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The poetry thread.

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

  1. mozgrame

    mozgrame Well-Known Member

    +5,118 /51
    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.
    • Like Like x 1
    • mozgrame

      mozgrame Well-Known Member

      +5,118 /51
      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.
      • Like Like x 1
      • mozgrame

        mozgrame Well-Known Member

        +5,118 /51
        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
        • Like Like x 1
        • mozgrame

          mozgrame Well-Known Member

          +5,118 /51
          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.
          • Like Like x 1
          • mozgrame

            mozgrame Well-Known Member

            +5,118 /51
            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
            • Like Like x 1
            • mozgrame

              mozgrame Well-Known Member

              +5,118 /51
              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
              • globaleagle

                globaleagle Je saisis mon chapeau. Staff Member Premium Member 2017 Tipping Competitor

                +13,311 /117
                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.
                • Like Like x 2
                • mozgrame

                  mozgrame Well-Known Member

                  +5,118 /51
                  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.
                • mozgrame

                  mozgrame Well-Known Member

                  +5,118 /51
                  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
                  • mozgrame

                    mozgrame Well-Known Member

                    +5,118 /51
                    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
                    • Like Like x 2
                    • mozgrame

                      mozgrame Well-Known Member

                      +5,118 /51
                      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
                      • Moondog

                        Moondog What's up Darth? Premium Member 2017 Tipping Competitor

                        +5,240 /51
                        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
                        • mozgrame

                          mozgrame Well-Known Member

                          +5,118 /51
                          Very, VERY good! I like that @Moondog

                          Cheers, Mate!
                          • Like Like x 1
                          • mozgrame

                            mozgrame Well-Known Member

                            +5,118 /51

                            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
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51
                              PAM AYRES....

                              BATTERY HEN

                              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.
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51
                              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
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51

                              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
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51
                              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
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51
                              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
                            • mozgrame

                              mozgrame Well-Known Member

                              +5,118 /51
                              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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