Poetry Galore

The Spirit of Australia

2008-07-30T23:16:00.002+10:00

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

The ANZAC on the Wall

2008-05-24T11:42:00.001+10:00

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

The Procrastination Poem; Take 3

2008-01-26T20:20:00.000+10:00

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

Easy Merve

2008-01-25T00:23:00.001+10:00

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

A Letter to Fred

2008-01-24T00:42:00.000+10:00

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

Letter To Fred

I undertake in these few verses,
My dear old brother Fred,
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
That 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
To Fred my fondest brother
Although we are so very close
We all love one another.

Merve Holt

Annie's Poem

2008-01-23T00:03:00.000+10:00

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

Names carved in the wall

2008-01-05T18:17:00.000+10:00

Follow this link to hear George Jones sing this;

Http://mywebpages.comcast.net/singingman7/TNOTW.htm

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

2008-01-05T17:43:00.000+10:00

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

Signs of Getting Old

2007-12-02T10:32:00.000+10:00

"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

It was my first time ever

2007-11-30T22:04:00.000+10:00

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

2007-11-30T21:51:00.000+10:00

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

Security

2007-11-30T21:49:00.000+10:00

SECURITY

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

bOObs

2007-11-07T23:30:00.000+10:00

I'm gonna let this post speak for itself.

Boobs

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

Wise Dog on the Tuckerbox.

2007-10-24T08:19:00.000+10:00

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 Australia!
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 Adelaide
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

Anonymous

Around a corner.

2007-09-16T10:28:00.000+10:00

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.

The Corner Store

2007-07-22T23:40:00.000+10:00

"The Corner Store."

As he staggered down the street, he was so alone,
He was desolate, with no one to call his own.
The corner store was about to close, he had to get there fast,
Reason left him long ago, his good life in the past.

Bill stumbled on the step, as he walked inside the door,
The liquor counter filled the back, of the corner store.
Bill was there to buy his nightly bottle of cheap wine,
Soon he'd be oblivious, life would then be fine.

Remembering days gone by was more than he could bear,
Bill had been successful, with a family in his care.
His son was only sixteen, the day he passed away,
Bill started drinking alcohol, to ease the pain that day.

The alcohol possessed him, he couldn't put it down,
Bill soon became well known, as the drunk of that small town.
He couldn't hold his job and he also lost his wife,
He lost all the good things; as alcohol became his life.

Bill left the corner store, brown paper bag in hand,
What happened to him next, no one will understand.
He went into an alley; he had no place else to go,
He silently began to cry, for he had sunk so low.

Next morning in the alley, there gathered a small crowd,
Everyone was whispering . . . no one spoke out loud.
Empty bottle on the ground, beside a lifeless heap,
The grim reaper paid a visit, as Bill lay there fast asleep.

The lesson from this tragedy will shortly be forgot,
Big bottles of cheap wine will continue to be bought,
Bill's battle has been lost, for him there is no more,
Still , , ,there will be others, heading for the corner store.

written by T. Lynn.

Ode to a wet sheep.

2007-07-16T22:27:00.000+10:00

Update;

Pamela pointed out that she encountered some new words here
so I have listed some that may confuse overseas readers.

cocky = farmer

ute = utility/pickup truck

paddocks = fields

wethers = castrated male sheep

carked = died

stupid sod = dumb animal

singlet = sleeveless undershirt

jocks = underpants

Bomdi tram = light rail vehicle to Bondi Beach, Sydney

stuffed = buggered (in this instance)

stock rep = sales rep for local agricultural firm

Waltzing Matilda by A B (Banjo) Paterson.

Ode to a wet sheep.

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams.
He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a watertank
And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.

"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."
The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam
The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.

At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.
She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away
He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
But nor was he prepared for what he was about to see.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.

And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"
The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

Author unknown.

Life looked better in Black and White

2007-07-08T21:52:00.000+10:00

Truth in advertising.

Life looked better in black and white

You could hardly see for all the snow,
Spread the rabbit ears as far as they go.
Pull a chair up to the TV set,
"Good Night, David. Good Night, Chet."
Depending on the channel you tuned,
You got Rob and Laura - or Ward and June.
It felt so good. It felt so right.
Life looked better in black and white.

I Love Lucy, The Real McCoys,
Dennis the Menace, the Cleaver boys ,
Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Wagon Train,
Superman, Jimmy and Lois Lane.
Father Knows Best, Patty Duke,
Rin Tin Tin and Lassie too,
Donna Reed on Thursday night!
Life looked better in black and white.

I want to go back to black and white.
Everything always turned out right.
Simple people, simple lives.
Good guys always won the fights.
Now nothing is the way it seems,
In living color on the TV screen.
Too many murders, too many fights,
I want to go back to black and white.

In God they trusted, alone in bed, they slept,
A promise made was a promise kept.
They never cussed or broke their vows.
They'd never make the network now.
But I'd rather be In a TV town back then
It felt so good. It felt so right.
I'd trade all the channels on the satellite...
Life looked better in black and white.

Life looked better in black and white.
If I could just turn back the clock tonight
To when everybody knew wrong from right.
Life was better in black and white!

author unknown.

The Stranger

2007-05-20T23:58:00.000+10:00

The Stranger.

He came when Summer had fastened it’s fingers
On the throat of our dry, dusty brown land.
“I am searching for something” he said, “that you have here
In the land on the edge of the grass and the sand.”

“They told me to search where the mid-day mirages
Hover and shimmer and dance in the sun.
They told me to look where the people are talking
In the soft evening light when the daylight is done.”

“Look high on the ridges” they said, “and the hill sides,
And look down below in the rivers of sand,
My search” they said, could last for a lifetime
And never turn out the way I had planned.”

They said, “I might find in a red western sunset
Part of the magic I came here to chase,
If I looked past the sandstorms and harshness of summer
I might find for myself the charm of the place.”

“I might find if I seek it the wide sky of night time
The softness of moonlight and mornings still grace,
I might find for myself the difference of friendships
That nurture and grow in your wide open space.”

So I told him to savour our heat in the summer
But stay till the rains had come to the land
And grown the grass higher than cattle and horses
When the wildflowers covered the hills and the sand.

I said he might find the magic he looked for’
I hoped he would know, should he stumble upon
The illusive and wonderful something we have here
That we sometimes write down in a tale or a song.

And I hoped he would stay, should he fancy our lifestyle
To discover the wonders we see in our land
I hoped he’d find mates and friendships and company,
They’re all here in our dry, dusty, brown land.

written by Betty Olle.

ANZAC Day 2007

2007-04-22T15:14:00.000+10:00

I'm posting two poems together today, they both are for
ANZAC Day and while quite different both suit the day well.

In Flanders Fields.

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Diggers Lament.

Check out some of the links in this poem, you'll understand
Aussies better if you do.

It was with great sadness, that we saw
a dusty old digger, turned from the door
for a century he and his mates had drunk
and laughed and cried, and lived through war

But now it seems, he is not the right class
No suit, no tie, no belt of brass
To him it was all a tragic mystery
Who were these Australians, who had forgotten their own history?

Somewhat in shock, we skulled our beers
and rushed to join, our aging peer
hey cobber, we yelled, knowing his tounge
he turned and stared, eyeing us one by one

We built this bloody country, said he
with our bloody hands
we spilt our blood, we gave our youth
and this is the thanks we have

In our day the pub was for one and all
a place for laugh and cheer
at the very least, an honest bloke
could find an honest beer

Now no one wants to know us
they throw us on the street
sometimes I wonder why we bothered
getting butchered, like raw meat

the fair dinkums we were known as
as we fought the war of hate
but most of all, we aussie blokes
fought for one another - as good mates

Now I look around at Sydney
Well, it just ain't the same
the crowds - they aren't my people
what they are is just a shame

they shove, they push, they toot their horns
they speak american if you're lucky
the dinkum aussies, my cobbers and I
we're disappearing in a hurry

there's no shouting, mateship or blokeyness
and 'bloody oath' is considered crude
they think they are all winners
I just think they're bloody rude

they carry on, throughout their lives
chasing the almighty zac
but they know no joy, they have no mates
they'll die alone - for moneys sake

and what's worse, he sighed, is not here and now
but where we're going to be
and I ask myself, as I slowly die
what happened to my country.

David Downie, 2000

Good Timber

2007-04-09T23:49:00.000+10:00

Good Timber.

The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.

The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.

Good timber does not grow with ease,
The stronger wind, the stronger trees,
The further sky, the greater length,
The more the storm the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.

Where thickest lies the forest growth
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.

by Douglas Malloch

The Law of the "Local".

2007-04-09T00:34:00.000+10:00

The Law of the “Local”.

I enjoy Australian humour,
Dry as the land of it’s birth,
Hard baked, hard bitten or scathing,
Reeking of red-brown earth.

The blokes at the pub love nick-names,
Art, drowned in amber cheer,
Novitiates stand in awe,
Locals gloat or jeer.

There’s “Aspro” the slow working dope,
And “Crime” ‘cos he doesn’t pay,
“Fog” doesn’t lift before ten,
A beer and a fag start the day.

“Moth” flitting home on his way from the pub,
Is drawn to all light on his way,
And “Bikkies” ginger hair means Ginger Nuts…
What more is there left to say?

“Cadbury” drowns on a glass and a half…
I scribble on in dismay…
“Mrs. Tits” is a bit of a boobie,
And “Crime” well he still doesn’t pay.

I love Australian people
Tough as the land of their birth,
Hard bitten, hard baked, and soft at the core,
The seasoned eye knows their worth.

Full of the pride of the Anzacs,
Though mateship’s gone astray,
Lost in the amber wilderness,
The men try to find their way.

Their women are looking elsewhere,
It’s time that change had its day.
Puzzled the men down their amber.
Disgusted, the women turn away.

In the cities it’s all cosmopolitan,
Androgynous, bisexual, homo too.
In the country that’s not acceptable.
The city’s a human zoo.

I hate Australian humour,
When it’s bigoted, racist and crude,
And I loathe Australian people
When they’re apathetic, lazy and rude.

Written by Jenny Hall.

