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The poetry thread.

Discussion in 'General Discussion Forum' started by mozgrame, Mar 22, 2015.

  1. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Are there any wordsmiths, or lovers of the pen and poem here? I have an affinity with poetry and proudly confess it taught me more about the English language than any poor unfortunate teacher ever could have. In particular, I like the Australian bush poems. I have written quite a few myself, but for now.....best stick to the pro's. :)

    Banjo Paterson's - Johson's Antidote.

    Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,
    Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp;
    Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes,
    Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes:
    Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants,
    And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants:
    Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat,
    There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.

    Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer,
    For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear;
    So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night,
    Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent’s bite.
    Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head,
    Told him, ‘Spos’n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead;
    Spos’n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see,
    Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.’
    ‘That’s the cure,’ said William Johnson, ‘point me out this plant sublime,’
    But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he’d go another time.
    Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote,
    Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

    . . . . .

    Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break,
    There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake,
    In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul,
    Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole.
    Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank,
    Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank;
    Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept,
    While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept.
    Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson’s throat;
    ‘Luck at last,’ said he, ‘I’ve struck it! ’tis the famous antidote.’

    ‘Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known,
    Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone.
    Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor,
    Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure.
    It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be,
    Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me–
    Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note,
    Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson’s antidote.
    It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient’s eyeballs stare
    At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there.
    When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat,
    It will cure him just to think of Johnson’s Snakebite Antidote.’

    Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man–
    ‘Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can;
    I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure,
    Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure.
    Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I’d float;
    Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I’ve found the antidote.’

    Said the scientific person, ‘If you really want to die,
    Go ahead–but, if you’re doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try.
    Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip;
    Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip;
    If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good.
    Will you fetch your dog and try it?’ Johnson rather thought he would.
    So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat.
    ‘Stump, old man,’ says he, ‘we’ll show them we’ve the genwine antidote.’

    Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland’s contents;
    Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events.
    ‘Mark,’ he said, ‘in twenty minutes Stump’ll be a-rushing round,
    While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.’
    But, alas for William Johnson! ere they’d watched a half-hour’s spell
    Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t’other dog was live and well.
    And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed,
    Tested Johnson’s drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed;
    Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat,
    All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.

    . . . . .

    Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders’ camp,
    Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp,
    Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes,
    Shooting every stray goanna, calls them ‘black and yaller frauds’.
    And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat,
    Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote.
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  2. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    The Geebung Polo Club - Banjo Paterson

    It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
    That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
    They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
    And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
    But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash --
    They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
    And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
    Though their coats were quite unpolished,
    and their manes and tails were long.
    And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
    They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

    It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
    That a polo club existed, called `The Cuff and Collar Team'.
    As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
    For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
    They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
    For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
    So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
    For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
    And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub
    Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

    Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
    When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
    And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
    A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on.
    For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
    While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
    And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
    Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie.

    Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
    Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
    There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance,
    So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
    For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
    So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died.

    By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
    There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
    For they bear a crude inscription saying, `Stranger, drop a tear,
    For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.'
    And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
    You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
    You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
    And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
    Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub --
    He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.
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  3. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    In defence of the bush. - Banjo Paterson.

    So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went,
    And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent;
    Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear
    That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't whips of beer,
    And the looney bullock snorted when you first came into view --
    Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you;
    And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown,
    And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.
    Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went
    In a month or two at furthest, you would wonder what it meant;
    Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain
    You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain,
    And the miles of thirsty gutters, blocked with sand and choked with mud,
    You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood.
    For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street,
    In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet;
    But the bush has moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall,
    And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all.

    * * * * * * * * *

    But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight --
    Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night?
    Did they "rise up William Riley" by the camp-fire's cheery blaze?
    Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days?
    And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -
    Were their faces sour and saddened like the "faces in the street"?
    And the "shy selector children" -- were they better now or worse
    Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse?
    Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square
    Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare,
    Wher the sempstress plies her needle till her eyes are sore and red
    In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread?
    Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush
    Than the roar of trams and buses, and the war-whoop of "the push"?
    Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange?
    Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range?
    But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised,
    For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilized.
    Would you make it a tea-garden, and on Sundays have a band
    Where the "blokes" might take their "donahs", with a "public" close at hand?
    You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push",
    For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush
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  4. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Lost - Banjo Paterson

    `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 wilful 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 sliprail, 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 to-night?'

