Joe T is a compulsive rhymer a fellow addicted to rhyme
His wife Elle left him for a non poet she says he is wasting his time
In composing his rhymes, poems and ballads the stuff he writes is slow to sell
He thinks one day he will be wealthy and famous though Elle says he pens doggerel.
Their marriage it lasted just ten months but she left him two years ago
As a husband he was not a good provider and hard work does not interest Joe
Her leaving him did not cause him heartache he did not beg her to come home
He wished her good luck with her new man and he penned to her a farewell poem.
Joe is convinced he will be wealthy and famous that the literary critics will yet come to realize
That he is the world's greatest living poet and for literature he will win the Nobel Prize
So he keeps penning his poems, rhymes and ballads and success he feels from him is not far away
And he feels assured he'll be famous long before he grows old and gray.
He reads his poems at poetry readings and always to a loud encore
And he feels so proud and so happy when his audience they beg him for more
And these people good judges of poetry so Elle his ex wife got it wrong
And like Joe says she's not very cultural she cannot tell a poem from a song.
Joe T is devoted to poetry and he says he will know wealth and fame
And he is convinced that in a few years his will be a world known name
And to most people he is no different he wishes to be loved and admired
And he keeps on penning his verses and he writes like a man inspired.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Ordinary Man
In his younger years he was not a soldier nor in his hands he never held a gun
And his father was never proud of him and he was not his mum's favourite son
He is not seen as a high achiever though he is at work every day
For to support his wife and his children he works very hard for his pay.
In his twenties he was not an athlete and his life story may never be told
Like those that we know to be famous who compete for Olympic gold
A greying man in his mid forties your average Willie or Stan
And when we refer to him at all we call him the ordinary man.
He is not a scientist or physician or one with a brilliant career
He is just your average fellow and his story we do not wish to hear
Still he loves and supports his children and he is devoted to his wife
And can one not say his achievement is that he leads a successful life?
He never will scale the heights of Everest from his hometown he has not travelled far
And he never will become a rock singer or a world renowned movie star
He travels to and from work on Public transport and few even know him by name
But he is a very good person and is that not a just claim to fame?
There won't be a movie about him and he leads an ordinary life
Yet he is a very good person devoted to his children and his wife
An easy going sort of a fellow though some might say he lacks in elan
This unassuming and down to earth person we call him the ordinary man.
And his father was never proud of him and he was not his mum's favourite son
He is not seen as a high achiever though he is at work every day
For to support his wife and his children he works very hard for his pay.
In his twenties he was not an athlete and his life story may never be told
Like those that we know to be famous who compete for Olympic gold
A greying man in his mid forties your average Willie or Stan
And when we refer to him at all we call him the ordinary man.
He is not a scientist or physician or one with a brilliant career
He is just your average fellow and his story we do not wish to hear
Still he loves and supports his children and he is devoted to his wife
And can one not say his achievement is that he leads a successful life?
He never will scale the heights of Everest from his hometown he has not travelled far
And he never will become a rock singer or a world renowned movie star
He travels to and from work on Public transport and few even know him by name
But he is a very good person and is that not a just claim to fame?
There won't be a movie about him and he leads an ordinary life
Yet he is a very good person devoted to his children and his wife
An easy going sort of a fellow though some might say he lacks in elan
This unassuming and down to earth person we call him the ordinary man.
The Less I Know I Know
I grew up close to Nature see animals give birth
And I learned just a tiny bit about our Mother Earth
And close to the Goddess of Nature into manhood I did grow
But the more I learn of Nature the less I know I know
About the natural world all around us everywhere
And though often in the moonlight in Spring evenings I heard the mother hare
Calling out to her leverets from me she was upwind
Next day I'd search the meadow for them though them I'd never find.
I searched the meadow for them a hectacre of ground
But never any trace of them and them I never found
And never any sign of them though I knew that they were there
I could not even learn about the secrets of the hare.
In the twilight of the evening from a branch of tree nearby
I watched the badgers clean out their sett as darkness cloaked the sky
And then they brought in dried grass they kept their home so clean
And I could only marvel at the thing that I had seen.
I often heard the curlews o'er the brown bogland in May
And though an old man told me green brown blotched eggs they lay
I never did find their nest though I felt it was nearby
Their secret of survival to be secretive and shy.
I grew up close to Nature I was a country boy
And I got to know a little about creatures that run and fly
And I thought that I knew Nature well but in hindsight I recall
That Mother Nature keeps her secrets well hidden from us all.
And I learned just a tiny bit about our Mother Earth
And close to the Goddess of Nature into manhood I did grow
But the more I learn of Nature the less I know I know
About the natural world all around us everywhere
And though often in the moonlight in Spring evenings I heard the mother hare
Calling out to her leverets from me she was upwind
Next day I'd search the meadow for them though them I'd never find.
I searched the meadow for them a hectacre of ground
But never any trace of them and them I never found
And never any sign of them though I knew that they were there
I could not even learn about the secrets of the hare.