A Geek Poem

2007-02-08T00:02:00.000+10:00

I thought the poem below would be easier to understand once you
had absorbed exactly how a computer works... There that's easy...
RIGHT??

A Geek poem.

>> ! * ‘ ‘ #
^ ” ` $ $ -
! * = @ $ _
% * < > ~ # 4
& [ ] . . /
| { , , SYSTEM HALTED

The poem can only be appreciated by reading it aloud;

Waka waka bang splat tick tick hash,

Caret quote back-tick dollar dollar dash,

Bang splat equal at dollar under-score,

Percent splat waka waka tilde number four,

Ampersand bracket bracket dot dot slash,

Vertical-bar curly-bracket comma comma CRASH.

Author Unknown

The Lights Of Cobb and Co.

2007-02-01T11:24:00.000+10:00

A tale of Australia’s pioneer stage line that rivaled the American

“Wells Fargo” coach service.

Told by one of Australia’s best poets, Henry Lawson.

The Lights Of Cobb and Co.

Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,
A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;
The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,
The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar.
A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;
A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’
‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;
Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.

Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’
Uncounted ‘Half -Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’
The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;
The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;
The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’
The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Farthest West;
Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;
The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.

The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,
In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;
A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—
And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.
The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;
The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,
The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—
The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.

We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,
To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,
To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—
(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)
Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:
Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:
With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—
That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.

Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,
A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,
A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;
Weird bush and scattered remnants of rushes in the night
Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:
‘Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’
But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—
A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!

Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;
Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinch
Past haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—
Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—
By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,
Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;
Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;
New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.

. . . . .

Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;
The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.
A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—
No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs
When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,
Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—
Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broad
You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.

Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—
Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,
Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never know
Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.
The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,
But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!
The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,
The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.

Written by Henry Lawson

"When Roads Were Rough"

2007-01-22T20:28:00.000+10:00

It is with pride that we present this souvenir centenary booklet as a tribute to the stout - hearted pioneers who knew only the hard way, and whose spirit is typified in the words of the poem printed in the following pages. The poem was written in 1930 by Mr. F. R. Cox, himself the son of a well-known pioneer of the Western District in Victoria.

We hope that all who read this book will treasure it as a memento of a proud little community.

"When Roads Were Rough"

'Twas had to imagine the roads as they were,
Just a few years ago - well - say forty,
When now formed and metalled along them we purr,
In motor cars speedy and sporty,
But stay just a moment, and think looking back,
of the time when the highway was just a bush track.

One road I refer to, it's best known to me,
Though it's now but a spin of two hours,
It once took a week, or maybe it was three,
When bullocks and drays served as powers,
But iron horse the journey has now shortened,
And quickened the schedule for Casterton - Portland.

Let's think of the trials our fathers went through,
When they hauled through the bush, heavy loads,
Of the bogs, broken chains, yes - and capsizes, too,
For the ruts were feet deep in the roads,
Then 'twas load up again and on through the mire,
And dry out the duds round a blazing camp fire

A few names well known, pioneers of freight,
Cain, Comeford, Wagner, McCombe, Murrell,
McCabe, Hawkins, Hicky, Hazledine, Tait,
Boyd, Wheeler, Grant, Nicholls, Blair, Burrell,
McEachern, White, Winters, Grinham, Doyle, Farrell,
Lightbody, Craig, Bilston, Pitts, Parson and Carroll

Also Hicks, Hyde, Smith, Crawley, Outrim, Killeen,
Shaw, Simkin, McMaster, O'Meara, Cox,
And many another stout - hearted "has been",
Trudging alongside with horse and with ox,
All mates in trouble: Smith, Brown's team would borrow,
And Brown would pull Smith from a bog in the morrow.

At twelve just a youth, his first trip for supplies,
Since related to me how it tried him,
Serenely things went till they reached "Stony Rise",
But 'twas there trouble came for young Jim,
At dawn breaking camp not a bullock was found,
It just seemed both teams disappeared in the ground.

His mate, an old hand, rode away on the search,
Through the yaccas and tall stringy bark,
The lad stuck to camp like a bird to its perch,
And crept frightened to bed with the dark,
And so the performance for ten weary days,
'Ere the welcome appearance of Kerr with the strays.

Although there were trials and hardships, they say,
There was certainly plenty of fun,
With dances and racing and friends by the way,
And the times of the old "Rising Sun".
A Ball, yes, who cared. for the scrub or the tangle,
People lined Up from every conceivable angle.

And there were nights round the camp fires bright,
When teams coming up camped with those going down,
The Merchandise hauler was hailed with delight,
When laden with kegs for some inland town,
Little gimlet holes plugged, then smeared with a rub,
Made the barrels look right when received at the Pub.

What then, though they did have some pleasure and fun,
I should certainly say they were worthy,
They seldom complained of their tedious run,
If things were a bit topsy turvy,
What though they had an occasional ''flagon",
With bush tracks to travel, and bulk on the wagon.

Every day would produce fresh experience,
That would fill many books if recorded,
We benefit now with modern convenience,
By production and progress afforded,
When thanks to the spirit of those pioneers,
We travel in comfort in these latter years.

Here's luck then to those who made easy the way,
For us by the fruit of their labour,
Some now lack the spirit of pioneer days,
And don't care a "toss of the caber",
Don't grumble today if the road's a bit rough,
Just think of your fathers, and let that be enough.

written by F.R. Cox

Abraham, Martin and John.

2007-01-17T15:04:00.000+10:00

Martin Luther King.... I Have A Dream!

Abraham, Martin and John.

Words and Music by Richard Holler

Anybody here seen my old friend Abraham?
Can you tell me where he's gone?
He freed lotta people but it seems the good they die young
You know I just looked around and he's gone.

Anybody here seen my old friend John?
Can you tell me where he's gone?
He freed lotta people but it seems the good they die young
I just looked around and he's gone.

Anybody here seen my old friend Martin?
Can you tell me where he's gone?
He freed lotta people but it seems the good they die young
I just looked around and he's gone.

Didn't you love the things that they stood for?
Didn't they try to find some good for you and me?
And we'll be free
Some day soon, it's gonna be one day.

Anybody here seen my old friend Bobby?
Can you tell me where he's gone?
I thought I saw him walkin' up over the hill
With Abraham, Martin, and John.

written by Richard Holler

The War Veteran.

2007-01-13T23:43:00.000+10:00

The War Veteran.

The war was o’er and the troops de-mobbed
and Brumby hit the track.
His home was on the western plains
along the road out-back.

He thought he’d better get a job,
his Army days must cease.
He’d won the cotton pickin’ war,
he now must win the peace.

The local council signed him on,
this was the work he chose.
“Give us the tools, we’ll do the job.”
Churchill used words like those.

Now Brumby was a pleasant bloke,
he wasn’t hard to please
His life held many things he liked,
Work wasn’t one of these!

No need to rush the flamin’ job
he’d often tell the men
Rome wasn’t built within a day
He’d quote the poets pen.

When payday came he lead the queue,
his pay pack looked quite fat,
“They’ve realized my worth” he crowed,
“No ruddy doubt of that.”

No extra pay he found inside,
But folded t’wards the back
a large official letter said
they’d given him the sack.

And other things wer
to make his sacking novel.
Three photos of himself he found
a-leaning on his shovel.

written by William G. D. Turner.

The Urge For Going

2007-01-06T11:56:00.000+10:00

The Urge For Going, Written by Joni Mitchell.

I woke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and shivering tree’s are standing in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go

I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I had me a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
And not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell on the ground, and
Bully winds came around, pushed them face down in the snow
He got the urge for going
And I had to let him go

He got the urge for going
When the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime was falling down and winter was closing in

The warriors of winter they gave a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying, all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and racing on before the snow
They've got the urge for going, and they've got the wings to go

They get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I'll ply the fire with kindling now, I'll pull the blankets up to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going and I guess she'll have to go

She gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
And all her empire's falling down
Winter’s closing in.

written by Joni Mitchell

The week after Christmas

2006-12-26T20:06:00.000+10:00

Trying to Diet.. or... Dying to try it.

While this was obviously written by a lady, but the general premise can
be applied to a man, we have probably all been guilty of a bit of
over-indulgence in the past few weeks, the price we pay sits there on
our frames declaring us to the world as overeater’s.

The week after Christmas.

‘Twas the week after Christmas and all through the house
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I’d nibble, the eggnog I’d taste
All the holiday parties had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales, there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store (less a walk more a lumber.)
I’d remember the the marvelous meals I’d prepared;
The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared…

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese
And the way that I’d never said, “No, thank you, please.”
As I dressed myself in my husband’s old shirt
And prepared once again to battle the dirt…

I said to myself, as only I can,
“You can’t spend the winter dressed like a man!”
So away with the last of the sour cream dip,
Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
‘Till all the additional ounces have vanished.
I won’t have a cookie, not even a lick,
I’ll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won’t have hot biscuits, or cornbread, or pie,
I’ll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
I’m hungry, I’m lonesome, and life is a bore…
But isn’t that what January is for?

Unable to giggle,
No longer a riot
Happy new years to all
And to all a good diet.

Author Unknown.

Mery Christmas to all who visit.

2006-12-23T20:21:00.000+10:00

Christmas 2006

This is my Christmas wish for all my Blogging friends.

As Christmas now draws nearer
Once more for Christmas time
I try to crystallize my thoughts
And try to make them rhyme.

This poem is for my buddies
Who live in cyberspace
I feel I know you all so well
Though we’ve not met face to face.

We share the things that happen
Through the year, both bad and good
Sometimes I feel we’re closer
Than the folks in our neighborhood.

This year I can’t include in rhyme
My friends who come to call
‘Cos my blog roll’s more than seventy
So at the side I’ll name y’all.

‘Cos each of you are special
You all brighten up my day
No matter what we’re sharing
Be it laughter or dismay.

For I feel your joy and sorrow
As though they were my own
It’s often said by others too
So I know I’m not alone.

Some changes happen each year
As some folk just quit slogging
We have to change our blog rolls
Take off those who have stopped blogging.

It saddens us to lose them
But of course we understand
That life is full of other things
The blog got bigger than we’d planned.

