Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Spirit of Australia

The Spirit of Australia

I am the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended

I’m the sunburnt country and the flooded plains

I’m the Barcoo and the Darling, I’m the Yarra and the Swan

I’m the muddy Murrumbidgee after rain.

I’m the sugar cane, the sack of wheat, I’ve made this country rich

From the Golden Fleece that rides upon my back

I’m on the stockroute back of Bourke, on the station way out west

I’m the six lane highway, I’m the desert track.

I’m the Indian Pacific, the Sunlander, the Ghan

I bind with steel the land beneath my rails

I’m the flying kangaroo, my long reach across the land

I’m all that drives and flies and steams and sails.

I’ve carried Banjo’s stockman, and Lawson’s rouseabout

I’m every horse that Gordon ever rode

I’m the colt from old Regret, I’m the packhorse and the dray

I’m the brumby bush horse from the Overflow.

I’m Lalor at the Stockade, I’m the Breaker on the veldt

I’m Simpson with his donkey at Lone Pine

I’m Tobruk, I’m Crete, I’m Long Tan, I’m the Sydney’s blazing guns

I’m the slave upon the railway on the Kwai.

I’m Dad and Dave, and - strike me lucky - I’m the Sentimental Bloke

I’m the man from where the Snowy River flows

I’m the slicker from the city, I’m the bastard from the bush

I’m Matilda waltzing down a country road.

I’m Brabham and I’m Bradman, I’m a girl called Goolagong

I’m the big red horse they killed in foreign lands

I’m Darcy in the ring and I’m Dally on the wing

And I’m Dougie lofting at the Members Stand.

I am Albert Namitjira, I am his canvas painted bright

I see this land through ageless open eyes

I’m the dreamtime, I’m the dawning, I’m older than the night

I am Uluru beneath the southern skies.

You can find me where the mountains tumble down against the sea

Where the wide brown land turns rich from flooding rain

Where the rivers of the inland flow proud beneath the sky

Where the west wind ripples through the golden grain.

From the mighty Southern Ocean to the jungles of the Gulf

From Byron to where Hartog nailed his plate

From Kosciuscko to the Cooper, from Sydney to the bush

I am everything that made this country great.

I’m the Spirit of Australia, I’m the soul of this great land

I’m what rides within and makes us what we are

I am you and me and all of us, I am tomorrow and today

I am the Spirit of the land. I am Australia.

Graeme Philipson, 1995

Saturday, May 24, 2008

The ANZAC on the Wall

The ANZAC on the Wall

I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac - on the Wall.

'The Anzac have a name?' I asked. The old man answered 'No,
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.'
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

'I asked around,' the old man said, 'but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow.
'I nodded in agreement and then said, 'I'll take him now.'

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
'Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917'
Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like Billabong to me.

'My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about.'

'That Bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand.’

'Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind.’

'He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother.’

'But Struth, I miss Australia mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night.’

‘I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town'.
The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date November 3rd 1917.
T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more'

Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen.’

'He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you wont come to harm.
McConnell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange.'

'Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared'

'They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,'

'That's why we need you home son' - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers - children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak'
My Johnny's at the war you know , he's coming home next week.’
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say 'yes dear - John will be home next week.’
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say
I tried to find out where he went, but don't know to this day

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God
John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail
This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale

So I continued digging cause I wanted to know more
I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame

That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......

So as John's gallant spirit rose to cross the great divide
Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?

Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?
Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken

Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder
Where hoof beats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men

Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.
Yes skeptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you cant dismiss all this as superstition

The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range
John Stuart rides forever there - Now I don't find that strange.
Now some gaze at this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.

'You must be proud of him.' they say, I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place - my ANZAC on the Wall.

author unknown

Saturday, January 26, 2008

The Procrastination Poem; Take 3

Ah the protestations of youth, poetry ain’t poetry, (at least it won’t get into my book) if it doesn’t rhyme, and despite being told three times Marcus still ignored my poor old Grandpa, so I included him myself, that makes this contribution from Marcus the fourth generation represented here.

The Procrastination Poem Take 3

I checked my emails late one night
There was a stack backed up in the in tray
I could have checked them sooner
But I’d put it off for another day.

