Poems with rhymes of spine

Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

Curdles about her! Vain each twist and twine
Those lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluff
Fitting as close as fits the dented spine

An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine!
An' nen my Ma she died--an' I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'

Seeking to soar, with hope divine,
I frantically beat the air,
And crash to earth and - snap my spine.

Against the fashions of their line,
On pulpy maxims turned their backs,
And specialized a spine.

Joy of the Milliner, Envy of the Line,
Star of the Parks, jack-booted, sworded, helmed,
He sits between his holsters, solid of spine;

At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine,
He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.

Soldiers marching up its spine
I tulip, have a vine!

yet for today send a chill down the spine
heads today are in the walking blind
make sure you don't ever be left behind

That mute unearthly porter's spine.
Like sleeping dragon's sudden eyes
The signals leered along the line.

Ever diversities combine;
The vocal chords of the cushat-dove,
The snake's articulated spine.

Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,
When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!
Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .

I'm fed up to the molar mark with wallopin' the brine;
I feel the bloody barnacles a-carkin' on me spine.

That vice is vulgar, though it gilded shine
Upon the curve of a judicial spine.

Now I don't hold wi' mushy stuff, tear-jerkin' ain't my line,
Yet somehow that kid's singin' sent the shivers down my spine;

He was not bent but broken, his spine
made a sharp right angle with his legs,
so that the stick, perfecting his line,

'E'll cop a blinkin' packet in 'is spine,
And that'll be the end of 'im, the swine.

For when she came to spike and spine,
Where reef and river gather,
Her feet were sore with shell and chine;

With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,
Don't it seem funny the things you think
'Ere in the firin' line:

God! Wis that the breenge o' a bullet? I'm thinkin' it's cracket ma spine.
I'm doon on ma knees in the glabber; I'm fearin', auld man, I've got mine.