And so my friends to you I wish
From deep within my soul
The very best of seasons greeting
Merry Christmas one and all.

Peter Holt

A Christmas Poem

2006-12-18T19:01:00.000+10:00

A Christmas Poem

Although this was written by an Australian, I know it applies to all.
I hope you all like it too....

borrowed from Kat’s Cradle… thanks Robyn.

T'was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house, made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give,
And to see just who, in this home, did live.

I looked all about, a strange sight i did see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures, of far distant lands.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought, came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier, once i could see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor, in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
Not how i pictured, an Australian soldier.

Was this the hero, of whom i'd just read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families, that i saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers, who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world, the children would play,
And grownups would celebrate, a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder, how many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas eve, in a land far from home.
The very thought brought, a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees, and started to cry.

The soldier awakened, and i heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom; i don't ask for more,
My life is my god, my country, my corps."

The soldier rolled over, and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still,
And we both shivered, from the cold night's chill.

I didn't want to leave, on that cold, dark, night,
This guardian of honor, so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, "carry on Santa, its Christmas day, all is secure."

One look at my watch, and i knew he was right.
"Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night."

This poem was written by an Australian Peacekeeping soldier stationed overseas. This is his request. I think it is reasonable.
PLEASE. Would you do me the kind favour of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our all of the service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and not think of themselves but think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us. Please, do your small part to plant this small seed.

A Different Christmas Poem.

2006-12-15T14:43:00.001+10:00

A Different Christmas Poem

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."

"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam' ,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

Author Unknown

A Christmas Story.

2006-12-10T23:14:00.000+10:00

We are very nearly there now, it’s almost

Christmas Eve did everyone hear that

Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!!!

I wish for you all a joyous Christmas

and A Happy New Year.

A Christmas Story.

'Twas the night before Christmas ‘n Santa was pissed.
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!

I've busted my ass for damn near a year,
Instead of "Thanks Santa".. what do I hear?
My wife just bitches cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money.. the reindeer all fight.

Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and Vixen has AIDS.
Then when I thought that things would get better
Those IRS assholes sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes.. that’s just damn funny,
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus money?

And the kids these days.. they all are the pits
They want the impossible.. those mean little sh*ts
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls.. their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo-yo's.. no request for them,
They want computers and robots.. they think, I'm IBM!

Flying through the air.. dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my ass and draw unemployment.
There's no Christmas this year, now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde, I'm going SOUTH for the season.

Author Unknown.

Murphy’s Pub.

2006-12-05T16:06:00.000+10:00

This particular Murphy deserved

all he got and then some.

Murphy’s Pub.

Spud Murphy owned the local pub,
The place where deals were done,
Where all the locals congregate,
And drink, while yarns are spun.

Spud Murphy was an Irishman,
Stood six foot in his socks,
Though he’d fight and win, with roundhouse swings,
He’d never learned to box.

He was tough as nails, was Murphy,
With two fists like blocks of stone,
With his muscled arms behind them,
They’d been known to shatter bone.

There wasn’t one man in the town,
Who’d challenge Murphy to a fight,
They’d all been dropped along the way,
By Murphy’s roundhouse right.

‘Twas a day like any other,
When the stranger came to town,
And the locals in the bar room,
Grinning, eyed him up and down.

Long and lean and cleanly shaven,
Shirt and tie a matching set.
They thought Murphy would “do” the stranger,
Without hardly raising sweat.

As the stranger tried to order,
Silence followed Murphy’s roar…
“Only true men served in here mate;
Try the Ladies Bar next door.”

You could feel the crowd awaken,
For that insult can’t be taken,
Either fight, or lose your manhood,
All your self-respect forsaken.

Having classed the stranger in his mind
As a fresh faced, raw beginner,
Murphy lumbered from behind the bar,
He would “do” this dude for dinner.

The stranger stood his ground without
The slightest fear or quiver,
As Murphy swung his roundhouse punch,
The whole crowd seemed to shiver.

With the stranger’s swift reaction,
Murphy’s grin became a frown,
For he wasn’t where Spud Murphy’s punch
Was aimed, to strike him down.

The stranger hummed a catchy tune…
A few bars from “Carmen’s” score,
And landed two almighty blows
Shook Murphy to the core.

Spud charged, he swore, he swung and missed,
The stranger kept on humming.
The fight had passed beyond a joke,
The end, was not long in coming.

With another solid, deadly blow,
Murphy’s eyes began to drift,
As the stranger stood there humming,
Could it be… “Beethoven’s Fifth”?

As Murphy heaved his battered hulk
From the beer stained bar room floor.
The stranger blessed that self defense
They’d taught him in the war.

He stepped inside Spud’s roundhouse swing,
And dropped him to the floor,
And ended Spud’s unbeaten run…
That day, and evermore.

As two or three ran for the Doc…
A few more for the Preacher;
Said the stranger, “Just send me the bill.
I’m the school’s new music teacher.”

written by A.E.Green.

Murphy’s Miracle.

2006-12-03T11:39:00.000+10:00

This is the third and last one that I have seen of Philip Lovely’s works on Murphy,
however there is still another Murphy story by a different author to come.

Murphy’s Miracle.

“Twas down by Booraloora creek
That Murphy’s slab hut stood,
His slow combustion stove
Was always running out of wood.

Yet littering the ground
For half a mile ‘round Murphy’s hut
Lay many dozen fallen trees
All waiting to be cut.

From Murphy’s hut to where
His windmill stood above the bore
Was wood enough for years,
But Murphy didn’t own a saw.

Now Murphy tells this story
And he swears to God it’s true.
But Murphy believes in miracles
I don’t know if you do?

One Sunday morning after mass
He prayed on bended knees
For God to send a miracle
To cut up all his trees.

That night a fierce storm arose
With winds of awesome power
That spun the windmill blades so fast
They blurred, upon the tower.

The wind then lifted up the logs
As only whirlwinds can,
And hurled them with tremendous force
Against the whirling fan.

A mighty buzz-saw cutting logs
The windmill blades became.
I don’t believe it all myself,
But that is Murphy’s claim.

At dawn when Murphy ventured out,
He saw with great delight
That every fallen tree had been
Dismembered overnight.

And piled up twenty metres high
To reach the windmill gears
Were lovely firewood blocks
Enough to last for years and years.

If you believe what Murphy says,
(I don’t know why you should)
Then that sure was a miracle
That cut up Murphy’s wood.

written by Philip Lovely.

Murphy’s Luck.

2006-11-29T23:01:00.000+10:00

This is the second poem about Murphy, there's more to come.

Murphy’s Luck.

This tale was told by Murphy
So I can’t be sure it’s true
But just as Murphy told it
I’ll pass it on to you.

He’d ventured to the goldfields,
Meant to seek his fortune there,
And he found a long abandoned hut
That needed loving care.

This hut was made of sun dried bricks
And though it lacked a roof,
With rusty sheets of iron
He quickly made it waterproof.

And there he lived while prospecting,
And panning in the creek,
But never did he sight the gold
He’d gone down South to seek.

Old timers told him, as they paused
To look upon the scene,
“You’ll never find a speck of gold,
Where Chinamen have been.”

One night while Murphy sat
Beside his fire of mulga wood
He cursed the place and wondered why
His luck was never good.

The flames leapt up as Murphy stirred
The embers with his pick,
The firelight caught a sparkle
From the corner of a brick.

With clasp knife Murphy prized it out
And held it to the light
And gazed with Joy at what he held,
A nugget gleaming bright.

The truth soon dawned as Murphy
Eyed the riches he had found.
The mud from which the bricks were made
Was from the richest ground.

So day by day he crushed and panned
And great was his reward,
As one by one the sun dried bricks
Gave up their golden hoard.

He bought a tent to shelter in
A draughty tent and cold.
And though he lost his cosy hut
He got a lot of gold.

written by Philip Lovely.

Murphy.

2006-11-26T23:16:00.000+10:00

There are a lot of stories about Murphy floating around and
Philip Lovely has written 3 of them which I am going to bring you
over the next week or so, I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.

Murphy.

Pat Murphy was an Irishman,
Of this I have no doubt
And he was one of those poor souls
Whose luck was always out.

He farmed his land and tended stock
From morning until night
But everything that Murphy did
Would never turn out right.

He dug a well, some forty feet
And thought he had a win
But as he clambered to the top
The sides kept caving in.

He dug it out tenaciously
A more successful try
But in the morning Murphy found
His precious well was dry.

And so he bought a windmill,
Set it up beside the creek
And reckoned that it’s concrete base
Would set within a week.

That night a gusty wind arose
While Murphy was in town
And in the morning light he found
His windmill fallen down.

He bought a drilling rig
A thing he’d never done before
And soon the earth erupted
In a great artesian bore.

The water washed away
The wooden stumps of Murphy’s shed
And as it fell I can’t repeat
The words that Murphy said.

The shed collapsed on Murphy’s pigs
And killed his treasured sow
And Murphy raised his fist on high
And screamed, “I tell ye now”

“I work and slave on all my jobs
From dawn till dusk, yet still
If anything can go wrong
You bet your boots it will.”

His words have oft been quoted since,
These fifty years and more,
They have been widely recognized
And known as “Murphy’s Law”

written by Philip Lovely

The Teamster’s Wife

2006-11-19T18:29:00.000+10:00

I don’t know who wrote this poem but I like the way it describes the pioneering spirit of those early settlers.

The Teamster’s Wife.

We met her many years ago,
A widow and her son
A jolly soul, with eyes aglow,
And smile to match the sun.

They lived in bushland by a stream,
Her son by now a man,
There, they shared their thoughts and dreams,
And shared their daily scran.

We called in many times to see
Old gran, to have a chat,
To laugh at some catastrophe,
For bush life was like that.

We dined as Kings may never do,
Or ever know the joy
Of oven stew, and billy brew,
It was the real McCoy.

Old gran would tell us, with a smile,
Of how she coped with strife,
Back when the crow, cocked up each mile,
She was the teamster’s wife.

And over cards, she talked and won,
The kero lamp shone pale,
She’d trump, and then continue on,
We’d follow each detail.