    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 answer 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 blue bells 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.
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  5. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    The Legend of the Kelly Gang - By Marc Glasby

    Transported to the colonies, caught out at stealing pigs
    Ned's father Red was banished from the land of Irish jigs
    Ned grew up the hard way, a life of petty crime
    at sixteen years, for horse theft, he did three years hard time

    His brother Dan was wanted, Fitzpatrick tracked him down
    But Ned he shot Fitzpatrick then Ned and Dan left town
    Their mother carted off to gaol her sons now wanted men
    A hundred pounds reward was set, they'd not be free again

    Up in their mountain hideaway they joined with Byrne and Hart
    the legend of the Kelly Gang would blow the bush apart
    They battled with three troopers who tried to capture Ned
    and when the shooting ended three troopers all lay dead

    Two thousand pounds upon their heads their spirits never sank
    they planned a raid to snub the cops and took Euroa bank
    Informer Aaron Sherritt had tried to shop the gang
    but when Joe Byrne caught up with him the sound of gunfire rang

    The Kelly Gang grew bolder, then they took Jerilderie
    Three days they held the townsfolk before they set them free
    Eight thousand pounds was offered and their time was running out
    The Kelly's took Glenrowan and called the troopers out

    An ambush set to catch the train, a tip off foiled the plan
    The troopers bailed the Kellys up, the final act began
    For seven hours the battle raged around the old hotel
    Ned Kelly clad in armour plate but all his comrades fell

    Shot, and shot, and shot again, "I'm done for now" he said
    the sound of gunfire drifts away, five people now lie dead
    Ned's wounds did not prove fatal so he went to Melbourne Gaol
    the public called for clemency, an effort bound to fail

    At twenty five Ned Kelly swung upon the hangman's rope
    "Ah such is life" his final words, he knew he had no hope
    Down through the years the story grows, an outlaw bound to hang
    defiance born of poverty, that was the Kelly Gang
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  6. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Changing and Changeless - Marc Glasby

    In the city, season's changes only barely leave their mark
    for the city's far from nature with it's neon in the dark
    The rush and ceaseless hustle leave no time for rain or drought
    and no one has the time to see the sun come peeping out

    The dirt and grime, the lack of heart, the soulless dead fish eyes
    the traffic jams and smog alerts, the crooked deals and lies
    The city's unencumbered by a need for flooding rains
    and if they come, there's water pipes and flood controls and drains

    The bush is more dependent on the cycles of the sun
    where nature rules the way of life from dawn till day is done
    Where farmers scan an empty sky with hopes of building cloud
    and red dust coats the stockman like a ruddy choking shroud

    Then with the rains come changes all across the barren land
    and life in all its wonder now comes bursting from the sand
    Where days before the dry red earth foretold impending doom
    now everlasting flowers are a sea of coloured bloom

    And now along the river beds the flooding waters race
    and with a time of plenty nature quickens up its pace
    The magpies flit and warble as they gather up their nest
    for till the season turns again there'll be no time to rest

    And then the wheel begins to turn the rains will soon abate
    and those who live by nature's law are in the hands of fate
    But city streets remain the same though seasons come and go
    no room it seems for nature's world, that ceaseless ebb and flow
    • Like Like x 1
  7. globaleagle

    globaleagle Où est mon chapeau Premium Member 2016 Tipping Competitor

    +7,591 / 55
    When I was in grade 4 I got some serious 'house points' for being able to recite all of 'The man from snowy river.'

