James Bond Poetry

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• Thunderfinger Das Boot Hill

  November 2019 Posts: 45,489

  Things
  
  that go bump
  
  on a Friday night.
• thedove hiding in the Greek underworld

  October 2023 Posts: 5,438

  "He's tall and he's dark
  Like a shark,
  he looks for trouble,
  that's why the zeros double,
  Mister Kiss Kiss Bang Bang!"
• j_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'

  October 2023 Posts: 9,042

  There is also a James Bond haiku thread and a James Bond limerick thread somewhere out there. Maybe we can somehow consolidate all those.
• thedove hiding in the Greek underworld

  October 2023 Posts: 5,438

  Good idea @j_w_pepper I had found this in my drafts and decided to add my poor two cents.
• j_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'

  October 2023 Posts: 9,042

  Well, @thedove, but your posting was just quoting song lyrics. On the other threads we had some original stuff, just like the OP here. But we should get this organized somehow.
• Seve The island of Lemoy

  October 16 edited October 16 Posts: 426

  BOND VILLAINS
  
  There’s a mysterious stranger who wants to rule the world
  With a sinister sidekick and a beautiful girl
  Is he a member of SPECTRE or the Spangled gang?
  An agent of SMERSH, or just a rich madman?
  His appetite for power is positively obscene
  But I’m determined to foil his diabolical scheme
  
  LE CHIFFRE
  
  Standing 5 ft 8 and weighing 18 stone,
  He has two bodyguards, so he never walks alone
  Red brown hair cut 'en brosse' style,
  With expensive false teeth that are never used to smile
  Impassive eyes of very dark brown,
  The kind where the white shows all around
  Impressively broad shoulders and a Prussian nose,
  Unusually small ears with very large lobes
  A small feminine mouth set in a wide expanse of face,
  But his large fluid body moves with unexpected grace
  He smokes incessantly using a denicotozing holder,
  But frequently partakes of something rather stronger
  When he's feeling the pressure as a high stakes gambler,
  From his coat pocket he produces a small metal cylinder
  The way he inserts the nozzle up each nostril is obscene,
  As he luxuriously inhales the vapour of benzidrine
  He's a flagellant who carries three razor blades concealed,
  In his hat band, cigarette case and inside one shoe's heal
  
  A serviceable villain, toward what does he conspire?
  As duteous to his vices as badness would desire
  His taste is questionable, his manners are coarse,
  And he speaks with an accent, foreign of course
  He’s devised a master plan that just can’t fail,
  But he’d better think twice now that I’m on his trail
  
  GOLDFINGER
  
  Below a crew-cut cliff of carroty hair,
  His pale blue eyes fix you with an X-ray stare
  A huge, round, moon shaped head,
  On a thick body and blunt, peasant legs
  Personally I have always mistrusted short men,
  All the trouble in the world is caused by them
  They grow up with an inferiority complex,
  Spend their lives trying to prove they’re better than the rest
  When it comes to women, his heart is cold,
  Unless they’ve been completely painted with gold
  Except for a thin strip down the back of the spine,
  To allow the pores to breathe, (which was a myth at the time)
  If he catches you in his web like a fly,
  He won’t expect you to talk; he’ll expect you to die
  
  ODD JOB
  
  He has an oriental butler whose expression is impassive
  His palette may be cleft but his physique is massive
  His quaint bowler hat has a razor ‘round the rim
  So remember to duck when you bid ‘good day’ to him
  A black belt karate with a bone callused hand
  You’d best beware of this uniquely dreadful man
  
  There’s a shadowy figure whose been pulling the strings
  Unseen but you can feel the chill an ill wind brings
  An Eminence Gris who’s addicted to power
  His overweening ambition is growing by the hour
  But his luck ran out when his path crossed mine
  I’ll reveal the hidden nature of his dark design
  