There was one waiting there from Pop
All the way from Gympie in Queensland
“I’m putting an anthology together” he said
“And I want you to lend a hand”.

“I’ve got poems from my Grandpa and also from my Dad
And there’s some of my own rhyming verse
I’d like more generations represented
So perhaps you and Zach can give it a burst”.

Sure, I said, good idea
I’d love to contribute some jottings
But then other things took my attention
And the poem I’d promised was forgotten.

Not only that, but The Heir was invited
To contribute something original too
At least, that is, he would have been
If I hadn’t put off telling him what to do.

He’s not speedy at the best of times
So delaying the request was a bad idea
What with my own procrastination to deal with
One poem, let alone two, may never appear.

I’ll do it after Christmas I thought
When life is not so hectic
I’ll have time to do it justice then I reasoned
Or was this another delaying tactic?

Sure enough, I not only put off the poem
But also the newspaper project for mission
Too much to do in too little time
Blame the sin of constant omission.

I put the jobs off, I delayed and avoided
My responsibility to put pen to paper
Time was soon my enemy and I paid
Dearly for my time-wasting caper.

Deadlines were approaching
There was no time left to waste
If I was going to fulfil obligations
I absolutely must make haste.

Everyone’s made it home now
The pubs are closed and parties are finished
The phone calls at last have all stopped
The demand for cabs has finally diminished.

When will I have time to get it written?
I muse, as I watch the dawn
How about now as I sit in the cab
Will my brain work at five in the morn?

Now I can’t put it off any longer
I’ll grab a pen and get busy at rhyming
A masterpiece it may not be
Just the result of good and bad timing!

I sent it off to the editor for approval
Hoping it was up to scratch
But he sent it back for correction
Saying the rhyming doesn’t match.

He’s a picky bugger, except when it comes to spelling
So I had another go to appease him
He can take it or leave it, his choice
I love him but I don’t always please him.

Marcus Holt 2008

Friday, January 25, 2008

Easy Merve

I wrote this poem about my Dad way back… about 1980 I think.

Dad passed away Jan. 20 2002, but will live in our hearts forever.

Easy Merv

The story I’m going to tell you
Might come with a bit of a jolt,
The tale of one mans good fortune
The story of one, Mervyn Holt.

Whether through luck or good judgement
No matter through thick or thin
Didn’t matter much what he tried next
The cash just kept rolling in.

When everyone else had a battle
To keep their old bombs on the track,
Merv just bought them and sold them
In a little used car yard out back.

Then if it’s spare parts you’re after
Easy Merv won’t see you go wrong
After he has all your money
He’ll sell you the parts for a song.

Years back he moved up to Queensland
Even there he made lots of dough,
Now he says its god’s country
But we know it belongs to Joh.

Of all of the things he has tried
Things to which he’s turned his hand
I reckon he’d have to rate best
A coalmine upon his land.

Sit back and tally the royalties
Without having to chance his luck
The more that goes out the richer he gets
The dollars roll in with each truck.

There’s a bloody big hole in the paddock
Where heavy equipment digs deep
But Merv sits back and enjoys it
Says it helps him to get restful sleep.

He still has a few slow racehorses
Doesn’t bother with training today
Leases them out to another
Lets somebody else buy the hay.

But if perchance one should get up
And win a cup for the shelf
The thrill of a win still excites him
You’d reckon he rode it himself.

After years as a bit of a battler
He reckons that he’s found the lurk
Now he sits back in style
And drives to the track in his Merc.

Now if you should chance to visit
And on the pool table you dare
To lay a challenge before him
He’ll wipe the floor with you there.

Must be a sign of the times
A miss-spent youth you might say
While sleeping at night under bridges

Somewhere he learnt how to play.

He’s had a couple of close calls
And fought his way back to health
He says when you think you are dying
What’s the good of all of your wealth?

All he needs now for contentment
The very last thing he would seek
Is for Hawkey to agree to send him
A pension cheque every week.

Peter Holt

Time for a little update
As the years keep flying past
As Merv approaches ninety
He’s sold the farm at last.

It’s fair to say he’s slowing down
There’s no Merc. to drive today
But it really doesn’t matter
He’s not driving anyway.

Now living in retirement
In a unit at the coast
Watching boats and playing pokies
Are the things he likes the most.

