The ANZAC on the Wall

The ANZAC on the Wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

author unknown

Signs of Getting Old

"Signs of Getting Old.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Unknown

It was my first time ever

You are gonna hate yourselves

when you read the last line.

It was my first time ever

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

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

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

Her skin so soft

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

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

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

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

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

Author Unknown

Wise Dog on the Tuckerbox.

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

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








Wise Dog OnThe Tuckerbox

The dog sits on the tuckerbox
He’s gettin’ pretty mad
“The country’s gone to OTHER dogs
It’s gettin’ flamin’ bad!
They’re sellin’ out 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.

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.

Ode to a wet sheep.

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

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.

A Geek Poem

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 week after Christmas

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.

A Christmas Poem

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.

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.

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.

The Teamster’s Wife

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.

The Mammogram.... Ouch!

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

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.

The Old Gas Station

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

Teenagers’ Morals.

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.

Hillbilly Love.

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.

I went to a party mommy.....

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.

The Final Inspection.

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