  DR JULIUS NO
  
  He was once a member of the Hip Sing Tong
  Who cut off his hands when he did them wrong
  They shot him in the chest and left him for dead
  But his heart is on the right so he survived instead
  He decided that a new identity would be wise
  Had his hair removed as part of the disguise
  Plastic surgery on his lips and nose
  Months in traction and platform shoes
  His hands were replaced by pincers of steel
  Or wax inside gloves when he needs to conceal
  His head is shaped like a reversed drop of oil
  He glides like a worm wrapped in grey tin-foil
  Fine ‘Dali-esque’ upswept eyebrows
  And eyes like two small revolver mouths
  Direct, unblinking and devoid of expression
  He wears contact lenses to enhance this impression
  With a mouth like a wide compressed wound
  The thin purple lips part to speak your doom
  
  There’s an evil genius who likes to play rough,
  A megalomaniac for whom the world is not enough
  His suit is immaculate and his manners are impeccable,
  But beneath this thin veneer his ambition is despicable
  His appetite for power is positively obscene
  But I’m determined to foil his diabolical scheme
  
  ROSA KLEBB
  
  In a blood spattered smock on a low camp stool,
  She orders her inquisitor to select a sharp tool
  A toad-like figure in an olive green uniform,
  She can make you regret the day you were born
  Her square cut, rimless glasses flash in the light,
  While her shiny yellow brown eyes enjoy the sight
  In matters of the heart she is sexually neutral,
  This is the essence of coldness in an individual
  Her thinning red hair scraped up into a bun,
  When she has an “itch” to scratch you’d be well advised to run
  A big bundle of bosom like a badly packed sand bag,
  The smell of her cheap scent is enough to make you gag
  A nicotine-stained moustache on her upper lip,
  She carries knitting needles with poison on the tip
  Head of Operations and Executions, Otdyel 2,
  Beware if she starts planning a “konspiratsia” for you
  
  RED GRANT
  
  A crown of tight, red gold curls,
  And a mind that rarely looks out into the world
  There is no light in the very pale blue eyes,
  A blankness that veils a red glare inside
  Piggy wide nostrils in an upturned nose,
  Muscles insolently bulging as he strikes a pose
  Affected speech with the hint of a cheap brogue,
  It’ll take more than a few “old mans” to convince me he’s no rogue
  An asexual, narcissist with a high tolerance of pain,
  He uses the Windsor knot; – a sure mark of the vain
  Best to avoid him around full moon time,
  Or you may become the victim of a bestial crime
  The official murder organization of the Russians,
  Found a use for his strange, violent compulsions
  SMERSH – Smiert Spionam - Death to Spies,
  They deal in torture, deception and lies
  He’s the top assassin of the Soviet secret service,
  At the sound of his name even strong men get nervous
  
  There’s a mysterious stranger who wants to rule the world
  With a sinister sidekick and a beautiful girl
  Is he a member of SPECTRE or the Spangled gang?
  An agent of SMERSH, or just a rich madman?
  And although the ginger gene is somewhat rare
  Why do so many Fleming villains have red hair?
  
  MR BIG
  
  A six and a half foot giant who weighs twenty stone,
  Mr Big or The Big Man are the names by which he’s known
  His head a great football with grey black skin,
  The result of a congenital heart condition
  Wide apart yellow eyes that seem to blaze,
  As he examines you with his penetrating gaze
  He founded the Black Widow Voodoo cult,
  And greatly increased his power as a result
  The rumour started that he might be a zombie,
  Or even the living corpse of Baron Samedi
  His pale skin shining like a week old corpse,
  He has no scruples and shows no remorse
  With the silent economy of a very large fish,
  He directs the fulfilment of his every wish
  
  A serviceable villain, toward what does he conspire?
  As duteous to his vices as badness would desire
  His taste is questionable, his manners are coarse,
  And he speaks with an accent, foreign of course
  He’s devised a master plan that just can’t fail,
  But he’d better think twice now that I’m on his trail
  
  DRAX
  
  He was horribly disfigured by fire during the war,
  And has an overwhelming obsession to even the score
  When plastic surgery could only go so far,
  He grew a bushy red moustache to conceal the scars
  Un-naturally long thumbs which he sucked as a child,
  Produced “Ogre’s teeth” you can see when he smiles
  The upper incisors that are ugly and splayed,
  Become even more apparent when his short laugh brays
  His square head a riot of red brown hair,
  He’s a self made man and a multimillionaire
  In the City they hail him as a national hero,
  For the clever way he made his fortune grow
  But privately some whisper that he cheats at cards,
  That his philanthropy is just an elaborate facade
  A loud mouthed vulgarian, he has no class,
  And our research has found some gaps in his past
  Once upon a time he’d have never made the club,
  But these days money talks and there’s the rub
  If you’ve got enough cash and the inclination,
  You can buy yourself a place above your station
  
  There’s an evil genius who likes to play rough,
  A megalomaniac for whom the world is not enough
  Is he a member of SPECTRE or the Spangled gang?
  An agent of SMERSH, or just a rich madman?
  And although the ginger gene is somewhat rare
  Why do so many Fleming villains have red hair?
  