    My dad could recite a lot of patterson's works as well. Still does to keep his noggin ticking over.
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  8. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Moonstruck - Graeme King

    Reflected on the sea: the starlight censor,

    emitting disapproval for intrusion,

    the daily hordes of immigrants grow denser,

    and fly by on the wings of bland confusion.

    Horizons ever greener to these mortals,

    who beg that blind beliefs be treated kindly,

    but science opens yet another portal,

    to shake the faith of those who flutter blindly.

    Each day the same they fly towards anointment,

    this line of pseudo saints is never ending,

    with colors masking fear and disappointment,

    deluding all who credit their ascending.

    Perhaps the real glow watches, mutely roaring,

    despair brings on regret and then bereavement,

    as colored streams of light flit past, ignoring,

    to dash upon the rocks of no achievement.
  9. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Bump - Spike Milligan

    Things that go 'bump' in the night
    Should not really give one a fright.
    It's the hole in each ear
    That lets in the fear,
    That, and the absence of light!
    • Like Like x 1
  10. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Try reading this and not thinking of the Simpsons (Sadly) lol

    The Raven

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    ''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-
    Only this, and nothing more.'

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
    ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
    This it is, and nothing more.'

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;-
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'-
    Merely this, and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
    'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
    'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as 'Nevermore.'

    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
    Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
    Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of 'Never- nevermore'.'

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
    Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
    hath sent thee
    Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
    Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

    'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
    On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
    Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
    Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

    'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
    By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
    Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

    'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
    'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
    Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted- nevermore!

    Edgar Allan Poe
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  11. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Andy's gone with cattle.

    Our Andy's gone to battle now
    'Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
    Our Andy's gone with cattle now
    Across the Queensland border.

    He's left us in dejection now;
    Our hearts with him are roving.
    It's dull on this selection now,
    Since Andy went a-droving.

    Who now shall wear the cheerful face
    In times when things are slackest?
    And who shall whistle round the place
    When Fortune frowns her blackest?

    Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
    When he comes round us snarling?
    His tongue is growing hotter now
    Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

    The gates are out of order now,
    In storms the `riders' rattle;
    For far across the border now
    Our Andy's gone with cattle.

    Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
    And Uncle's cross with worry;
    And poor old Blucher howls all night
    Since Andy left Macquarie.

    Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
    And all the tanks run over;
    And may the grass grow green and tall
    In pathways of the drover;

    And may good angels send the rain
    On desert stretches sandy;
    And when the summer comes again
    God grant 'twill bring us Andy.
    Henry Lawson
    • Like Like x 1
  12. Moondog

    Moondog Grey-beard loon Premium Member 2016 Tipping Competitor

    Hervey Bay
    +3,396 / 32
    The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God

    There's a one-eyed yellow idol
    To the north of Kathmandu;
    There's a little marble cross below the town;
    And a brokenhearted woman
    Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
    While the yellow god for ever gazes down.

    He was known as 'Mad Carew
    By the subs at Kathmandu,
    He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,
    But, for all his foolish pranks,
    He was worshipped in the ranks,
    And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

    He had loved her all along
    With the passion of the strong,
    And that she returned his love was plain to all.
    She was nearly twenty-one,
    And arrangements were begun
    To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

    He wrote to ask what present
    She would like from 'Mad' Carew;
    They met next day as he dismissed a squad:
    And jestingly she made pretence
    That nothing else would do ...
    But the green eye of the little yellow god.

    On the night before the dance
    'Mad' Carew seemed in a trance,
    And they chaffed him
    As they pulled at their cigars,
    But for once he failed to smile,
    And he sat alone awhile,
    Then went out into the night.. beneath the stars.

    He returned, before the dawn,
    With his shirt and tunic torn,
    And a gash across his temples... dripping red.
    He was patched up right away,
    And he slept all through the day
    While the Colonel's daughter
    Watched beside his bed.

    He woke at last and asked her
    If she'd send his tunic through.
    She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
    He bade her search the pocket,
    Saying, 'That's from "Mad" Carew,'
    And she found ... the little green eye of the god.