And as she told of bunking down,
Beside a lonely track,
We saw her in an ankle gown,
When fashions called for tact.

And of her tales, when cooking meats,
And oft times kangaroo,
She sometimes had a change of treats,
With hubby helping too.

It could have been the carcass or
It could have been a guess,
When up rode one tall warrior,
To catch a thief… no less.

Now gran swore this was Gospel truth,
It came right from her heart,
When gran espied the horse and sleuth
Approaching… she got smart.

The old camp oven lifted off,
The roast cocooned inside,
The charcoals seemed to give a cough,
As though to say, “go hide.”

The teamster’s wife was all alone,
Except for her new guest,
She sat astride her heated throne,
Her gown spread.. east and west.

It was a trifle hot she said,
The constable was stern,
He quizzed her, while her face grew red,
And she began to burn.

She sat it out, and he gave up,
She heaved a mighty sigh,
As he rode of… then she stood up,
And heaved her skirts up high.

We’d ask for more, but she’d say, “Tea?”
And prod the coals to life,
Her eyes would twinkle knowingly,
She was the teamster’s wife.

Author unknown.

It's a pittance of time

2006-11-10T23:41:00.000+10:00

My nephew John (Merle's son) sent me this beautiful piece it came as
an audio visual song performed by the writer Terry Kelly.

Terry has one of those lilting Irish voices that sound perfect for this
sort of song, I thought it made a nice poem too.

On November 11, 1999 Terry Kelly was in a Shoppers Drug Mart store in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. At 10:55 AM an announcement came over the store's PA asking customers who would still be on the premises at 11:00 AM to give two minutes of silence in respect to the veterans who have sacrificed so much for us.

Terry was impressed with the store's leadership role in adopting the Legion's "two minutes of silence" initiative. He felt that the store's contribution of educating the public to the importance of remembering was commendable.

When eleven o'clock arrived on that day, an announcement was again made asking for the "two minutes of silence" to commence. All customers, with the exception of a man who was accompanied by his young child, showed their respect.

Terry's anger towards the father for trying to engage the store's clerk in conversation and for setting a bad example for his child was later channeled into a beautiful piece of work called, "A Pittance of Time". Terry later recorded "A Pittance of Time" and included it on his full-length music CD, "The Power of the Dream".

In the interest of creating a greater awareness of the sacrifices that have been made and are still being made on our behalf, "A Pittance of Time" has been adapted to the French language and titled "C'est si peu de temps". Music videos for both audio tracks were also produced in support of the campaign.

A Pittance Of Time.

Written by Terry Kelly © Jefter Publishing - SOCAN

They fought and some died for their homeland.
They fought and some died, now it's our land.
Look at his little child; there's no fear in her eyes.
Could he not show respect for other dads who have died?

Take two minutes, would you mind?
It's a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who went over.
In peace may they rest, may we never
forget why they died.
It's a pittance of time.

God forgive me for wanting to strike him.
Give me strength so as not to be like him.
My heart pounds in my breast, fingers pressed to my lips,
My throat wants to bawl out, my tongue barely resists.

But two minutes I will bide.
It's a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who went over.
In peace may they rest.
May we never forget why they died.
It's a pittance of time.

Read the letters and poems of the heroes at home.
They have casualties, battles, and fears of their own.
There's a price to be paid if you go, if you stay.
Freedom's fought for and won in numerous ways.

Take two minutes, would you mind?
It's a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls all over.
May we never forget, our young become vets.
At the end of the line,
It's a pittance of time.

It takes courage to fight in your own war.
It takes courage to fight someone else's war.
Our peacekeepers tell of their own living hell.
They bring hope to foreign lands that hate mongers can't kill.

Take two minutes, would you mind?

It's a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who go over.
In peacetime our best still don battle dress
And lay their lives on the line.
It's a pittance of time

In peace may they rest,
Lest we forget why they died.
Take a pittance of time.

written by Terry Kelly.

And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda.

2006-10-29T20:49:00.000+10:00

Eric Bogle is roundish, shortish, baldish, fiftyish and Scottish. An Australian resident for
35 years, and an Australian citizen since 1982, he is an internationally known and
respected singer/songwriter and has been taking his music around the world for the last
25 years or so, in spite of warnings to "stop it or you'll go blind"

That's the opening paragraph of a biography on the singer / songwriter who
penned the following verse that describes the horror of the fighting in
The First World War at the Gallipoli landing.

From landing barges to the trenches, just a

short trip to Hell for these young men.

“And the Band Played Waltzin’ Matilda."

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.

Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.

Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.

Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.

And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,

And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

written by Eric Bogle.

The Mammogram.... Ouch!

2006-10-19T10:37:00.000+10:00

Like so many other really good poems, I have
no idea who wrote this little gem, nor do I
have any idea how accurate the description is...
for which I am eternally grateful..... amen.

GO GET YOUR MAMMIES GRAMMED.

For years and years they told me,
Be careful of your breasts.
Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
And give them monthly tests.

So I heeded all their warnings,
And protected them by law.
Guarded them very carefully,
And ! I always wore my bra.

After 30 years of astute care,
My gyno, Dr Pruitt,
Said I should get a Mammogram
"OK," I said, "let's do it."

"Stand up here real close" she said,
(She got my boob in line),
"And tell me when it hurts," she said,
"Ah yes! Right there, that's fine."

She stepped upon a pedal,
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate came slamming down,
My hooter's in a vise!

My skin was stretched and mangled,
From underneath my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish Pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it's viselike grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless tit!

"Take a deep breath" she said to me,
Who does she think she's kidding?!?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.

"There, that's good," I heard her say,
(The room was slowly swaying.)
"Now, let'! s have a go at the other one."
Have mercy, I was praying.

It squeezed me from both up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides.
I'll bet SHE'S never had this done,
To HER tender little hide.

Next time that they make me do this,
I will request a blindfold.
I have no wish to see again,
My knockers getting steam rolled.

If I had no problem when I came in,
I surely have one now.
If there had been a cyst in there,
It would have gone "ker-pow!"

This machine was created by a man,
Of this, I have no doubt.
I'd like to stick his balls in there,
And, see how THEY come out!

When I'm an old fellow

2006-10-04T23:50:00.000+10:00

When I'm An Old Fellow..

(many years from now)

When I'm an old fellow, I'll live with each kid,
And bring so much happiness... just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided.
Returning each deed, Oh, they'll be so excited.
(When I'm that old fellow that lives with my kids)

I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues,
And I'll bounce on the furniture... wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout.
(When I'm that old fellow that lives with my kids)

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach.
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their heads,
Give a slight shudder, then reach for their meds.
(When I'm that old fellow that lives with my kids)

When they cook dinner and call me to eat,
I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat,
I'll gag on my yoghurt, spill milk on the table,
And when they get angry...I'll run...if I'm able!
(When I'm that old fellow that lives with my kids)

I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click,
I'll cross both eyes just to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud 'til the end of the day.
(When I'm that old fellow that lives with my kids)

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes.
My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
And say with a groan,
"He's so sweet…. when he's sleeping!"

Author unknown.

In Memory Of Micky.

2006-09-29T00:31:00.000+10:00

In Memory Of Micky.

“I’m going over the hills,” he said,
That grand old man of the land,
The hills, we knew were the mountains blue,
Yet how could we understand?

He’d received a note from a run out west,
With writing firm and true,
“Shearing starts on the 5^th of May,
And we’re holding a pen for you.”

He packed his clothes and his shearing gear
Ready for the western plain,
But how could we know that he surely knew
He wouldn’t be back again?

He’d been a gun in the long ago
When youth was on his side,
He’d paced the champions blow by blow
and beaten them all beside!

“I’m going over the hills,” he said
And he kissed us all goodbye,
Then he lifted his pack and caught his train,
Was that a tear in his eye?

So he made his choice and with never a word
He went over the hills again,
And he dropped in his tracks on that shearing board
Out there on the western plain!

Yes! he made his choice and he paid the price,
And this truth at last we know,
Out there with his mates in that shearing shed
Was the way that he wanted to go.

written by Betty Owens

I’ve Ridden Curio.

2006-09-17T17:04:00.000+10:00

Curio was a notorious rodeo mare said
to be un-rideable by many, she rose to
fame back in the 1930s and has been
the subject for a lot of poetry and
country music songs since then.

I’ve Ridden Curio.

They kicked her in the belly
And pulled the cinch up tight,
While she stared with bitter hatred
At everyone in sight.
And I felt my nerve ends curling
For I knew that it would be
A fight to end all fights
Between Curio and me.

And she could smell my fear
As sure as she was born,
And she screamed aloud her fury,
Her hatred and her scorn.
I felt my stomach knotting
And my heart beat loud and fast,
But I felt some satisfaction when
I heard her pain filled gasp.

The cinch was tight as hades,
She’d never work it loose,
She’d been known to throw her rider
And then the whole caboose.
Her hatred was well kindled,
There was murder in her eyes,
Not many stood beside her
To take the devil’s prize.

They say Dargin’s Grey could beat her,
I’ve seen that blighter go,
And her equal could be Pincher,
He’s a nasty so and so,
Chain Lightning is a killer,
He’s sent many to the dust.
But I’d rather have a go at them
Than this one if I must.

The stink of carbides burning,
The stench of horse and sweat,
The banging of the chute gates
And the voices yelling bets.
Couldn’t take my mind of Curio,
The venom in her eyes,
The threat of death one can’t ignore
With nonchalance and smiles.

I felt the other riders watch me
As they tried to gauge my fear,
And their eyes were filled with sympathy
As my time came drawing near,
They’d felt this clawing at their guts
The panic and the doubt
That turns your blood to water when
You know there’s no way out.

I don’t know until this day
How I got there on her back,
All I know is that I got there
And heard a loud resounding smack
Across her rump before we headed
To the middle of the ring,
And then the world went crazy
And my ears began to ring.

She did everything she knew
And thought of new things in between,
She corkscrewed fell and twisted
With that high blood-curdling scream,
She reached up for the sky,
Then sickeningly she fell
I thought, in that split second,
“Boy, you’re on your way to Hell.”