  ERNST STAVRO BLOFELD
  
  One of those men who seem to suck the eyes out of your head,
  If he doesn’t decide to have you disposed of instead
  His own are deep black pools surrounded by very clear whites,
  Once seen, you won’t forget such a striking sight
  Under the square, wiry black, crew-cut hair,
  Examining the object of their focus with a mildly curious stare
  But the gaze of these soft dolls eyes is a microscope,
  From which nothing can be hidden, so entertain no such hope
  The window on the world of a superbly clear brain,
  Sometimes its a fine line between the genius and the insane
  The large, bland face gives nothing away,
  As he listens to what his associates have to say
  He weighs about 20 stone and has a vast belly,
  Where what used to be all muscle has softened into jelly
  Tall in stature, with long, pointed feet and hands,
  Your life will be in danger if you interfere with his plans
  For him, human vices are only for the weak,
  He’s an other-worldly enigma you really don’t want to meet
  
  IRMA BUNT
  
  His personal assistant will make you want to run
  Her greyish brown hair in a tight, neat bun
  She’s a female wardress from your worst nightmare
  Her short stocky body is shaped like a pair
  Her smile an oblong hole without humour or welcome,
  With sunburn blisters in the corners that she licks with her tongue
  She has a square, brutal face with hard yellow eyes,
  A mean disposition and no love for spies
  
  There’s a shadowy figure whose been pulling the strings
  Unseen but you can feel the chill an ill wind brings
  His suit is immaculate and his manners are impeccable,
  But beneath this thin veneer his ambition is despicable
  His took the wrong turn when his path crossed mine
  I’ll reveal the hidden nature of his dark design
  
  SCARAMANGA
  
  His hair is reddish in a crew cut style,
  With long side burns and a thin cruel smile
  A gaunt sombre face with a “pencil” moustache,
  His hair trigger temper can explode in a flash
  He has very large hands and is ambidextrous,
  With acrobatic agility from his training in a Circus
  Traumatised in his youth, he’s a mental cripple,
  With insatiable sexual appetites and a third nipple
  In Voodoo it’s considered a sign of sexual potency,
  But we know he can’t whistle, so we have another theory
  He’s a lethal Latin killer with a golden gun,
  His reflexes on the draw are second to none
  A gold-plated, long-barrelled, single action colt,
  When he gets you in his sights there is only one result
  He uses special bullets, gold core jacketed with silver,
  To add a personal touch when he has a deadly message to deliver
  They’re crosscut at the tip, a rather nasty aspect,
  On the dumdum principle, for maximum wounding effect
  
  There's a mysterious stranger who wants to rule the world,
  With a sinister sidekick and a beautiful girl
  His taste is questionable, his manners are coarse,
  And he speaks with an accent, foreign of course
  Greasy thinning hair and a pock marked face,
  And his personal hygiene is simply a disgrace
  He has cold dead eyes and a syphilitic nose,
  With a birthmark on his cheek the colour of a rose
  Tombstone teeth and a Hapsburg lip,
  A clammy handshake with a fish like grip
  A hunch back with double jointed elbows,
  A vestigial tail and long webbed toes
  He's a vicious sociopath with no compunction,
  An infernal machine and an appetite for destruction
  His appetite for power is positively obscene
  But I’m determined to foil his diabolical scheme
  
  Adapted from Ian Fleming by Seve
  
• j_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'

  October 17 Posts: 9,042

  Wow. Especially considering this is about the novel villains.
• Seve The island of Lemoy