    She upbraided poor Carew,
    In the way that women do,
    Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
    But she would not take the stone,
    And Carew was left alone
    With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

    When the ball was at its height
    On that still and tropic night,
    She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
    As she crossed the barrack square
    She could hear the dreamy air
    Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

    His door was open wide,
    With silver moonlight shining through;
    The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
    An ugly knife lay buried
    In the heart of 'Mad' Carew ...
    'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.

    There's a one-eyed yellow idol
    To the north of Kathmandu;
    There's a little marble cross below the town;
    And a brokenhearted woman
    Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
    While the yellow god for ever gazes down.
    • Like Like x 2
  13. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Very, VERY good! I like that @Moondog

    Cheers, Mate!
    • Like Like x 1
  14. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36

    The Battle of Balaclava, During the Crimeran War....

    The Charge of the Light Brigade
    By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809–1892 Alfred, Lord Tennyson
    Half a league, half a league,
    Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.
    “Forward, the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns!” he said.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    “Forward, the Light Brigade!”
    Was there a man dismayed?
    Not though the soldier knew
    Someone had blundered.
    Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
    Volleyed and thundered;
    Stormed at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of hell
    Rode the six hundred.

    Flashed all their sabres bare,
    Flashed as they turned in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army, while
    All the world wondered.
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right through the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reeled from the sabre stroke
    Shattered and sundered.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
    Volleyed and thundered;
    Stormed at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell.
    They that had fought so well
    Came through the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of hell,
    All that was left of them,
    Left of six hundred.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
    All the world wondered.
    Honour the charge they made!
    Honour the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred!
    • Like Like x 2
  15. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    PAM AYRES....


    On me back there's not a germ,
    I never scratched a farmyard,
    And I never pecked a worm,
    I never had the sunshine,
    To warm me feathers through,
    Eggs I lay. Every day.
    For the likes of you.

    When you has them scrambled,
    Piled up on your plate,
    It's me what you should thank for that,
    I never lays them late,
    I always lays them reg'lar,
    I always lays them right,
    I never lays them brown,
    I always lays them white.

    But it's no life, for a battery hen,
    In me box I'm sat,
    A funnel stuck out from the side,
    Me pellets comes down that,
    I gets a squirt of water,
    Every half a day,
    Watchin' with me beady eye,
    Me eggs, roll away.

    I lays them in a funnel,
    Strategically placed,
    So that I don't kick 'em,
    And let them go to waste,
    They rolls off down the tubing,
    And up the gangway quick,
    Sometimes I gets to thinkin'
    "That could have been a chick!"

    I might have been a farmyard hen,
    Scratchin' in the sun,
    There might have been a crowd of chicks,
    After me to run,
    There might have been a cockerel fine,
    To pay us his respects,
    Instead of sittin' here,
    Till someone comes and wrings our necks.

    I see the Time and Motion clock,
    Is sayin' nearly noon,
    I 'spec me squirt of water,
    Will come flyin' at me soon,
    And then me spray of pellets,
    Will nearly break me leg,
    And I'll bite the wire nettin'
    And lay one more bloody egg.
  16. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Life in the Bush

    I live in the bush where the air is much cleaner

    And the hassles of traffic are far, far away

    I live in the bush where the trees are much greener

    But living out here, there’s a price I must pay

    I can’t get a signal, no mobile reception

    I can’t get the mail unless I’m in town

    I can’t see a doctor, I can’t see a dentist

    They’ve all moved away and it’s getting me down

    The telly’s ‘the pits’ and I can’t afford Foxtel

    There’s few entertainers who venture out here

    So a walk in the bush is the main entertainment

    Or an hour in the pub and a glass of cold beer

    And when I go shopping I’m paying top dollar

    I need an armed guard if I’m picking up fuel

    The words ‘out of stock’ are becoming familiar

    And ‘we don’t stock that here’ is a general rule

    I have to drive miles just to talk to a neighbour

    But maybe that’s not all that bad after all

    For living out here, it’s the peace that I savor

    And city life ‘sucks’ as I seem to recall

    We don’t get the services townies are used to

    And money’s not all, that we stand to lose

    But we love the fresh air, and we love the lifestyle

    So living out bush is the life that we choose.