In the twilight of the evening from a branch of tree nearby
I watched the badgers clean out their sett as darkness cloaked the sky
And then they brought in dried grass they kept their home so clean
And I could only marvel at the thing that I had seen.
I often heard the curlews o'er the brown bogland in May
And though an old man told me green brown blotched eggs they lay
I never did find their nest though I felt it was nearby
Their secret of survival to be secretive and shy.
I grew up close to Nature I was a country boy
And I got to know a little about creatures that run and fly
And I thought that I knew Nature well but in hindsight I recall
That Mother Nature keeps her secrets well hidden from us all.
Ken
Ken not interested in other people's stories or of what happens in Iraq or Afghanistan
He is only interested in his world for he is a self centred man
Himself and his wife and his teenage son and daughter are all he cares to talk about
Of the things that matter most in his life he never does leave one in doubt.
He talks of his marvellous son and his beautiful daughter and the pride and the joy of his life
Marghareta the mother of his children his rather self conceited wife
Birds of a feather always flock together and we are not unlike the birds of the air
And balding Ken and Marghareta one might say they make a good pair.
One might call them middle class climbers their children attend private school
Two cars and a boat and a campervan and in their backyard a heated swimming pool
You never see them in the fast food eat cheap restaurants when they go out for a family tea
And at the working class local barroom Ken is one you never will see.
Ken is not interested in others his only interests are he and his wife and their family
And he is a self centred fellow his favourite topics my wife and my children and me
His own small world to him only matter he has no interest in the big world out there
He doesn't wish to hear the stories of others of himself and his he only care.
He is only interested in his world for he is a self centred man
Himself and his wife and his teenage son and daughter are all he cares to talk about
Of the things that matter most in his life he never does leave one in doubt.
He talks of his marvellous son and his beautiful daughter and the pride and the joy of his life
Marghareta the mother of his children his rather self conceited wife
Birds of a feather always flock together and we are not unlike the birds of the air
And balding Ken and Marghareta one might say they make a good pair.
One might call them middle class climbers their children attend private school
Two cars and a boat and a campervan and in their backyard a heated swimming pool
You never see them in the fast food eat cheap restaurants when they go out for a family tea
And at the working class local barroom Ken is one you never will see.
Ken is not interested in others his only interests are he and his wife and their family
And he is a self centred fellow his favourite topics my wife and my children and me
His own small world to him only matter he has no interest in the big world out there
He doesn't wish to hear the stories of others of himself and his he only care.
Big Boy
His job gives him a sense of self importance a sense of power and self esteem
Yet to be a bouncer in a night club would not be every young man's dream
But what suits one will not suit another and each to their own rings so true
And each of us suited in some way to the job we have chosen to do.
Young Eric is built like a rhino and he has far more brawn than brain
And the type of character that he is in words I struggle to explain
In our local pub we call him 'Big Boy' and in his nickname he takes great pride
With his type one ought to stay friendly such big men you don't put offside.
A colossal of a man in his twenties and now in his physical prime
Yet Big Boy not the type of fellow who inspires the great bards to rhyme
Though he has bashed a couple of trouble makers and kicked them out of the night club
And we of course hear all about it when he joins us down at the pub.
His job gives him a sense of self importance the big bloke that we know as Big Boy
And he tells us that in a brawl he has not been bested though a few to best him did try
But one day he will get his come uppance wise people have been known to say
That there's always one stronger and better and all bullies get humbled one day.
Yet to be a bouncer in a night club would not be every young man's dream
But what suits one will not suit another and each to their own rings so true
And each of us suited in some way to the job we have chosen to do.
Young Eric is built like a rhino and he has far more brawn than brain
And the type of character that he is in words I struggle to explain
In our local pub we call him 'Big Boy' and in his nickname he takes great pride
With his type one ought to stay friendly such big men you don't put offside.
A colossal of a man in his twenties and now in his physical prime
Yet Big Boy not the type of fellow who inspires the great bards to rhyme
Though he has bashed a couple of trouble makers and kicked them out of the night club
And we of course hear all about it when he joins us down at the pub.
His job gives him a sense of self importance the big bloke that we know as Big Boy
And he tells us that in a brawl he has not been bested though a few to best him did try
But one day he will get his come uppance wise people have been known to say
That there's always one stronger and better and all bullies get humbled one day.
Where The Tarwin Creeps On Towards The Sea
The constant noise of traffic on the freeway of trucks and cars passing to and fro night and day
Here in overcrowded suburbia suppose the price that people must pay
For living amidst human industry with buildings and streets all around
Yet here in a park in Glen Iris the wild birds of Nature abound.
I long for a place that is quieter not that far from here as the crow fly
Where all day long above the brown paddocks the dark swallows twitter as they fly
No factory chimney billowing pollution in a place that is pollution free
Where the brown waters of the Tarwin flow slowly on down towards the sea.
