James Bond Poetry

SeveSeve The island of Lemoy
edited October 2021 in Fan Creations Posts: 428
Inspired from reading the books

SHAKEN NOT STIRRED

Who is that man in the mirror I see?
With his ironic look of enquiry
The grey blue eyes are wide and level,
Sharp and alert, with just a hint of the Devil
Dark and determined, a clean cut face,
With that one unruly lock that will never stay in place
I run my hand back through my straight black hair,
But in truth I prefer to see it hanging there
Like a question mark above my right eyebrow,
That asks, “Are you ready? Is it never or now?”

The good things in life are for those who dare,
So I don’t spend my evenings playing Solitaire
I’m not one to boast, but you can take my word,
When the going gets tough, I’m shaken not stirred!

Some say my mouth has a cruel line,
But given my profession that suits me fine
The three inch scar on my right cheek,
To remind me there is no mercy for the weak
One on my right shoulder and on the back of my right hand,
And others incurred when things didn’t go as planned
In the game I’ve chosen there are no holds barred,
We all deal seconds and death the final card

Roulette, Baccarat or a game of Dominoes,
The shows not over till the Iron Curtain falls
When the stakes are high I remain undeterred,
Take it to the limit, I’m shaken not stirred!

A hot bath followed by an ice cold shower,
A process of remarkable restorative power
With hair like mine you should always shave twice,
But old habits die hard, so once will suffice
I slip into my sea-island cotton shorts,
A heavy silk evening shirt, white of course
Dark blue trousers of navy serge,
Nothing to flashy if you want to merge
A knitted silk tie in a tasteful pattern,
Or a thin double ended bow of black satin
Appropriate dress for the occasion is a must,
But men who use the Windsor knot I distrust

Danger and the high-life, I take them as they come,
I’ve seen the world through the sight of my gun
They may seem outrageous, the stories you’ve heard,
But you better believe it; I’m shaken not stirred

I wear a Rolex Oyster perpetual watch,
And carry a flat light gun metal box
It holds fifty cigarettes, the Moreland brand,
Macedonian blend with the triple gold band
I light them with my jet black oxidised Ronson,
Check if it needs fuel by snapping the action
I slip the case into my left hip pocket,
Remove my billfold of notes and count it
The pressure is on but I need to relax,
Have one stiff drink and review the facts

Everyday could be my last so I Never Say Never,
Life is short and only Diamonds Are Forever
I’m no wise guy but here’s the word,
There’s no doubt about it; I’m shaken not stirred!

Take out the light chamois leather holster,
Slip it on to sit just below my left shoulder
Point 25 Berretta with a skeleton grip,
Semi-automatic, eight rounds in the clip
Pump the cartridges out on to the bed,
An ounce of prevention as someone once said
Inspect the gun; whip the action too and fro,
If something’s going to stick I need to know
Squeeze the trigger on the empty chambers,
Practise my draw on imaginary strangers
Carefully repack the spring-loaded magazine,
I invariably follow the same routine
Put up the safety catch and make a mental note,
Slip into my single-breasted dinner jacket coat
Verify in the mirror that the gun doesn’t show,
A last adjustment to my tie and I’m ready to go

There’s no room for sentiment in the life of a spy,
And no second chances so Live and Let Die
To say I’m a superhuman, well that’s just absurd,
Ice cool in a crisis, I’m shaken not stirred!

The toecaps of my shoes are lined with steel,
Patent leather uppers with a blade in the heal
I have been known to carry a knife,
On more than one occasion it has saved my life
Strapped to my forearm in time of need,
It’s comforting to know that I have something up my sleeve
Finally I take a tablet of Benzedrine,
To provide endurance and keep my senses keen
Attention to detail is the key to it all,
To succeed takes more than just Thunderballs

It’s my belief that You Only Live Twice,
When you’re born and when you look death in the face
They say that actions speak louder than words,
So decide for yourself, if I’m shaken not stirred!

Adapted from Ian Fleming by Seve

Comments

  • ThunderfingerThunderfinger Das Boot Hill
    Posts: 45,489
    Things

    that go bump

    on a Friday night.
  • thedovethedove hiding in the Greek underworld
    Posts: 5,445
    "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_pepperj_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'
    Posts: 9,050
    There is also a James Bond haiku thread and a James Bond limerick thread somewhere out there. Maybe we can somehow consolidate all those.
  • thedovethedove hiding in the Greek underworld
    Posts: 5,445
    Good idea @j_w_pepper I had found this in my drafts and decided to add my poor two cents.
  • j_w_pepperj_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'
    Posts: 9,050
    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.
  • SeveSeve The island of Lemoy
    edited October 16 Posts: 428
    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_pepperj_w_pepper Born on the bayou, but I now hear a new dog barkin'
    Posts: 9,050
    Wow. Especially considering this is about the novel villains.
  • SeveSeve The island of Lemoy
    edited October 29 Posts: 428
    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
  • SeveSeve The island of Lemoy
    Posts: 428
    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

  • SeveSeve The island of Lemoy
    edited November 23 Posts: 428
    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”
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