Peter Holt 2000

Thursday, January 24, 2008

A Letter to Fred

This was a letter written by my Dad to his Brother Fred in 1936.

Letter To

I undertake in these few verses,
My dear old brother
To tell you just how light my purse is.
And what I’ve been doing of late.

Last year in 1935, I was working In Yallourn
But snatched it coming on the summer
I think the only trouble was
The weather got too warm.

For when a man is hanging all day
To the end of a pick or shovel,
It’s then he tries to better himself
And gets further into trouble.

I finished up, and went to town
And to those city agents I went and did the rounds,
Of course I didn’t know the ropes too well,
But everytime I got lost, I managed to locate the bell.

I’ll tell you Fred it weren’t no easy task,
Climbing all those flights of stairs
Until at last I took a tumble,
And got in those lift affairs.

When I introduced myself
And said, “ I want to buy a farm”
They held out their hands to me
Of course I took it calm.

They praised up the blocks they had,
And made me feel like a squatter too
When they asked if I’d like to go,
And inspect a block or two.

The first place I went and saw Fred,
It had no boundary fence,
It was 3 parts heath and scrub
And bracken fern the rest.

Of course I turned it down Fred,
Don’t you think that that was best?
It was then I went to Hawsley, he’s another city sneak,
He took me out to where I am, out here at Dixons Creek.

He praised the place right up to me
As that they’re paid to do,
Until at last I said I’d take the place
And put the business through.

‘Twas then he took my shillings Fred
Every one I had
And things have set in dry my lad,
And things are bloody bad.

The little bit of fruit I had
It hardly paid to spray.
And to those
Melbourne agents
I went and gave away.

So now then Fred I’ve done my best,
With this you should agree,
So think yourself lucky
Freddie isn’t me.

So now then Fred I’ve got to close
At expenses I must look,
I’ve used up a 1/4 inch of pencil
And of paper , near a book.

So now I’ll say goodbye
Fred my fondest brother
Although we are so very close
We all love one another.

Merve Holt

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Annie's Poem

This was written for my Auntie Annie by my Grandfather. The comments are by my Auntie Pearl, Pearl’s comments…….. This poem was written for Annie. At that time if you wanted to sell chickens, you sent for a crate to put them in, but this time it didn’t arrive. The part about Dad’s clothes ~ I’m sure the suit of Uncle Jacks was Aunty Louisa’s idea. Dad never wore a suit in his life, but when he went out, he always wore clean moleskin trousers, a white shirt and a spotless white hanky round his neck. He was very clean and tidy. Dad really loved Annie. (She was his firstborn). Granny Magford’s was the wine place in Glenrowan where Ned Kelly was captured. Edna and I used to go there sometimes to work.

I think Grandad was feeling guilty for going off to drink and by doing so the chicken escaped. He used to like to drink so I have heard. He died when I was 1, so I never knew him. He spent a lot of years living at Auntie Annie’s place, Her husband Dan died very young and she raised a family of six children.

Poem by Hugh Ranton (1866-1937) as remembered by his daughter Pearl McKinley

Annie's Poem.

Yes, time flies swiftly onward,
Though it seems but yesterday
that we met at Granny Mogford's
where the chicken got away.

He'd escaped from his companions
through a vent, within the bag,
Which I fixed, you well remember
with some rotten string or rag.

Then we looked among the others
to make sure that they were right,
But we found the trip and worry
had put out another's light.

And me thought me of the scotch man,
Aye, that close and canny beast,
With his `bang goes sixpence lassie',
Each was worth a thrum at least.

My heart went out with pity,
For your face was lined with care,
And I read the disappointment
at the crate that wasn't there.

Wee Ticky didn't know me,
You will learn with some surprise,
I was there in borrowed plumage,
Like a jackdaw in disguise.

For the hat that covered Snowy
and the clothes upon my back
- bar the boots with Danny's heels -
all belonged to Uncle Jack !

I left you at the slip rails,
For a moment took a spell,
Quaffed a wine, seized my packet,
Took the train and steamed to hell.

In the end, the pick and crowbar
and that tough, unfinished line,
Where you reckoned at the day's end
posts erected number nine.

Myself was in a muddle
and was left to dream at night
that I'd done the same as usual,
Just the thing that wasn't right.