In this park the trees look green and healthy and the Cricket pitch by the sprinklers kept green
And willy wagtails with their tails wagging amongst the grass chasing insects are seen
The mynas and the magpies are singing and the familiar call of the magpie lark
Can be heard echoing in the sunshine across the green suburban park.
Yet the constant buzzing of cars and big trucks on the Freeway the peace and beauty of Nature invade
And one cannot truly appreciate Nature where humans their imprint have made
I know of a place that's far quieter and I visualize and I can see
The swallows above the brown paddocks where the Tarwin creeps on towards the sea.
Here in overcrowded suburbia suppose the price that people must pay
For living amidst human industry with buildings and streets all around
Yet here in a park in Glen Iris the wild birds of Nature abound.
I long for a place that is quieter not that far from here as the crow fly
Where all day long above the brown paddocks the dark swallows twitter as they fly
No factory chimney billowing pollution in a place that is pollution free
Where the brown waters of the Tarwin flow slowly on down towards the sea.
In this park the trees look green and healthy and the Cricket pitch by the sprinklers kept green
And willy wagtails with their tails wagging amongst the grass chasing insects are seen
The mynas and the magpies are singing and the familiar call of the magpie lark
Can be heard echoing in the sunshine across the green suburban park.
Yet the constant buzzing of cars and big trucks on the Freeway the peace and beauty of Nature invade
And one cannot truly appreciate Nature where humans their imprint have made
I know of a place that's far quieter and I visualize and I can see
The swallows above the brown paddocks where the Tarwin creeps on towards the sea.
Our Favourite Watering Hole
On our way home from work we stop off at our local for a few hours of drinking with our mates
And 'tis not of art we do be talking or theatre or literary greats
We talk of Aussie Rules footballers and the player who kicked the best goal
And the player who took the greatest mark at our favourite watering hole.
Leonardo or Darwin or Einstein we don't bother to talk about
But who is winning in the Test Cricket and how many have been bowled out
Or is Tendulkar or Lara or Bradman the greatest to ever swing the cricket bat
Our favourite watering hole in the evening is good for a drink and a chat.
We don't talk of Van Gogh or Shakespeare they were never good at football
Or Eva peron or Abe Lincoln no they do not interest us at all
No our subjects uncomplicated such as the great loves of our lives
The women we loved married others and our scapegoats always our wives.
Our favourite watering hole as we call it without it life would be a bore
We socialize there every evening for two or three hours sometimes four,
We do not talk of things cultural like classical music or literature or art,
We talk of the things that interest us the subjects most dear to our heart.
And 'tis not of art we do be talking or theatre or literary greats
We talk of Aussie Rules footballers and the player who kicked the best goal
And the player who took the greatest mark at our favourite watering hole.
Leonardo or Darwin or Einstein we don't bother to talk about
But who is winning in the Test Cricket and how many have been bowled out
Or is Tendulkar or Lara or Bradman the greatest to ever swing the cricket bat
Our favourite watering hole in the evening is good for a drink and a chat.
We don't talk of Van Gogh or Shakespeare they were never good at football
Or Eva peron or Abe Lincoln no they do not interest us at all
No our subjects uncomplicated such as the great loves of our lives
The women we loved married others and our scapegoats always our wives.
Our favourite watering hole as we call it without it life would be a bore
We socialize there every evening for two or three hours sometimes four,
We do not talk of things cultural like classical music or literature or art,
We talk of the things that interest us the subjects most dear to our heart.
Doubting Thomas
I know a man in his forties and he once was a devout man of prayer
But in his dark days of mental depression god about him did not seem to care
God did not cure him of his illness so from god he turned away
For god to him never did listen when to god he used to pray.
He believes god is on the side of the wealthy and does not even think of the poor
And of a supreme being's existence he is not now even sure
He has found out in the hard way that one is their own greatest friend
Do not pray to god for assistance for on god one cannot depend.
I know this mentally ill person his name is Thomas and 'Doubting Thomas' his nickname
And he once was a devout christian but god he no longer acclaim
He relies on doctor's medication for to keep him balanced and sane
He was one with such a bright future till demons got into his brain.
Whenever I meet Doubting Thomas of the subject of god I stay clear
For I know it would only annoy him of such he would not wish to hear
And I do not wish to upset him and bring anger into his life
He is such a good and kind fellow though his mind is often in strife.
I know this once devout ex christian and from god he has turned away
An honest and a likeable fellow and ill words of him one could not say
A well educated and a clever person he was bound for a brilliant career
Till the onset of a mental illness filled his mind with phobias and fear.
But in his dark days of mental depression god about him did not seem to care
God did not cure him of his illness so from god he turned away
For god to him never did listen when to god he used to pray.
He believes god is on the side of the wealthy and does not even think of the poor
And of a supreme being's existence he is not now even sure
He has found out in the hard way that one is their own greatest friend
Do not pray to god for assistance for on god one cannot depend.
I know this mentally ill person his name is Thomas and 'Doubting Thomas' his nickname
And he once was a devout christian but god he no longer acclaim
He relies on doctor's medication for to keep him balanced and sane
He was one with such a bright future till demons got into his brain.
