’t work no more. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know \nAll I can say is that the drugs don’t work no... \nda da \nSick of talking. \nTick. I’m tocking. \nDown the street and I’m sick \nOf the talk of the trick that’s every time we meet \nand I’m sick \nOf the talk of the trick that’s every time we meet \nand Ohh ohh ohh \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know \nAll I can say is that the drugs don’t work no more. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know. \nHe said I’m crazy, I know \nAll I can say is that the drugs don’t work no.. \nMooooore.. \ndrugs don't work no \nMooooore...
41410
This poem is really a good poem... Yes it is a good peom... The meaning is not deep but when you want a deeper meeanig then put the words into your life then you will understand the real meaning of the peom\n\nDesiderata \n\nGo placidly amid the noise and haste,\nand remember what peace there may be in silence.\nAs far as possible without surrender\nbe on good terms with all persons.\nSpeak your truth quietly and clearly;\nand listen to others,\neven the dull and the ignorant;\nthey too have their story. \n\nAvoid loud and aggressive persons,\nthey are vexations to the spirit.\nIf you compare yourself with others,\nyou may become vain and bitter;\nfor always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.\nEnjoy your achievements as well as your plans. \n\n\nKeep interested in your own career, however humble;\nit is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.\nExercise caution in your business affairs;\nfor the world is full of trickery.\nBut let this not blind you to what virtue there is;\nmany persons strive for high ideals;\nand everywhere life is full of heroism. \n\n\nBe yourself.\nEspecially, do not feign affection.\nNeither be cynical about love;\nfor in the face of all aridity and disenchantment\nit is as perennial as the grass. \n\n\nTake kindly the counsel of the years,\ngracefully surrendering the things of youth.\nNurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.\nBut do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.\nMany fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.\nBeyond a wholesome discipline,\nbe gentle with yourself. \n\n\nYou are a child of the universe,\nno less than the trees and the stars;\nyou have a right to be here.\nAnd whether or not it is clear to you,\nno doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. \n\n\nTherefore be at peace with God,\nwhatever you conceive Him to be,\nand whatever your labors and aspirations,\nin the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. \n\n\nWith all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,\nit is still a beautiful world.\nBe cheerful.\nStrive to be happy. \n\n\nMax Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952
560585
i have seen a pot of boiling water thrown into the air and freeze.  It was up north where it was about -20F  No it will not freeze your lungs
751108
try Fire and Ice by Robert Frost\nor anything by Shel Silverstein or Ogden Nash.\nfind them at \n\nwww.poets.org\nor\nwww.famouspoetsandpoems.com
517532
I love Lean Cuisine. They all rock. My freezer looks insane
247152
old easy riddle. block of ice.
1110161
This is 19 lines, but it is a great poem and a fantastic oral presentation!  Good luck!\n\n \nDylan Thomas. Funny-looking chap, but chicks dug him. \nDo not go gentle into that good night,\nOld age should burn and rave at close of day; \nRage, rage against the dying of the light. \n\n\nThough wise men at their end know dark is right, \nBecause their words had forked no lightning they \nDo not go gentle into that good night. \n\n\nGood men, the last wave by, crying how bright \nTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, \nRage, rage against the dying of the light. \n\n\nWild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, \nAnd learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, \nDo not go gentle into that good night. \n\n\nGrave men, near death, who see with blinding sight \nBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, \nRage, rage against the dying of the light. \n\n\nAnd you, my father, there on the sad height, \nCurse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. \nDo not go gentle into that good night. \nRage, rage against the dying of the light. \n\n\nDylan Thomas, 1951 or 1952 \n\n\nA Villanelle is a 19-line poem consisting of five tercets and a final quatrain on two rhymes, with the first and third lines of the first tercet repeated alternately as a refrain closing the succeeding stanzas and joined as the final couplet of the quatrain. The word is French, derived from Italian villanella, the feminine of villanello, rustic; from villano, peasant; from Vulgar Latin villanus; from Latin villa, a country house. \n\n"Addressed to the poet's father as he approached blindness and death. The relevant aspect of the relationship was Thomas's profound respect for his father's uncompromising independence of mind, now tamed by illness. In the face of strong emotion, the poet sets himself the task of mastering it in the difficult form of the villanelle. Five tercets are followed by a quatrain, with the first and last line of the stanza repeated alternately as the last line of the subsequent stanzas and gathered into a couplet at the end of the quatrain. And all this on only two rhymes. Thomas further compounds his difficulty by having each line contain 10 syllables".
613903
You put a man in a fridge?\nPut him in the freezer and he'll be fine!
1148550
A number of poems contain the word impiety and deal with nature and God.  Among them:\n\nJohn Donne's "Holy Sonnet XI" ( http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/022034.htm )\n\nShakespeare's "Sonnet 067: Ah, Wherefore With Infection Should He Live" ( http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/433 )\n\nPope's (rather long) "Essay on Man" ( http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/pope-e1.html )\n\nWigglesworth "A Prayer Unto Christ the Judge of the World" (from Day of Doom) ( http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/subjects/eaw/poems/wiggtext.htm )\n\nI would direct you to Wigglesworth first, as it sounds like it may be closest to what you're looking for.
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Stove...I love to heat things up.