  October 29 edited October 29 Posts: 426

  For the Bond Girls
  
  ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD
  
  The banshee wail of a wind-horn blast,
  A girl in a low white two seater swept past
  A blur of hair and scarf, her lips a flash of red,
  But I could tell she was pretty by the way she held her head
  The authority of someone who is used to being admired,
  All this and France, what more could be desired
  If there’s one thing that sets my pulse to race,
  It’s being passed by a driver with a beautiful face
  The thrill of pursuit and a romantic tryst,
  The Loir in summer is dressed just for this
  
  Was it luck or fate which brought us here,
  To the prospect of love with death so near
  That edge of danger which heightens each sense,
  The unknowns make the pleasure that much more intense
  The future is a flag which has yet to unfurl,
  But tonight we have all the time in the world
  
  As I stood in the darkness before a tall window,
  I heard a nervous giggle from back in the shadow
  She lay on the bed in the pale moonlight,
  Her long body covered by a single sheet of white
  Brown hair spread out like wings on the pillow,
  The contours of her breasts like hills beneath snow
  The teasing blue eyes held a promise of passion,
  At her throat she had tied a black velvet ribbon
  That and silk stockings were all that she wore,
  But it’s true what they say; sometimes less is more
  
  What drew us together, a rose and a thorn,
  In the still that is found at the eye of the storm
  We know not if this night may be our last,
  Uncertain our future, unknown our past
  Let us live in this moment, as a boy and a girl,
  Before we’re swept away by the gale of the world
  
  Alone on a beach at dawn she knelt,
  Naked except for a broad leather belt
  Then she stood in the classical pose of the nude,
  Looking out to sea in a wistful mood
  An elegant Venus with sun kissed skin,
  Cafe-au-lat with the sheen of dull satin
  Startled she turned at the sound of my voice,
  Her behind was as firm and round as a boys
  Her broken nose she had then to reveal,
  And firm justing breasts she did not conceal
  
  Was it luck or fate which brought us here,
  To the prospect of love with death so near
  That edge of danger which heightens each sense,
  The unknowns make the pleasure that much more intense
  Tomorrow is a promise that may never come true,
  But for this evening I belong only to you
  
  I first saw her across a hotel room,
  Listening to Fayer play and old French tune
  A certain look in her scornful grey eyes,
  That seemed to say, “sure, come ahead and try!”
  I admired the arrogent arch of her spine,
  Imagined her body held close against mine
  Semi naked astride a highbacked chair,
  Her breasts thrust against the black silk of her brassier
  The smell of her perfume whipped at my senses,
  Against weapons like these there are no defenses
  
  What drew us together, a rose and a thorn,
  In the still that is found at the eye of the storm
  We know not if this night may be our last,
  Uncertain our future, unknown our past
  The future is a flag which has yet to unfurl
  But tonight we have all the time in the world
  
  Adapted from Ian Fleming by Steven Bryce
  
• Seve The island of Lemoy

  November 8 Posts: 426

  ONE FALSE MOVE
  
  A chance encounter with an unpleasant stranger,
  The hair on my neck signals imminent danger
  There’s a man in the closet with a knife in his back,
  So the evidence suggests that I’m on the right track
  As I look in the mirror, mines the only face I see,
  But beyond the one way glass is someone filming me?
  Extreme paranoia is a hazard of the profession,
  One of those little details they forgot to mention
  
  Always on the lookout for something out of place,
  Some sign of recognition behind a poker face
  The pulse of the unrelenting seconds tick past,
  And one false move could be my last
  
  A porter seems nervous as we take the lift down,
  Then heads toward the phones with a worried frown
  The concierge looks me over with an enquiring eye,
  He asks where I’m going and I tell him a lie
  The woman at the bar gives me a longing look,
  The chap in the corner armchair glances up from his book
  That thick set man with the coat over his arm,
  Not looking where he’s going, or does he mean me harm?
  
  Watching every movement for a tell tail sign
  The professional always seems to have more time
  To control your emotions even as the pressure mounts
  Make it seem to slow down when every moment counts
  
  The couple having coffee in the cafe on the street,
  A pensioner feeding pigeons from a park bench seat
  The boy selling papers, the homeless old hag,
  Sipping cheap wine from a brown paper bag
  The hawker selling perfume has a familiar face
  And that fellow in the suit with the black brief case
  Is he the same man that I saw at the station?
  Was that a signal or just my imagination?
  