Oh well, we all have our troubles
some are great and some are small;
But no matter their dimension,
'Twould be better - none at all !

But when Gabriel blows the trumpet,
Though the distance is so far,
I will shout aloud to Peter
for to swing dem gates ajar.

Hugh Ranton

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Names carved in the wall

Follow this link to hear George Jones sing this;


Names carved in the wall.

There’s teddy bears and high school rings,
And old photographs that Mammas bring,
Of Daddies with their young boys, playing ball.
There’s combat boots that he used to wear,
When he was sent over there.
There’s 50,000 names carved in the wall.

There’s cigarettes and there’s cans of beer,
And notes that say I miss you dear;
And children who don’t say anything at all.
There’s purple hearts and packs of gum,
And fatherless daughters and fatherless sons;
And there’s 50,000 names carved in the wall.

They come from all across this land,
In pickup trucks and minivans;
Searching for a boy from long ago.
They scan the wall and find his name,
The teardrops fall like falling rain;
And silently they leave a gift and go.

There’s Stars of David and Rosary Beads,
And Crucifixion figurines,
And flowers of all colors, large and small.
There’s a Boy Scout badge and a merit pin,
Little American Flags waving in the wind;
There’s 50,000 names carved in the wall.
There’s 50,000 names carved in the wall.

Written by Jamie O’Hara.

The Woods

The woods

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Signs of Getting Old

"Signs of Getting Old.”

My forgetter's getting better.
But my rememberer is broke,
To you that may sound funny,
But, to me, that is no joke.

For when I'm here, I'm wondering,
If instead I should be there,
And when I try to think it through,
I haven't got a prayer.

Oft times I walk into a room,
And say, 'what am I here for ?"
I wrack my brain, but all in vain,
A zero is my score.

At times I put something away,
Where it is safe, but gee,
The person it is safest from,
Is generally me.

When shopping I may see someone,
Say 'Hi' and have a chat,
Then, when the person walks away
I ask myself, "Who the hell was that ?"

Yes my forgetter's getting better,
While my rememberer is broke,
And it's driving me crazy,
And that isn't any joke.

Author Unknown

Friday, November 30, 2007

It was my first time ever

You are gonna hate yourselves

when you read the last line.

It was my first time ever

It was my first time ever
And I'll never forget
I'd do it again
Without a single regret.

The sky was dark
The moon was high
We were all alone
Just she and I.

Her hair was soft
Her eyes were blue
I knew just what
She wanted to do.

Her skin so soft

Her legs so fine
I ran my fingers
Down her spine.

I didn't know how
But I tried my best
I started by placing
My hands on her breast.

I remember my fear
My fast beating heart
But slowly she spread
Her legs apart.

And when I did it
I felt no shame
All at once
The white stuff came.

At last it's finished
It's all over now
My first time ever
At milking a cow...

Author Unknown

Ode to Takeout

Ode To Takeout (Sing To My Favorite Things)

Baked meat lasagna and Indian curry.
Sesame noodles. I'm famished! Please hurry!
Buddha's Delight that is fit for a king.
Takeout is one of my favorite things.

Greek beef moussaka and cheese ravioli.
Brocc'li and eggplant, stir fried with aioli.
Barbecued chicken: Just breasts and some wings.
Takeout is one of my favorite things.

When I'm feeling
Pangs of hunger,
Need fine food to eat,
I thumb through my menus and pick up the phone.
Cause takeout just can't be beat.

Turkey with stuffing that isn't too mushy.
Beef yakiniku, but please hold the sushi.
Salad that's topped with a dressing that zings.
Takeout is one of my favorite things.

Chicken with walnuts and garlic, quite spicy.
Filet mignon. I don't care that it's pricey.
Lo mein and dumplings and fried onion rings.
Takeout is one of my favorite things.

When I yearn for
Something tasty
Need good food to eat,
I leaf through my menus and reach for the phone.
Cause takeout just can't be beat.

By Madeleine Begun Kane



Young man, gather gold and gear,
They will wear you well;
You can thumb your nose at fear,
Wish the horde in hell.
With the haughty you can be
Insolent and bold:
Young man, if you would be free,
Gather gear and gold.