I felt the blood rise in my throat,
There was a red haze ‘fore my eyes
It took everything I had
To keep my arm up to the skies
Every instinct screamed inside me
To hold on, and hold on tight,
But if I was going to ride her,
I vowed I’d ride her right.

One second I was seeing earth,
The next brown turned to blue,
Whether I was right or upside down
I never had a clue,
My teeth were rattling in my head,
My muscles ripped and sore
I’ve ridden many wild ones,
But none like that before.

It seemed like hours, the panic rose,
The whole ring was a blur,
I’d stopped all thought, my legs were numb,
But I stuck like a Bathurst Burr.
If any angel guarded me,
She sure worked hard that day
For what kept me on that heaving back,
Not one who saw, can say.

I woke up in the first aid tent
Surrounded by my mates,
The dust had filled my eyes and throat
And I knew too well my fate.
Until they grabbed me by the hand
That was bleeding, black and blue,
I could not believe the words they yelled,
I’d seen the seconds through.

I may have ridden Curio,
it’s my proud boast today,
But if the time came round again
You’d find me miles away.
She’s Hell and bitter fury,
The devil’s ‘neath her hide
It’s not a horse I tell you,
It’s death himself you ride.

written by Valerie P Read

The Crocodiles are crying

2006-09-14T21:16:00.000+10:00

Click image to enlarge

We are all going to miss Steve
Irwin and it is not beyond the
bounds of belief that there will
be a few crocs that miss him
too, Steve was their
champion for so many years.

The Crocodiles Are Crying.

Endless visions fill my head - this man - as large as life
And instantly my heart mourns for his angels and his wife
Because the way I see Steve Irwin - just put everything aside
It comes back to his family - it comes back to his pride

His animals inclusive - Crikey - light the place with love!
Shine his star with everything he fought to rise above
The crazy-man of Khaki from the day he left the pouch
Living out his dream and in that classic 'Stevo' crouch

Exploding forth with character and redefining cheek
It's one thing to be honoured as a champion unique
It's one thing to have microphones and spotlight cameras shoved
It's another to be taken in and genuinely loved

But that was where he had it right - I guess he always knew
From his fathers' modest reptile park and then Australia Zoo
We cringed at times and shook our heads - but true to natures call
There was something very Irwin in the make up of us all

Yes the more I care to think of it - the more he had it right
If you're going to make a difference - make it big and make it bright!
Yes - he was a lunatic! Yes - he went head first!
But he made the world feel happy with his energetic burst

A world so large and loyal that it's hard to comprehend
I doubt we truly count the warmth until life meets an end
To count it now I say a prayer with words of inspiration
May the spotlight shine forever on his dream for conservation

.My daughter broke the news to me - my six year old in tears
It was like she'd just turned old enough to show her honest fears
I tried to make some sense of it but whilst her Dad was trying
His little girl explained it best, she said, "The crocodiles are crying"

Their best mate's up in heaven now - the crocs up there are smiling!
And as sure as flowers, poems and cards and memories are piling
As sure as we'll continue with the trademarks of his spiel
Of all the tributes worthy - he was rough. but he was real

As sure as 'Crikey!' fills the sky
I think we'll miss ya Steve. goodbye.

Rupert McCall 2006

The Old Gas Station

2006-09-08T12:08:00.000+10:00

As an ex Service Station operator this one had an obvious appeal.

The Old Gas Station.

The service station trade was slow.
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick.
Piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.

"Where is the ladies restroom, sir?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.

With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car.
Just like three gals before.

She tripped and fell -- got up,
And then In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.

Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he'd devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.

He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish guy,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here."

Author Unknown

Wedding Vows Inspired by Dr. Seuss

2006-09-02T22:37:00.000+10:00

Wedding Vows Inspired by Dr. Seuss.

If you're getting married and you want to share your humorous side,
you might consider using some funny wedding vows. For example,
perhaps you could use the traditional vows, but include a line such
as "I promise to always make your "favorite banana milkshake," or "
I vow to split the difference on the thermostat," as Brad Pitt and
Jennifer Aniston did when they married. Or, if you really want to
make your guests laugh, consider writing a complete set of funny
wedding vows, such as these inspired by Dr. Seuss.

Marty Blase, the author of these vows, writes: "My fiancé and I
agreed a long time ago that we wanted to write our own wedding
vows, and as a spur-of-the-moment idea, I suggested the following.
To my disappointment, she didn't quite go for it..."

Pastor: Will you answer me right now
These questions, as your wedding vow?

Groom: Yes, I will answer right now
Your questions as my wedding vow.

Pastor: Will you take her as your wife?
Will you love her all your life?

Groom: Yes, I take her as my wife,
Yes, I'll love her all my life.

Pastor: Will you have, and also hold
Just as you have at this time told?

Groom: Yes, I will love her all my life
As I now take her as my wife.

Pastor: Will you love through good and bad?
Whether you're happy or sad?

Groom: Yes, I'll love through good and bad,
Whether we're happy or sad,
Yes, I will have and I will hold
Just as I have already told,
Yes, I will love her all my life,
Yes, I will take her as my wife!

Pastor: Will you love her if you're rich?
Or if you're poor, and in a ditch?

Groom: Yes, I'll love her if we're rich,
And I will love her in a ditch,
I'll love her through good times and bad,
Whether we are happy or sad
Yes, I will have, and I will hold
(I could have sworn this has been told!)
I promise to love all my life
This woman, as my lawful wife!

Pastor: Will you love her when you're fit,
And also when you're feeling sick?

Groom: Yes, I'll love her when we're fit,
And when we're hurt, and when we're sick,
And I will love her when we're rich
And I will love her in a ditch
And I will love through good and bad,
And I will love when glad or sad,
And I will have, and I will hold
Ten years from now a thousand fold,
Yes, I will love for my whole life
This lovely woman as my wife!

Pastor: Will you love with all your heart?
Will you love till death you part?

Groom: Yes, I'll love with all my heart
From now until death do us part,
And I will love her when we're rich,
And when we're broke and in a ditch,
And when we're fit, and when we're sick,
(Oh, CAN'T we get this finished quick?)
And I will love through good and bad,
And I will love when glad or sad,
And I will have, and I will hold,
And if I might now be so bold,
I'll love her my entire life,
Yes, I WILL take her as my wife!

Pastor: Then if you'll take her as your wife,
And if you'll love her all your life,
And if you'll have, and if you'll hold,
From now until the stars grow cold,
And if you'll love through good and bad,
And whether you're happy or sad,
And love in sickness, and in health,
And when you're poor, and when in wealth,
And if you'll love with all your heart,
From now until death do you part,
Yes, if you'll love her through and through,
Please answer with these words:
Pastor and Groom: I DO!

Pastor: You're married now! So kiss the bride,
But please, do keep it dignified.

A Water Poem.

2006-08-16T16:34:00.000+10:00

I have no idea what "Avogadro" (third line) means but I
liked the theme of the poem so posted it anyway.

Recycled- a water poem.

The water you are about to drink
Deserves a second thought, I think;
For Avogadro, oceans, and those you follow
Are all involved in every swallow.

The molecules of water in a single glass
In number at least, five times out-class
The glasses of water in stream and sea,
Or wherever else that water can be.

The water you're about to taste
No doubt represents a bit of the waste
From prehistoric beast and bird,
A notion not at all absurd.

The water in you is between a' betwixt
And having traversed you is thoroughly mixed;
So someone slaking a future thirst
Could easily drink what you drank first.

The fountains spraying in the park
Distribute bits from Joan of Ark
And Adam, Eve, and all their kin;
You'd be surprised where your drink has been.

The water you cannot retain
Will some day hence return as rain,
Or be beheld as the purest dew,
Though long ago it passed through you.

Dr Verne N. Rockcastle

The Men That Don'y Fit In.

2006-07-30T14:29:00.000+10:00

Robert Service has become one of my favourite poets I am indebted to
Trucker Bob for the introduction to his wonderful poetry.

THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN.

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

Robert Service.

Teenagers’ Morals.

2006-07-17T22:36:00.000+10:00

Teenagers’ Morals.

We read in the papers, we hear on the air,
Of killing and stealing, and crime everywhere.
We sigh and we say, as we notice the trend:
“This young generation --- where will it end?”

But can we be sure that it’s their fault alone---
That maybe part of it--- isn’t our own?
Too much money to spend, too much idle time;
Too many movies of passion and crime,

Too many books not fit to be read;
Too much of evil in what they hear said.
Too many children encouraged to roam
By too many parents who won’t stay at home.

Kids don’t write the books
That paint a good picture of gangsters and crooks;
They don’t make the drugs that addle the brain; I
t’s all done by older folk greedy for gain.

And in so many cases –
Do we find that it’s true,
The cry of “delinquent”
Fits older folk too!

This was written by a 16 year old girl in
reply to attacks on teenagers’ morals.

The Gateway.

2006-07-04T15:29:00.000+10:00

This typifies the attitude of lots of men on the land,

they resist change strongly.

The Gateway.

Down in me bottom paddock,

The gateway is a mess,

I suppose I’d better go and try

To fix it up, I guess;

But, mind you, I have tried,

At least, a dozen times before;

I really shouldn’t grumble as

I fix it up once more!

It’s in this bit of hollow, see,

And every time it rains,

No matter what I do with it,

It turns to mud again!

I’ve filled it up with stones and bricks,

I’ve filled it up with rocks,

I’ve filled it up with heavy logs,

And even concrete blocks.

But all the things I’ve ever used

Have been a wretched dud,

And somehow they get pushed aside,

Or sink beneath the mud,

I’ve got a load of gravel here,

I’ll drop that in today,

But I’ve got a sinkin’ feelin’ that,

The hole is here to stay.

Me dog got bogged the other day,

While rounding up the sheep,

The look he gave, when rescued,

Would make a drover weep,

I lost a cow and calf last year,

They sank without a trace,

Me insurance wouldn’t cover,

What they cost me to replace.

What’s that I hear you saying ?

Move the gateway up a bit,

If I did that me dad would

Have an apoplectic fit !