Whenever I meet Doubting Thomas of the subject of god I stay clear
For I know it would only annoy him of such he would not wish to hear
And I do not wish to upset him and bring anger into his life
He is such a good and kind fellow though his mind is often in strife.
I know this once devout ex christian and from god he has turned away
An honest and a likeable fellow and ill words of him one could not say
A well educated and a clever person he was bound for a brilliant career
Till the onset of a mental illness filled his mind with phobias and fear.
Home To Kiskeam
Will the locals know him when they see him
And will they remember his name
Or will he feel a complete stranger
When he goes back to Kiskeam?
He's not been back since he has left there
Half of a century ago
Brown haired and fit as a wild hare
Not many there now he may know.
Home to the old Village in Duhallow
Where the ageless Araglen flow
He was a young man of the fifties
But the years have left him gray and slow.
Maybe he should not go back there
To where of he so often dream
Often the returned migrant disappointed
To find the home place not what they thought it might seem.
Fifty long years in Australia
It seems a long distance away
From Kiskeam in North Cork in Duhallow
To South Gippsland and Venus Bay.
He is leaving this southern country
He says he is going home to die
But will he feel that he is a stranger
In the places where he lived as a boy?
And will they remember his name
Or will he feel a complete stranger
When he goes back to Kiskeam?
He's not been back since he has left there
Half of a century ago
Brown haired and fit as a wild hare
Not many there now he may know.
Home to the old Village in Duhallow
Where the ageless Araglen flow
He was a young man of the fifties
But the years have left him gray and slow.
Maybe he should not go back there
To where of he so often dream
Often the returned migrant disappointed
To find the home place not what they thought it might seem.
Fifty long years in Australia
It seems a long distance away
From Kiskeam in North Cork in Duhallow
To South Gippsland and Venus Bay.
He is leaving this southern country
He says he is going home to die
But will he feel that he is a stranger
In the places where he lived as a boy?
You Tell That To Robert Mugabe
Don't talk to me of this life hereafter although of such you seem convinced you know
I feel we are like flowers of Spring and Summer we grow and we bloom and we go
Into the nothingness of nothing although we leave our seeds behind
Our lives only based on survival and the survival of our own kind.
You ask me to give you examples I will pick one out of many who
To insure the grip he has on power there is nothing that he would not do
The President of Zimbabwe Robert Mugabe is eighty and his country is in a mess
Yet to cling to power he uses foul tactics and all of those who oppose him he oppress.
Mugabe is well educated and for his behaviour can one find an excuse
His soldiers thugs who do his bidding are guilty of human abuse
Three quarters of the population of Zimbabwe go hungry but Mugabe he does not seem to care
He only thinks of his own survival and he offers his people despair.
Don't talk to me of the hereafter of such I do not wish to hear
You tell that to Robert Mugabe an old man who still rules by fear
We only live for our own survival as we are creatures born to die
And i too live in fear of the Reaper and are you any different to i?
I feel we are like flowers of Spring and Summer we grow and we bloom and we go
Into the nothingness of nothing although we leave our seeds behind
Our lives only based on survival and the survival of our own kind.
You ask me to give you examples I will pick one out of many who
To insure the grip he has on power there is nothing that he would not do
The President of Zimbabwe Robert Mugabe is eighty and his country is in a mess
Yet to cling to power he uses foul tactics and all of those who oppose him he oppress.
Mugabe is well educated and for his behaviour can one find an excuse
His soldiers thugs who do his bidding are guilty of human abuse
Three quarters of the population of Zimbabwe go hungry but Mugabe he does not seem to care
He only thinks of his own survival and he offers his people despair.
Don't talk to me of the hereafter of such I do not wish to hear
You tell that to Robert Mugabe an old man who still rules by fear
We only live for our own survival as we are creatures born to die
And i too live in fear of the Reaper and are you any different to i?
Friday, December 30, 2011
Labor In Name Only
The Australian Labor Party Labor in name only
With Howard's Liberals they fight for the votes at the top end of Town
They don't give a damn about the low paid workers
Or all of those who are financially down.
Mark Latham the so called new Labor firebrand
Is as much a right winger as John Howard
The man he hopes to dethrone as Australia's Prime Minister
The incumbent by the Australian voters empowered.
But if Mark Latham becomes Australia's Prime Minister
He will not be helping out the working poor
Or even those far worse off on welfare
He won't make their lives any more financially secure.
The only voice for the under classes of Australia
Is the Greens leader Senator Bob Brown
But he will never become Australia's Prime Minister
For one like him no such renown.
The Australian Labor Party Labor in name only
The Australian under class they see fit to ignore
Whilst the rich grow richer and the poor grow poorer
One well might say we've heard it all before.
With Howard's Liberals they fight for the votes at the top end of Town
They don't give a damn about the low paid workers
Or all of those who are financially down.
Mark Latham the so called new Labor firebrand
Is as much a right winger as John Howard
The man he hopes to dethrone as Australia's Prime Minister
The incumbent by the Australian voters empowered.