  Always on the lookout for something out of place,
  Some sign of recognition behind a poker face
  The pulse of the unrelenting seconds tick past,
  And one false move could be my last
  
  First at the casino, now the art gallery,
  It seems like more than a coincidence to me
  Should I wait in a doorway and let him pass by,
  Or lure him into an alleyway and find out why
  Find a busy arcade and lose him inside,
  Or try to shake him off with a quick taxi ride
  Give him the slip in a crowded station,
  Or make contact and feed him false information
  
  Always on the lookout for something out of place,
  Some sign of recognition behind a poker face
  The pulse of the unrelenting seconds tick past,
  And one false move could be my last
  
• Seve The island of Lemoy

  November 23 edited November 23 Posts: 426

  THE LOCOMOTIVE
  
  I first drove a Continental ‘Blower’ Bentley,*
  Supercharger by Amherst-Villiers incidentally
  When I flicked the little red switch on the dash,
  With a high pitched scream she was off like a flash
  The mark four body and 4.5 litre engine,
  Coupled to a 4-speed manual transmission
  A 4-seater, drophead, convertible coupé,
  With the coachwork painted a rough battleship-grey
  For the twin exhausts, I demanded two inch pipes;
  The soft flutter of the marque was one of my pet gripes
  
  Fitted with racing Michelins to achieve better traction,
  I cleared the way with a howl from my triple klaxons
  The huge twin beams of the Marchal headlights,
  Bored a safe white tunnel between the walls of the night
  
  I drove hard and well with an almost sensual pleasure,
  As if she was a Lipizaner at the Riding School in Vienna
  The supercharger dug spurs into the Bentleys five horses,
  While I whipped through the gears and weighed up my choices
  Try to catch them up or follow at a distance?
  Perhaps employ some other means to lower their resistance
  Beneath the dashboard I kept a long-barrelled colt,
  To shoot out their tyres and bring them to a halt
  
  Suddenly glinting steel catches the light,
  A carpet of spikes lie ahead in the night
  I slammed down hard on the brakes with my heal,
  Braced myself with all my sinews against the wheel
  The car began to skid with a tyre tortured squeal,
  Then the rubber was flayed from my off side wheel
  She whirled across the road and slammed into a bank,
  I was knocked out of my seat and my mind went blank
  
  That was all part of the Royale affair,
  And both of us survived, each a bit the worse for wear
  I had cuts and abrasions from the torture session,
  And bruises to parts that we don’t like to mention
  But there’s a scar on my heart that I still carry,
  Betrayed by a girl I thought I might marry
  That car finally met her end in the affair of the Moonraker,
  Smashed beyond repair under an avalanche of paper
  
  Then I briefly owned Mark VI built in 1952,* *
  With the seats upholstered in leather of dark blue
  She had an open touring body, still in battleship-grey
  I had her shipped to the ferry terminal over at Calais
  I’d planned to meet a girl for a trip through the Loire
  But she was otherwise engaged, so I forgot about the car
  
  Now I drive the “R” type Continental Bentley,
  Which I like to refer to as my “Locomotive” incidentally
  A Mark Two body with a Mark Four engine,***
  And 9.5 litres of compression
  Independent front suspension with coil springs,
  Stability provided by the knife edged rear wings
  She has a 13:40 back axle ratio,
  And powerful drum brakes, assisted by a servo
  The long grey nose lacks the usual winged “B”,
  Instead there’s a silver bolt, unique to me
  
  A power operated convertible in battleship grey,
  So I can cruise with the top down if it’s a nice day
  Leather upholstery, done in black morocco,
  Always settle for the best; - that’s my motto
  Large armed bucket seats, but only room for two,
  Play your cards right and it could be you
  A channel steel chassis with the big six engine
  And two-inch exhaust pipes I just thought I’d mention
  An Arnotts supercharger with a magnetic clutch
  But it’s my driving skill that adds the Nelson touch
  
  Adapted from Ian Fleming by Steven Bryce
  
  * fictitious “Mark 4” / fictitious brand of supercharger
  ** 1953 in the book but they had actually stopped making them by then
  *** fictitious “Mark 2”