His grand-dad put the gateway there

In eighteen ninety-two,

What’s good enough for gramps,

Me lad, is good enough for you!

written by Philip R Rush.

There’s Nothing Worse Than Shearing

2006-06-22T12:51:00.000+10:00

I think this poem speaks for itself about a back breaking

job that should be undertaken only by masochists.

There’s Nothing Worse Than Shearing.

I’m not a one to criticize

A man and what he does,

As long as he can do it well

With the least amount of fuss;

But I’ve been reading lately

That some fellows firmly claim,

Picking stumps will break one’s back

And so will sugar cane.

And though I’m not denying

These aren’t the best of trades,

I still maintain, and always will,

“Get them on the blades”

That’s the job, I tell you,

To sort the men out from the boys,

It guarantees top misery

With hardly any joys.

You shear those stinking wethers

As they struggle at your feet,

And you can be assured, mates,

Their smell is far from sweet.

The cocky’s always moaning

That you’ve cut his priceless rams,

And the board boss keeps insisting

That you’re bludging on the stands.

The tucker’s always lousy

‘Cause the cook is always soused,

The beds before you use them

Have got to be deloused.

You don’t know you’re alive, mate,

Till you’ve had shearers’ boils,

Or until the belyando spew

Is clawing at your coils,

And back ache! You’re complaining!

Back ache! That’s a flamin’ laugh,

A shearer keeps on working

Though his back’s near broke in half.

Believe me, I’m not decrying

That picking stumps is hard,

That cutting cane comes pretty close

To breaking a man’s heart,

But those two jobs are cushy

Compared to Vermont ewes,

Just spend a day defleecing them

And see which job you’d choose.

So get back to those stumps, lads,

Cut down that sugar cane,

And thank your lucky stars

You’re not in the shearing game.

written by V. P. Read.

The Man From Marble Bar.

2006-06-19T15:26:00.000+10:00

Here is a little short poem that I like about Australia’s hottest town,
Marble Bar, in 1924 they recorded 161 consecutive days over
100 degrees F, the hottest day recorded was 120.6 F

The Man from Marble Bar.

Satan sat by the fires of Hell
As from endless time he's sat,
And he sniffed great draughts of the brimstone's smell
That came as the tongue-flames spat;

Then all at once the devil looked stern
For there in the depths of Hell
Was a fellow whom never a flame could burn
Or goad to an anguished yell;

So Satan stalked to the lonely scene
And growled with a stormy brow,
"Now, stranger, tell me what does this mean?
You should be well scorched by now."

But the chappie replied with a laugh quite new;
'This place is too cold by far
Just chuck on an extra log or two
I'VE COME IN FROM MARBLE BAR!"

written by Victor Courtney.

It’s hard to be humble.

2006-06-14T14:16:00.000+10:00

I have always loved this old Mack Davis song,

and it stands up just as well as a poem.

It’s hard to be humble.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

when you're perfect in every way.

I can't wait to look in the mirror

cause I get better looking each day.

To know me is to love me

I must be a hell of a man.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

but I'm doing the best that I can.

I used to have a girlfriend

but she just couldn't compete

with all of these love starved women

who keep clamoring at my feet.

Well I prob'ly could find me another

but I guess they're all in awe of me.

Who cares, I never get lonesome

cause I treasure my own company.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

when you're perfect in every way,

I can't wait to look in the mirror

cause I get better looking each day

To know me is to love me

I must be a hell of a man.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

but I'm doing the best that I can.

I guess you could say I'm a loner,

a cowboy outlaw tough and proud.

I could have lots of friends if I want to

but then I wouldn't stand out from the crowd.

Some folks say that I'm egotistical.

Hell, I don't even know what that means.

I guess it has something to do with the way that I

fill out my skin tight blue jeans.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

when you're perfect in every way,

I can't wait to look in the mirror

cause I get better looking each day

To know me is to love me

I must be a hell of a man.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble

but I'm doing the best that I can.

We're doing the best that we can

Mack Davis.

Everlasting Memories

2006-06-09T15:18:00.000+10:00

Ah the memories of Mum baking, no packet mixes then it was all done from
scratch with flour, sugar, eggs, and milk/water then hand rolled with the
old wooden rolling pin, a lost art.

Everlasting Memories.

The older I grow
The more puzzled I seem
As to why we can’t relive
Just one of our dreams
If granted one wish
I’d be over the moon
To again have the pleasure
Of licking the spoon.

The young of today
May think it quite strange
When they see an old kitchen
With an outdated range
But when our Mum was baking
Always before noon
We’d fight for the privilege
Of licking the spoon.

We all read the signs
We knew them by heart,
When Mother prepared
To make biscuits or tarts
As my memory strays back
My head’s in a swoon
As I picture myself again
Licking the spoon.

It’s not hard to remember
Those days on the block.
And just to be able
To unwind the clock
Would bring so much joy
Be it January or June
Way back in the Forties
When licking the spoon.

As I sit here and write
I can hardly contain,
Those taste buds of mine
That are racing again,
Backwards in time
But never in tune
With those wonderful memories
Of licking the spoon.

The pace of today
With McDonald’s in tow
Can never compete
With Mum’s old fashioned dough
And when I am dreaming
Don’t wake me too soon
And certainly not
When I’m licking the spoon.

Written by Kevin Creece

Skew Wiff Kelly

2006-06-03T23:45:00.000+10:00

Skew wiff might well be a term some readers won’t
recognize, it means tilted, slanted, not straight etc.

Cockies is a slang name for farmers, ranchers etc.

“Skew Wiff Kelly”

His name was “Skew Wiff Kelly”
And everything he built
Was either at an angle
Or leaning on a tilt!

On all of his construction jobs
He used the rule of thumb.
He’d close one eye and line it up
And reckon it was plumb.

He would use the best of timber
And take a lot of care,
But every job completed
Was a little bit off-square.

His reputation grew and grew
As “Skew Wiff” moved around
The cockies overlooked his faults
For his workmanship was sound!

So as you travel round the place
You can see where “Skew Wiff’s” been.
The hayshed leaning sideways,
That verandah with a lean.

You’ve seen his good old tankstands,
They’ve a wind-blown look with time.
His fences have a stagger,
And wander just off line.

You’ve seen a “Skew Wiff” chimney
And you’ve seen a “Skew Wiff” door.
His buildings stand – defiant –
Of the gravitation law.

Yet a funny thing about it,
Though the buildings aren’t quite straight,
They always look so comfortable
As if they’d time to wait!

Now “Skew Wiff” died some years ago,
But I reckon he’d be pleased
For his tombstone’s got a lean on –
At forty-five degrees!

Grahame Watt

Scots of the Riverina.

2006-05-20T14:10:00.000+10:00

One of Henry Lawson’s many poems that have been
set to music.

Scots of the Riverina.

The boy ran away to the city
From his home at Christmas time…
They were Scots of the Riverina,
And to run from home was a crime.

The old man burned his letter,
The first and the last he burned
And he scratched his name from the bible
When the old woman’s back was turned.

A year went past, and another,
And the fruit went down the line.
They heard the boy had enlisted
But the old man made no sign.

His name must never be mentioned
On the farm by Gundagai….
They were Scots of the Riverina
With ever the kirk hard by.

The boy came home on his ‘final’
And the townships bonfire burned.
His mother’s arms were about him
But the old man’s back was turned.

The daughters begged for pardon
Till the old man raised his hand….
A Scot of the Riverina
Who was hard to understand.

The boy was killed in Flanders
Where the bravest heroes die.
There were tears at the Grahame homestead
And grief in Gundagai.

But the old man ploughed at daybreak
And the old man ploughed till the mirk
There were furrows of pain in the orchard
While his housefolk went to the kirk.

The hurricane lamp in the rafters
Dimly and dimly burned
And the old man died at the table
When the old woman’s back was turned.

Face down on his bare arms folded
He sank with his wild grey hair
Outspread o’er the open bible
And a name re-written there.

Written by Henry Lawson.

The Spell of the Yukon

2006-05-18T11:34:00.000+10:00

Another Robert Service poem that Trucker Bob has featured,
can’t resist quality folks.

THE SPELL OF THE YUKON.

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it --
Came out with a fortune last fall, --
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth -- and I'm one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.

The summer -- no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness --
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by -- but I can't.

There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land -- oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back -- and I will.

They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight -- and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell! -- but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite --
So me for the Yukon once more.

There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.

Robert Service

Hillbilly Love.

2006-05-14T22:18:00.000+10:00

Hillbilly (Muskrat) Love

SUSIE LEE DONE FELL IN LOVE;
SHE PLANNED TO MARRY JOE
SHE WAS SO HAPPY 'BOUT IT ALL
SHE TOLD HER PAPPY SO.

PAPPY TOLD HER, SUSIE GAL,
YOU'LL HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER.
I'D JUST AS SOON YO' MA DON'T KNOW,
BUT JOE IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

SO SUSIE PUT ASIDE HER JOE
AND PLANNED TO MARRY WILL,
BUT AFTER TELLING PAPPY THIS,
HE SAID, "THERE'S TROUBLE STILL.

YOU CAN'T MARRY WILL, MY GAL,
AND PLEASE DON'T TELL YOU' MOTHER,
BUT WILL AND JOE, AND SEVERAL MO'
I KNOW IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

BUT MAMA KNEW AND SAID,
MY CHILD, JUST DO WHAT MAKES YO' HAPPY.
MARRY WILL OR MARRY JOE.
YOU AIN'T NO KIN TO PAPPY.

As you would suspect, I don’ t know who wrote it.

The Call of the Wild

2006-05-12T12:05:00.000+10:00

I have borrowed this great poem from “Trucker Bob” who has
featured a lot of Robert Service poems on his site, this is truly one
of the great story's told in rhyme.

THE CALL OF THE WILD.

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to
gaze on,

Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,

Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,

Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?

Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking
through it,

Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and
do it;

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,

The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?

Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,

And learned to know the desert's little ways?

Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the
ranges,

Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?

Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and
changes?

Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig
aquiver?

(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).

Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,

Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel
races,

Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with
curses?

Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet
grasped at glory,

Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?

"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,

Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?

Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature
renders?