But if Mark Latham becomes Australia's Prime Minister
He will not be helping out the working poor
Or even those far worse off on welfare
He won't make their lives any more financially secure.
The only voice for the under classes of Australia
Is the Greens leader Senator Bob Brown
But he will never become Australia's Prime Minister
For one like him no such renown.
The Australian Labor Party Labor in name only
The Australian under class they see fit to ignore
Whilst the rich grow richer and the poor grow poorer
One well might say we've heard it all before.
Some Mother's Daughter
I heard on the news on the radio today
How a young woman died in a car smash on the Calder highway
Unmarried in her early twenties they did not give her name
Or not say where she lived or from what town she came.
Yet she was some mother's daughter and her mother tonight
Will grieve for her darling and for her no respite
From the grief that afflicts her she won't get to sleep
Her face wet with tears and she sob as she weep.
She was some mother's daughter though to no man a wife
And near the City of Bendigo she lost her life
So young for to die and not yet in her prime
And she will not grow old and show the wear of time.
She was somebody's daughter and some mother in tears
Will grieve for her child for weeks months and years
The child she gave birth to and raised from life now has gone
She was some mother's daughter though life will go on.
She will not marry, give birth to children and live to grow old and gray
The young woman who died on the Calder highway
In our birth and our death we do not have a say
Yet she was some mother's daughter who died today.
How a young woman died in a car smash on the Calder highway
Unmarried in her early twenties they did not give her name
Or not say where she lived or from what town she came.
Yet she was some mother's daughter and her mother tonight
Will grieve for her darling and for her no respite
From the grief that afflicts her she won't get to sleep
Her face wet with tears and she sob as she weep.
She was some mother's daughter though to no man a wife
And near the City of Bendigo she lost her life
So young for to die and not yet in her prime
And she will not grow old and show the wear of time.
She was somebody's daughter and some mother in tears
Will grieve for her child for weeks months and years
The child she gave birth to and raised from life now has gone
She was some mother's daughter though life will go on.
She will not marry, give birth to children and live to grow old and gray
The young woman who died on the Calder highway
In our birth and our death we do not have a say
Yet she was some mother's daughter who died today.
They Tell You That Your Life Is Your Choice
I do grow tired of right wing rednecks who say poverty comes out of choice
Their hearts cold as the Antarctic Ocean that in winter is frozen in ice
Bet you they've never known poverty and that they are financially secure
They would not be talking such rubbish if they knew what 'twas like to be poor.
These people have not lived in countries in Africa where the sun blazes hot in the sky
Where a drop of rain has not fallen for six months and the parched earth is hard cracked and dry
Where the crops they planted died for lack of water and their children are crying out for food
Those who say they chose to live in this way are stupid and heartless and crude.
I bet they have never lived in the slums of a big city as homeless children of the street
Searching through rubbish bins in dark alleys for discarded food they can eat
Their fathers and mothers in prison for drug trafficking and robbery serving jail time
And their poor though quite street wise children too bound for a sad life of crime.
And yet they tell you that your life is your choice you make out of that what you may
By their words these people demonize poor people but one should not heed one word they say
To say the least they are uncaring and they sadly lack in empathy
And they too must answer to karma and karma won't show them sympathy.
Their hearts cold as the Antarctic Ocean that in winter is frozen in ice
Bet you they've never known poverty and that they are financially secure
They would not be talking such rubbish if they knew what 'twas like to be poor.
These people have not lived in countries in Africa where the sun blazes hot in the sky
Where a drop of rain has not fallen for six months and the parched earth is hard cracked and dry
Where the crops they planted died for lack of water and their children are crying out for food
Those who say they chose to live in this way are stupid and heartless and crude.
I bet they have never lived in the slums of a big city as homeless children of the street
Searching through rubbish bins in dark alleys for discarded food they can eat
Their fathers and mothers in prison for drug trafficking and robbery serving jail time
And their poor though quite street wise children too bound for a sad life of crime.
And yet they tell you that your life is your choice you make out of that what you may
By their words these people demonize poor people but one should not heed one word they say
To say the least they are uncaring and they sadly lack in empathy
And they too must answer to karma and karma won't show them sympathy.
An Alien's Lament
I would like to pack my gear
And get right out of here
But between happiness and me
Lay thousands of miles of sea.
Here am I feeling the pinch
Shovelling bits of rock and earth out of a trench
Amidst the humid heat and smoke
And the grimy dust that choke.
And that worthless gaffer Fred
Shouting down from overhead
Telling me to shed more sweat
Make my shirt a bit more wet.
The jackhammer spitting hate
Against the rock vibrate
And it's operator Dan
Is a fellow countryman.
Like me he feels the same
Sorry now he ever came
To work here under alien skies
Amidst man created smudge and noise.
The trembling jackhammer make
His hands and body shake
And the perspiration race
Adown his weary face.