Mellow man of middle age,
Buy a little farm;
Then let revolution rage,
You will take no harm.
Cold and hunger, hand in hand,
May red ruin spread;
With your little bit of land
You'll be warm and fed.

Old man, seek the smiling sun,
Wall yourself away;
Dream aloof from everyone
In a garden gay.
Let no grieving mar your mood,
Have no truck with tears;
Greet each day with gratitude-
Glean a hundred years.

Robert Service

Wednesday, November 07, 2007


I'm gonna let this post speak for itself.


written by Arcadia Flynn

Oh I wish I had boobs that would wobble
Mine just stay still in one place
In the breast hall of fame
You won't see my name
For my boobs there would be a disgrace

Sure boobs of my size have their merit
They're easy to fit with a bra
And when I go for a dip
You won't see one slip…out
They stay put…just where they are

And I'm not one to seek much attention
So you won't find me strutting about
In a boob tube that's trying
By gravity defying
T o leave no room, not even for doubt

But I sure envy big breasted women
I've seen them at parties you know
With all confidence thrust
In their mighty big bust
Entrancing the men as they go

Though I've heard from a big bosomed buddy
That it's not all it's cracked up to be
She says in frustration
"Try to hold conversation
When there's only two things a guy sees”

Now if I paid a few grand to enlarge them
To, say thirty-six b or c
Would they still look so natural
And could I class them as collateral
Sorta like home improvements, on me

Now I've not taken this boob thing just lightly
I've done quite a bit of research
As I try to keep abreast
In my mammary quest
I've found there's a bit to be learned

There's questions that need to be answered
Like cleavage, how wide and how deep
I can have nipples bigger
But somehow I figured
That could poke Sweetie's eye in his sleep

Oh, I wish I had boobs that were awesome
I'd buy a bright red bathing suit
On the beach I would run
In slow motion for fun
To show off my best attribute

Now don't think I'd just get them for vanity
There's much I'd aspire to do
I could feed many babies
When I was lactating
And for convenience, I could offer drive-thru

In a t-shirt I'd test air conditioning
They could 'see' if they had it too low
And if I stood outside
My breasts pumped up with pride
Police'd use me to stop traffic flow

Well you can see I've a lot to consider
For the big plunge, I need some more time
So I'll keep you updated
But for now they're just fated
To stay as they are for a while

And there's my sweetie who totally accepts me
For he loves each and every little…bit
He says "stay as you are
You're the most beautiful by far"
As he gazes into my eyes…not my tits!

written by Arcadia Flynn

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Wise Dog on the Tuckerbox.

This is the dog on the tuckerbox from the Jack O'Hagen song
"On the road to Gundagai".
A statue was erected to commemorate this song, it was unveiled by the then Prime Minister, Joe Lyons, in 1932.

This poem by an anonymous author was probably written around 1980.

Wise Dog OnThe Tuckerbox

The dog sits on the tuckerbox
He’s gettin’ pretty mad
“The country’s gone to OTHER dogs
It’s gettin’ flamin’ bad!
They’re sellin’ out
It makes you wonder why,
The tuckerbox is foreign-owned”
Said the dog from Gundagai

“They’re sellin’ farms and factories,
A million out of work,
From Sydney-town to
And way out back o’ Bourke!
It’s time that true-blue Aussies,
And that means you and I,
Stand up and guard the tuckerbox”
Said the dog from Gundagai

“In ten years time, what happens,
Who’ll own those jolly jumbucks?
If we don’t make a stand
Across our native land,
Who’ll run our mines and factories?
Who’ll pay our kids the dole?
Which bank will own your mortgage?
Who’ll own you, heart and soul?

Who’ll pay your flamin’ wages?
Who’ll make you pay the rent?
Who’ll tell your kids what happened?
And where your freedom went.”
“Or can that digger spirit,
A bit of do-or-die
Get back that flamin’ tuckerbox”
Asks the dog from Gundagai


Sunday, September 16, 2007

Around a corner.

Around a corner.

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friend's face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.

He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell,
And he rang mine, we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow" I say ! "I will call on Jim."
"Just to show I'm thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows,
Around the corner ! yet miles away,
"Here's a telegram sir." "Jim died today."

And that's what we get
and deserve in the end.
Around a corner,
a vanished friend.

Author Unknown.