(You'll never hear it in the family pew).

The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things..

Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their
preaching,

They have soaked you in convention through and through;

They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching..

But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.

Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;

Let us journey to a lonely land I know.

There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to
guide us,

And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.

Written by Robert Service

I went to a party mommy.....

2006-05-10T17:41:00.000+10:00

This poem carries a very clear message please ensure your
children are aware of it.

I went to a party mommy,
And remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mom,
So I had a sprite instead.
I felt proud of myself,
The way you said I would,
That I didn't drink and drive,
Though some friends said I should.
I made a healthy choice,
And your advice to me was right.
The party finally ended,
And the kids drove out of sight.
I got into my car,
Sure to get home in one piece.
I never knew what was coming, Mom,
Something I expected least.
Now I'm lying on the pavement,
And I hear the policeman say,
The kid that caused this wreck was drunk,
Mom, his voice seems far away.
My own blood's all around me,
As I try hard not to cry.
I can hear the paramedic say,
This girl is going to die.
I'm sure the guy had no idea,
While he was flying high.
Because he chose to drink and drive,
Now I would have to die.
So why do people do it, Mom
Knowing that it ruins lives?
And now the pain is cutting me,
Like a hundred stabbing knives.
Tell sister not to be afraid, Mom
Tell daddy to be brave.
And when I go to heaven,
Put Mommy's Girl on my grave.
Someone should have taught him,
That it's wrong to drink and drive.
Maybe if his parents had,
I still would be alive.
My breath is getting shorter,
Mom I'm getting really scared.
These are my final moments,
And I'm so unprepared.
I wish that you could hold me Mom,
As I lie here and die.
I wish that I could say, I love you, Mom!
"So I love you and good-bye."

Author unknown.

Getting Away From It All

2006-05-08T18:38:00.000+10:00

Even a well planned Break can go astray with the help of the footy club.

Getting Away From It All

When a long weekend approaches, it’s a chance to get away

From the bustle of the city, on a mini holiday;

So we packed our tent and traveled to a pretty outback scene

Where a river formed a billabong, all tranquil and serene.

There we set our little tent up, on a wide and grassy flat,

Gathered wood and lit a campfire, and on folding chairs we sat

With a feeling of contentment as we sipped a cup of tea,

And enjoyed the peace and quiet, and the lovely scenery.

With no radio or television, telephone or fax,

We were filled with deep contentment, we could feel ourselves relax,

Then we heard a distant rumbling, an avalanche of sound,

As a four wheel drive convoy reached our little camping ground.

There were cars with hordes of children. Everybody brought a dog,

And each car contained an esky, which was chock-a-block with grog;

And they set up camp around us, with a maximum of fuss,

Then a fellow from the nearest tent arrived to talk to us.

With a flourish of his tinny, he said, “Meet the football team!

This is where we come to camp each year, beside this little stream;

For the footy season’s coming, with the stresses that it brings,

So before it starts, we take a break, to get away from things.”

That’s the story that he told us, but I reckon he was wrong.

They were not escaping anything, they’d brought it all along!

For a mobile phone was ringing, and we heard the nearby blare

Of some awful techno music that they thought we’d like to share.

Then two trail bikes started whining, like a swarm of angry bees,

And the smell of hot exhaust fumes wafted gently on the breeze.

All the kids were so excited that they shouted in delight

As the bikies gave them joy rides till the day turned into night.

Then the racket ceased at dinner time, while everyone was fed,

And a blessed peace descended as the kids were sent to bed.

Then the night grew somewhat colder, and the moon rose in the sky

To be greeted by a howling like a wolf pack in full cry.

Some abusive words were shouted out, as if by megaphone,

And the dogs subsided, yelping, as a boot or two was thrown.

Then their owners started bellowing, in voices somewhat slurred,

As they sang some football ditties which we’d rather not have heard.

Just before I went to sleep, I took a necessary stroll

With a flashlight and a shovel, and my trusty toilet roll.

I took stock of my surroundings, saw some bushes on my right,

And was bending over digging when my rear was bathed in light.

Then an arrow whistled past me, I lost all desire to dig

As a voice yelled, “Sorry missus, I mistook you for a pig!”

Well, I must have looked peculiar, in bended over stance,

But I’ve never seen a porker dressed in purple tracksuit pants!

When I reached our tent, I tried to sleep, but couldn’t for the din,

And my watch was showing four o’clock before the team turned in.

It was only two hours later when the kids were all awake,

Kicking footballs so haphazardly our tent began to shake.

Then the trail bikes started roaring, to restore the status quo,

And my husband sighed and muttered, “Shall we just pack up and go?”

So I nodded in agreement, it was more than time we went,

For by now three dogs had piddled on the corner of our tent.

We had no desire for breakfast as we packed away our gear.

Then the footy team emerged, the worse for lack of sleep, and beer;

And I must admit to watching with a fair amount of glee

As they breakfasted on Panadol, washed down with cups of tea.

So we now prefer to camp where we can hear the sighing breeze,

And the twitter of the birdies as they flit among the trees.

When we get away from everything, we have no need to roam,

For we simply set our tent up in the garden of our home.

Veronica Weal

The Final Inspection.

2006-05-07T18:34:00.000+10:00

Never forget!

Its the soldier, not the reporter who has given us the freedom of the press.
Its the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech.
Its the soldier, not the politicians the ensures our right to Life, Liberty and
the Pursuit of Happiness.
Its the soldier who solutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag and whose
coffin is draped by the flag

This was posted originally by Bubba’s Girl, it is a beautiful poem.

THE FINAL INSPECTION.

The soldier stood and faced God, which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining just as brightly as his brass.
Step forward now, you soldier; how shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek? To my church have you been true?

The soldier squared his shoulders and said, No Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays and at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent because the world is awfully rough.

But I never took a penny that wasn't mine to keep
though I worked a lot of overtime when the bills got just too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place among the people here.
They never wanted me around except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord, it needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much so if you don't I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly for the judgment of his God.
Step forward now, you soldier, you've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, you've done your time in Hell.

Author Unknown

The Fire at Ross’s Farm

2006-05-05T23:03:00.000+10:00

Henry Lawson was a contemporary of Banjo Paterson, there are those
who prefer his writing to Paterson's, while I admire both greatly I do
have a preference for Banjo's works

The Fire at Ross’s Farm

The squatter saw his pastures wide

Decrease, as one by one

The farmers moving to the west

Selected on his run;

Selectors took the water up

And all the black soil round;

The best grass-land the squatter had

Was spoilt by Ross’s ground.

Now many schemes to shift old Ross

Had racked the squatters brains,

But Sandy had the stubborn blood

Of Scotland in his veins;

He held the land and fenced it in,

He cleared and ploughed the soil,

And year by year a richer crop

Repaid him for his toil.

Between the homes for many years

The devil left his tracks;

The squatter pounded Ross’s stock,

And Sandy pounded Black’s.

A well upon the lower run

Was filled with earth and logs,

And Black laid baits around the farm

To poison Ross’s dogs.

It was, indeed a deadly feud

Of class and creed and race,

But, yet, there was a Romeo

And a Juliet in the case;

And more than once across the flats,

Beneath the Southern Cross,

Young Robert Black was seen to ride

With pretty Jenny Ross.

One Christmas time, when months of drought

Had parched the western creeks,

The bushfires started in the north

And traveled south for weeks.

At night along the river side

The scene was grand and strange…

The hill-fires looked like lighted streets

Of cities in the range.

The cattle tracks between the trees

Were like long dusky aisles,

And on a sudden breeze the fire

Would sweep along for miles;

Like sounds of distant musketry

It crackled through the brakes,

And o’er the flat of silver grass

It hissed like angry snakes.

It leapt across the flowing streams

And raced the pasture broad;

It climbed the trees, and lit the boughs,

And through the scrub it roared.

The bees fell stifled in the smoke

Or perished in their hives,

And with the stock the kangaroos

Went flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas eve,

When, through the scrublands wide

Young Robert Black came riding home

As only natives ride

He galloped to the homestead door

And gave the first alarm;

”The fire is past the granite spur,

And close to Ross’s farm.”

“Now, father, send the men at once,

They won’t be wanted here;

Poor Ross’s wheat is all he has

To pull him through the year.”

“Then let it burn” the squatter said;

“I’d like to see it done….

I’d bless the fire if it would clear

Selectors from the run.”

“Go if you will” the squatter said,

“You will not take the men….

Go out and join your precious friends,

And don’t come back again.”

“I won’t come back,” young Robert cried,

And reckless in his ire’

He sharply turned the horses head

And galloped towards the fire.

And there for three long weary hours

Half-blinded with smoke and heat,

Old Ross and Robert fought the flames

That neared the ripened wheat.

The farmers hand was nerved by fears

Of danger and of loss;

And Robert fought the stubborn foe

For the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent like the curves and lines

Slipped past them and between,

Until they reached the boundary where

The old coach road had been.

“The track is now our only hope,

There we must stand,” cried Ross,

“for naught on earth can stop the fire

If once it gets across.”

Then came a cruel gust of wind,

And with a fiendish rush,

The flames leapt o’er the narrow path

And lit the fence of brush.

“The crop must burn,” the farmer cried

“We cannot save it now,”

And down upon the blackened ground

He dashed the ragged bough.

But wildly, in a rush of hope,

His heart began to beat,

For o’er the crackling fire he heard

The sound of horses feet.

“Here’s help at last,” young Robert cried,

And even as he spoke

The squatter with a dozen men

Came racing through the smoke.

Down on the ground the stockmen jumped

And bared each brawny arm;

They tore green branches from the trees

And fought for Ross’s farm;

And when before the gallant band

The beaten flames gave way,

Two grimy hands in friendship joined…

And it was Christmas Day.

Written by Henry Lawson

The Life of a Puppy

2006-04-29T03:38:00.000+10:00

The Life of a Puppy.

This morning, I woke up & kissed my dad's head.
I peed on the carpet, then went back to bed.
"The life of a puppy, oh my, this is great."
Then I thought about breakfast," I hope it's not late."