He has more responsibility than I
As he has to support his wife and baby boy
And though his thoughts are often of green fields far away
It would seem that he is here to stay.
In pubs I spend my hours of leisure
Drinking is my only pleasure
And as I sit there drinking
Of the homeland I start thinking.
Then my thoughts return to childhood
To the moor, the vale and wildwood
And my nostalgic mind rejoices
To the thoughts of songbird voices.
Of an excited blackbird shrilling
And a redbreast robin trilling
And a skylark carolling sweet
High above the moorland heath.
And to my mind come ringing
The sound of finches singing
On leafy hedge and tree
Living wild and worry free.
And to get a heartfelt thrill
Standing on a heath clad hill
Letting your eyes inhale
A green and peaceful vale.
And the feeling of delight
On a cloudless star filled night
Watching the pale moon beam
On a rippling valley stream.
There are many people living in this city
Who than me deserve more pity
Who drink liquor for protection
Against loneliness and dejection
Who are cursed with the affliction
Of alcohol addiction
And each morning leave their bed
With sick stomach and aching head.
Here am I a shovel shover
Wormcutter, bar room lover
With an ear ache from the stammer
Of a rock splitting jackhammer.
And the foreman as usual roaring
And the work toilsome and boring
And my thoughts of heather mountains
Flower decked meads and sunlit fountains.
And get right out of here
But between happiness and me
Lay thousands of miles of sea.
Here am I feeling the pinch
Shovelling bits of rock and earth out of a trench
Amidst the humid heat and smoke
And the grimy dust that choke.
And that worthless gaffer Fred
Shouting down from overhead
Telling me to shed more sweat
Make my shirt a bit more wet.
The jackhammer spitting hate
Against the rock vibrate
And it's operator Dan
Is a fellow countryman.
Like me he feels the same
Sorry now he ever came
To work here under alien skies
Amidst man created smudge and noise.
The trembling jackhammer make
His hands and body shake
And the perspiration race
Adown his weary face.
He has more responsibility than I
As he has to support his wife and baby boy
And though his thoughts are often of green fields far away
It would seem that he is here to stay.
In pubs I spend my hours of leisure
Drinking is my only pleasure
And as I sit there drinking
Of the homeland I start thinking.
Then my thoughts return to childhood
To the moor, the vale and wildwood
And my nostalgic mind rejoices
To the thoughts of songbird voices.
Of an excited blackbird shrilling
And a redbreast robin trilling
And a skylark carolling sweet
High above the moorland heath.
And to my mind come ringing
The sound of finches singing
On leafy hedge and tree
Living wild and worry free.
And to get a heartfelt thrill
Standing on a heath clad hill
Letting your eyes inhale
A green and peaceful vale.
And the feeling of delight
On a cloudless star filled night
Watching the pale moon beam
On a rippling valley stream.
There are many people living in this city
Who than me deserve more pity
Who drink liquor for protection
Against loneliness and dejection
Who are cursed with the affliction
Of alcohol addiction
And each morning leave their bed
With sick stomach and aching head.
Here am I a shovel shover
Wormcutter, bar room lover
With an ear ache from the stammer
Of a rock splitting jackhammer.
And the foreman as usual roaring
And the work toilsome and boring
And my thoughts of heather mountains
Flower decked meads and sunlit fountains.
On Hearing A Blackbird Sing
The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To distant land and distant bygone day
In happy days the gold billed male bird sang
And green grove to his joyful music rang.
How come each time the blackbird's voice I hear
My thoughts go to the springtime of the year
The blackbird one of the earliest birds to sing
His pleasant notes a fanfare to the Spring.
A blackbird singing in the drizzling rain
Bring back nostalgia to me once again
And I am back in green woodland in May
And birds are singing on a bright Spring day.
To distant land and distant bygone day
In happy days the gold billed male bird sang
And green grove to his joyful music rang.
How come each time the blackbird's voice I hear
My thoughts go to the springtime of the year
The blackbird one of the earliest birds to sing
His pleasant notes a fanfare to the Spring.
A blackbird singing in the drizzling rain
Bring back nostalgia to me once again
And I am back in green woodland in May
And birds are singing on a bright Spring day.
Who Told The World
Who told the world my most precious secret I wonder who told them at all
Something that I feel so ashamed of that my ageing member is small
Is there anything that Big Brother does not know about us what many say of him is true
That even whilst in your locked bathroom he is near and spying on you?
Each day I keep getting these emails from business companies on a distant shore
Saying we will increase the length of your small member at least three inches or maybe four
Just for only one hundred dollars we will restore you to your prime
I wish they would pester someone else and leave me to old father time.
I never was a macho fellow I wish that they would leave me be
For not even god and all of his angels could now make a young stud out of me
It seems nice of them to take an interest in me and on my small private part
Yet I wish that they would not keep dwelling on a once secret dear to my heart.
We will give you rock hard erections for such now we have got the pill
And add inches to your small member and ours to you won't be a huge bill
But I did not ask them for their advice and I wish they'd stop pestering me
As I want to stay as nature made me and I want to grow old gracefully.