    Marc Glasby
  17. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36

    Little Jack was only one
    his father's pride and only son
    He grew up fast beneath the sun
    An Australian was he

    By ten years old he'd fired a gun
    go bare back riding just for fun
    and by fourteen his schooling done
    he lived both wild and free

    Then two years on the mother land
    its empire called to lend a hand
    and blood was spilled upon the sand
    around Gallipoli

    When duty called he volunteered
    and war was all his mother feared
    Young men whose arms and legs were sheared
    were sent home constantly

    When Jack's turn came he faced it well
    while all around his comrades fell
    Young men all blown straight to hell
    in a land across the sea

    No longer through the bush he'd roam
    They wrapped him up and sent him home
    The ship ploughed on through ocean foam that he would never see
    Jack lies buried in a grave
    His life for King and country gave
    His young life lost so he could save the likes of you and me

    When April rolls around each year
    and old men march or shed a tear
    for those who are no longer here
    Remember Jack Magee

    And when the old men have all gone
    their legacy will linger on
    Forever we'll look back upon
    their shining memory

    Marc Glasby
  18. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    I am the bushland dawning
    in the stillness of the morning
    I am the sunlit plains and the mighty river's flow

    I'm the drought and I'm the flood
    I'm the earth and I'm the blood
    I'm the breezes ever blowing
    where the wild pandanas grow

    I'm the stockman and the drover
    and I've walked this land all over
    and I share forgotten secrets
    that the wild ones only know

    I'm the dust of outback trails
    I'm the wind that fills the sails
    I'm the city and the country
    and the first high mountain snow

    I'm the Murray River flowing
    and the cattle softly lowing
    I'm the kangaroo and emu
    and the sunset's orange glow

    I'm the Southern Cross at night
    the explorer's guiding light
    I'm the place that tells the traveller
    that it's better to go slow

    I am Banjo and I'm Lawson
    I am Kelly and I'm Mawson
    I am the Melbourne Cupand the Sydney Easter Show

    I am wild and still untamed
    and there's beauty in my name
    I am the land Australia
    where the lucky people go

    Marc Glasby
  19. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    Its ten miles as the crow flies
    from here to billabong
    And that's where I will have a blow
    back out where I belong

    It's been a while since I've been bushed
    or swapped yarns with a dag
    Or been out duffing clean skins
    Or slept upon my swag

    I've diced my city job at last
    They said I dragged the chain
    by hiding in the dunny
    when I ever felt the strain

    I'm happy now as Larry was
    I've lobbed back in the bush
    I'm waltzing my matildas
    and life is pretty cush

    Now city life was on the nose
    with ratbags drinking plonk
    Galahs in cars with blaring horns
    that honk and honk and honk

    I'm taking Shank's pony
    before I have a spell
    and get back to hard yakka
    by sinking bores and wells

    Out beyond the black stump
    where blowies never tire
    and boiling up me billy
    upon a bonza fire

    I'll always be a bushy
    who's dying to shoot through
    I'll have a gig around the bend
    and rarely have a blue

    I'll get stuck into life again
    away from city smoke
    wandering the outback trails
    a very happy bloke

    Marc Glasby
  20. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +4,345 / 36
    On golden wings the eagle soars
    above the gibber plain
    cries echo off sheer canyon walls
    throughout its high domain

    Where weathered red rock towers stand
    against a deep blue sky
    the raptor glides on silent wings
    and calls its lonely cry

    Saltbush, gums and termite mounds
    stretch on and out of sight
    No poles or lines or coated wires
    restrict the great birds flight

    Wheeling high in thermals
    no need to flap its wings
    for he who hunts with beak and claw
    is lord of many things

    There on some far horizon
    where heat haze melts the sky
    where time has lost its meaning
    an eagle soars on high

    Marc Glasby

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