Mom took me outside, we walked for a while.
This never fails to make Mama smile.
I sniffed of everything, that we did pass,
I ate something weird - it gave me gas.

I'm sure God loves me, I know that is true.
He gave me so many great things to chew.
Rugs, plants or rocks, I really don't care.
What I truly like best, is Dad's underwear.

That obedience book, was sort of yummy.
Though it didn't sit well on my poor puppy tummy.
I threw up a bit, but that was all right,
When Mom found it later, I was well out of sight.

I made streamers of T. P., while running at full speed.
Mom is pretty quick -- but I was still in the lead.
I flew under the bed, and Mom flew past,
She shook her head, and breathed, "You're too fast."

Mama later phoned Daddy, and said, "It was frightening!"
That afternoon, she was sure I'd pooped lightning.
She'd sat at the computer, while I chewed the cord,
She thought I was mad, but I was just bored.

When Mama had enough, couldn't take anymore,
That's when my tushy got shoved out the door.
I love it inside, but outside is best.
Lay in the cool grass, and had a good rest.

That didn't last long, there was too much to do--
Can't quite remember where I hid Daddy's shoe.
I found an old bone, and scratched at a flea,
I watched the dumb squirrels as they jumped in a tree.

I barked at the kids, when they got off the bus.
I can't figure out why this makes Mama fuss.
I barked at the neighbor, I barked at the wind.
I barked and barked, till Mom yelled, "COME IN."

The sun dipped in the west-soon Daddy would come!
I sure love my daddy: we always have fun.
I barked at my daddy, then turned on my charms,
I woo-wooed, "Hello," then jumped in his arms.

Sitting under the table -- it's sooo hard to wait.
Daddy slipped me a goodie right off his plate.
I raced through the house, and scattered my toys,
Ricocheted off the furniture, and made lots of noise.

Mom found her purse - the one I abused.
Daddy let loose a chuckle. Mom asked "Amused??"
I cowered down low, I must be in trouble.
Dad said, "Wasn't MY boy, it must be his double!"

Mom turned off the TV, and said, "Time for bed."
Dad said "Let's go boy," and patted my head.
I got in my spot, between Mom and Dad,
I thought 'bout my day and what fun I had.

Mama kicked out my bone from the covers below,
Then let loose a sigh -- a sigh deep and low.
She gave me a kiss, and snuggled me tight,
And whispered so softly, 'My darling goodnight'.

Author Unknown

Lost,

2006-04-24T13:07:00.000+10:00

Another of Banjo’s ever popular poems, the man was a
wordsmith.

Lost

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his willful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?”

"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?"

The old man walked to the slip rail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answers the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.

Written by A B (Banjo) Paterson

Published in The Sydney Mail, 19 March 1887

The Bushman’s Club And Liar’s Den

2006-04-19T12:44:00.000+10:00

The Bushman’s Club And Liar’s Den

Now there’s a joint across in Sydney, I suppose you jokers know,

Where the hardest riding stockmen, and the great gun shearers go;

And it’s something of a lover’s den, and something of a pub,

And it’s known to Sydney siders as “that flamin’ bushman’s club”.

It’s the most tremendous place on which I’ve ever cast me eye;

If heaven turns out half as good, I don’t care when I die;

For the grog flows by the bucketful, and women – strike me blue!

They’re all dressed just like Chloe, and they’re twice as pretty too.

For this is the place of worship, of that noble little push,

Who comprise the famous brotherhood, of the bludgers from the bush;

Their noble, high and lofty aim to fight for all things freer,

And strive for the two great freedoms – free women and free beer.

And valiantly they carry on, their noble cause to fight,

They start right at the crack of dawn, and rollick through the night;

With revelry and sport galore, and girls and grog and song.

No wonder that the waiting list is a full half mile long.

So to keep the place exclusive, so they only get the best,

Each budding, would be brother has to pass a little test;

You have to shear three hundred sheep a day with either hand,

And duff a thousand bullocks on your own and change their brand.

And drove them down the Birdsville when the Cooper’s on her way,

Then dig a well through granite rock at fifty foot a day;

And cut a mile of mulga posts and sink the bludgers down,

And break a dozen killer colts and ride them into town.

And drink a keg of Bundy in just a half an hour,

And live a year on damper that you made from weevily flour;

And track and skin a thousand roos, then crack the Sydney flash,

With a whip you’ve made from roo hide having forty foot of lash.

And many other little skills that only the best can do,

(I passed them all with credit and top distinction too);

But the last examination is some yarns you have to tell!

They must be lies – original – and you have to spin them well.

Well I stood before the panel, in a highly nervous state,

And began to tell my story from a very early date;

I told them how, at age of twelve, I dug that excavation,

For the government, which now is called the Great Artesian Basin.

And when I’d dug the mullock out I carted it aside,

And nowadays they call that heap of dirt The Great Divide;

I told them how I swum the old Pacific in a gale,

And made the homeward journey in a bathtub with a sail.

How I used to work the windmills in a calm for my old man,

By running like a lumberjack on top of the bloody fan;

But I fell from fifty feet up with a tin in me pocket as I come,

And I’ve still got “Capstan Fine Cut” printed firmly on me bum.

And once I won a Melbourne Cup, on an untrained brumby mare,

But they went and took it off me said riding bareback wasn’t fair;

It was me alone, who finally rode Old Curio and her brother,

While I did the flash with one hand; rolled a quirley with the other.

And I was the bloke who tried to ride to Tassie on a bike,

Lost me bearings, got a puncture on a bloody coral spike;

Missed the Apple Isle completely, so I almost met me death,

But I surfaced in New Zealand, very nearly out of breath.

I once flew into Canberra, when me mate (the PM) wired,

And I would have flown back here but me flamin’ arms were tired;

I lost Victoria River Downs in a crooked two-up school,

I boozed me other stations in a fortnight – what a fool.

It was me who floored Carruthers in the fifty second round,

It was a private little battle for a half a million pounds;

And I ran the mile in three flat, but I didn’t make me claim,

‘Cause I’m not the sort of cove who likes to brag and look for fame.

And I could have gone on forever, reminiscing to the board,

But they yelled “no more! shut up! you’re in”- and I was floored;

You can imagine the tears of joy one sheds at a time like this,

When you’ve passed the test to paradise and near- eternal bliss.

Then think what an awful shock it was when I’d been there just a week,

And one of the elder brothers comes and grabs me by the cheek;

And says to me “the panel rules that you will have to go!

You bluffed us on that final test,” and what he said was so!

For though at any bushman’s skills, no stockman e’er ranked higher,

But I never was, and never will be worth a cracker as a liar;

I dunno how they done it like, unless one of the panel knew,

But somehow they’d discovered, that all me yarns were true.

And that is why I drift through life

Just searchin’ for that coot,

Who dobbed me in to the brotherhood,

And got me the bloody boot.

Conroy's Gap.

2006-04-13T11:27:00.000+10:00

This is a fairly lengthy poem, but it so well covers the language and
sentiments of “turn of the last century Australia” that it needed to
be included here.

Conroy’s Gap

written by AB (Banjo) Paterson

This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.

D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap --
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath --
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death".

The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
to him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said,
"And listen to me, if you dare resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!"
He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.

There was a girl in that shanty bar
Went by the name of Kate Carew,
Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
But ready-witted and plucky, too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
"The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim."

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near --
And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from east to west;
In every show ring, on every course,
They always counted The Swagman best.

He was a wonder, a raking bay --
One of the grand old Snowdon strain --
One of the sort that could race and stay
With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
Born and bred on the mountain side,
He could race through scrub like a kangaroo;
The girl herself on his back might ride,
And The Swagman would carry her safely through.

He would travel gaily from daylight's flush
Till after the stars hung out their lamps;
There was never his like in the open bush,
And never his match on the cattle-camps.
For faster horses might well be found
On racing tracks, or a plain's extent,
But few, if any, on broken ground
Could see the way that The Swagman went.

When this girl's father, old Jim Carew,
Was droving out on the Castlereagh
With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through
To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
And he was a hundred miles from home,
As flies the crow, with never a track
Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam;
He mounted straight on The Swagman's back.

He left the camp by the sundown light,
And the settlers out on the Marthaguy
Awoke and heard, in the dead of night,
A single horseman hurrying by.
He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo,
And many a mile of the silent plain
That lonely rider behind him threw
Before they settled to sleep again.

He rode all night, and he steered his course
By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,
And every time that he pressed his horse
The Swagman answered him gamely still.
He neared his home as the east was bright.
The doctor met him outside the town
"Carew! How far did you come last night?"
"A hundred miles since the sun went down."

And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,
So long as he or one of his breed
Could raise a coin, though it took their last,
The Swagman never should want a feed.
And Kate Carew, when her father died,
She kept the horse and she kept him well;
The pride of the district far and wide,
He lived in style at the bush hotel.

Such was The Swagman; and Ryan knew
Nothing about could pace the crack;
Little he'd care for the man in blue
If once he got on The Swagman's back.
But how to do it? A word let fall
Gave him the hint as the girl passed by;
Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall;
Go to the stable and mind your eye."

He caught her meaning, and quickly turned
To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe
By arresting me, and it's easily earned;
Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,
The Swagman has it." So off they went,
And as soon as ever they turned their backs
The girl slipped down, on some errand bent
Behind the stable and seized an axe.

The trooper stood at the stable door
While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,
And then (the trick had been played before)
The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
Three slabs fell out of the stable wall --
'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew --
And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,
Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through.

The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring
In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate,
But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring
At the fence, and the trooper fired too late
As they raced away, and his shots flew wide,
And Ryan no longer need care a rap,
For never a horse that was lapped in hide
Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap.

And that's the story. You want to know
If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;
Of course he should have, as stories go,
But the worst of it is this story's true:
And in real life it's a certain rule,
Whatever poets and authors say
Of high-toned robbers and all their school,
These horse thief fellows aren't built that way.

Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound,
He sloped across to the Queensland side,
And sold The Swagman for fifty pound,
And stole the money, and more beside.
And took to drink, and by some good chance
Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.
And that was the end of this small romance,
The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.

First published in;

The Bulletin, 20 December 1890