Something that I feel so ashamed of that my ageing member is small
Is there anything that Big Brother does not know about us what many say of him is true
That even whilst in your locked bathroom he is near and spying on you?
Each day I keep getting these emails from business companies on a distant shore
Saying we will increase the length of your small member at least three inches or maybe four
Just for only one hundred dollars we will restore you to your prime
I wish they would pester someone else and leave me to old father time.
I never was a macho fellow I wish that they would leave me be
For not even god and all of his angels could now make a young stud out of me
It seems nice of them to take an interest in me and on my small private part
Yet I wish that they would not keep dwelling on a once secret dear to my heart.
We will give you rock hard erections for such now we have got the pill
And add inches to your small member and ours to you won't be a huge bill
But I did not ask them for their advice and I wish they'd stop pestering me
As I want to stay as nature made me and I want to grow old gracefully.
Laments Of An Ill Starred Man
'Oh' I feel sad and lonely for life has done me wrong
My days are dull and dreary and my nights are cold and long
Once I was a happy man but now that seems long ago
And now life is a misery and my heart's full of woe.
I buried my wife Mary I watched them put her down
In that lonesome graveyard a mile east of the Town
She died and left me to take care of little Joe and Jane
Our twin babies I've not seen for years and may never meet again.
The people at the graveside stared at me in disbelief
It puzzled them that I was showing no outward sign of grief
But little did those people know the grief I felt within
A grief I somehow managed to keep hidden away from them.
I had our babes adopted there seemed no other way
A decision I regret even to this day
At that time I had little choice and though it grieved my heart
With the year old twins our marriage brought I forever did part.
Often times I awake at night in my wifeless bed
And often times in the darkness wish that god would strike me dead
For I have known misfortune and the sadder side of life
I've parted with my children and I've buried my poor wife.
But there are many others who have met it tough as I
Who will live a most unhappy life until the day they die
Who will only have the memories of a dearest one now dead
And see no hope of happiness in times that lay ahead.
My days are dull and dreary and my nights are cold and long
Once I was a happy man but now that seems long ago
And now life is a misery and my heart's full of woe.
I buried my wife Mary I watched them put her down
In that lonesome graveyard a mile east of the Town
She died and left me to take care of little Joe and Jane
Our twin babies I've not seen for years and may never meet again.
The people at the graveside stared at me in disbelief
It puzzled them that I was showing no outward sign of grief
But little did those people know the grief I felt within
A grief I somehow managed to keep hidden away from them.
I had our babes adopted there seemed no other way
A decision I regret even to this day
At that time I had little choice and though it grieved my heart
With the year old twins our marriage brought I forever did part.
Often times I awake at night in my wifeless bed
And often times in the darkness wish that god would strike me dead
For I have known misfortune and the sadder side of life
I've parted with my children and I've buried my poor wife.
But there are many others who have met it tough as I
Who will live a most unhappy life until the day they die
Who will only have the memories of a dearest one now dead
And see no hope of happiness in times that lay ahead.
We Are The Boys Of Wonthaggi
We are the boys of Wonthaggi the finest in Gippsland
And we are proud of who we are we'll have you understand
In football ovals through Gippsland we've carved our own renown
And when we lose we lose with pride and fighting we go down.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi in our town we take pride
And we feel we're a chosen race and god is on our side
We live as honest people do and we help you if we can
And I feel proud when someone say he's a Wonthaggi man.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi and we're proud of who we are
And to meet our very equals one would have to travel far
You can have your Sydneys and Melbournes Wonthaggi will do me
That beautiful old country Town down by the Gippsland sea.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi the pride of Gippsland south
And we're known as Wonthaggites for miles and miles about
We live as honest people do and we help you if we can
And I feel proud when someone say he's a Wonthaggi man.
And we are proud of who we are we'll have you understand
In football ovals through Gippsland we've carved our own renown
And when we lose we lose with pride and fighting we go down.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi in our town we take pride
And we feel we're a chosen race and god is on our side
We live as honest people do and we help you if we can
And I feel proud when someone say he's a Wonthaggi man.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi and we're proud of who we are
And to meet our very equals one would have to travel far
You can have your Sydneys and Melbournes Wonthaggi will do me
That beautiful old country Town down by the Gippsland sea.
We are the boys of Wonthaggi the pride of Gippsland south
And we're known as Wonthaggites for miles and miles about
We live as honest people do and we help you if we can
And I feel proud when someone say he's a Wonthaggi man.
You Will Hang In There
Your world all around you is crumbling and nothing for you is going right
And times on you getting much harder and life is a hard uphill fight
But it is not nor it won't be your last time that you've been at war with despair
And this time for you is no different I know that you will hang in there.
You hung in there the day your daughter Julie died and through her grief supported Julie's mother Anna your wife
And the day Anna this world departed you did not give up on your life
No you hung in there like the brave soldier who refuses to cower though under fire
And others see you as courageous and the bravery in you they admire.
The battles of life on you telling and the years on you starting to show
And you not a shadow of the man that you were three decades ago
You've carried life's crosses and sorrows and you've earned all of your gray hair
But you've proven you are not a quitter and when the going gets tough you hang in there.
If I knew the crosses that you'd known I think I would lay down and die
I don't think that I have it in me for to say I'll give life one more try
But you are one who is so noble you've battled the gods of despair
And though you don't feel well at present I know that you will hang in there.
And times on you getting much harder and life is a hard uphill fight
But it is not nor it won't be your last time that you've been at war with despair
And this time for you is no different I know that you will hang in there.
You hung in there the day your daughter Julie died and through her grief supported Julie's mother Anna your wife
And the day Anna this world departed you did not give up on your life
No you hung in there like the brave soldier who refuses to cower though under fire
And others see you as courageous and the bravery in you they admire.
The battles of life on you telling and the years on you starting to show
And you not a shadow of the man that you were three decades ago
You've carried life's crosses and sorrows and you've earned all of your gray hair
But you've proven you are not a quitter and when the going gets tough you hang in there.
If I knew the crosses that you'd known I think I would lay down and die
I don't think that I have it in me for to say I'll give life one more try
But you are one who is so noble you've battled the gods of despair
And though you don't feel well at present I know that you will hang in there.
Flagstaff Gardens Melbourne
The sweet perfume of roses waft in the evening breeze
And songbirds piping gaily on green and sunlit leaves
These Parklands of Melbourne of Garden State renown
Watered by the sprinklers in warm weather I've never seen them brown.
How nice for those who visit here on a warm summer's day
In the shadows of the high trees where it is cool they lay
The common mynas singing and the call of the magpie lark
Is echoing in the sunshine of Flagstaff Garden Park.
Out there on busy Spencer Street the trams pass up and down
Yet who'd believe there could be so much natural beauty in Victoria's busiest Town
At night when the city birds have gone to sleep the brush tail possums are out
On the walkways lit by the park lamps you see them walk about.
Here in Flagstaff Gardens parkland the mynas pipe and call
And a cool breeze is blowing as evening shadows fall
The nicest part of the day is before the sun goes down
Soft breezes and wild birds calling in park of Melbourne Town.
And songbirds piping gaily on green and sunlit leaves
These Parklands of Melbourne of Garden State renown
Watered by the sprinklers in warm weather I've never seen them brown.
How nice for those who visit here on a warm summer's day
In the shadows of the high trees where it is cool they lay
The common mynas singing and the call of the magpie lark
Is echoing in the sunshine of Flagstaff Garden Park.
Out there on busy Spencer Street the trams pass up and down
Yet who'd believe there could be so much natural beauty in Victoria's busiest Town
At night when the city birds have gone to sleep the brush tail possums are out
On the walkways lit by the park lamps you see them walk about.
Here in Flagstaff Gardens parkland the mynas pipe and call
And a cool breeze is blowing as evening shadows fall
The nicest part of the day is before the sun goes down
Soft breezes and wild birds calling in park of Melbourne Town.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Carol's Dad
Towards the end of his life he had suffered but of suffering he set himself free
And his final wish by his family was granted that his ashes be scattered at sea
Far north of this land he was born and far north of here he went to school
And maybe the ocean waves took him back home again to Liverpool.
He grew up beside the famed Mersey and in Liverpool he met his wife
And here in this southern country they grew old and lived out their life
And here in the land of the Dreamtime he worked hard to support his family
Far south of the green shores of England and his old hometown by the sea.
His daugther Carol McCoy is a singer and she has such a great singing voice
And everytime I hear her singing the joybells in my heart rejoice
She is such a warm hearted person and laughter comes to her easily
Her father remains as her role model she says he did so much for me.
She is such a beautiful songster her voice to it has a sweet ring
He would feel so proud of his daughter 'twould bring him joy to hear her sing
The audience always beg for an encore from Carol and their applause for her is prolonged and loud
And to know she makes others so happy would make him so happy and proud.
He was a good son of the Mersey and his soul will live forever more
And his ashes carried by the ocean currents may end up on his homeland shore
Remembered by everyone who knew him as one well worthy of recall
As one who was decent and generous and who believed in a fair go for all.
And his final wish by his family was granted that his ashes be scattered at sea
Far north of this land he was born and far north of here he went to school
And maybe the ocean waves took him back home again to Liverpool.
He grew up beside the famed Mersey and in Liverpool he met his wife
And here in this southern country they grew old and lived out their life
And here in the land of the Dreamtime he worked hard to support his family
Far south of the green shores of England and his old hometown by the sea.
His daugther Carol McCoy is a singer and she has such a great singing voice
And everytime I hear her singing the joybells in my heart rejoice
She is such a warm hearted person and laughter comes to her easily
Her father remains as her role model she says he did so much for me.
She is such a beautiful songster her voice to it has a sweet ring
He would feel so proud of his daughter 'twould bring him joy to hear her sing
The audience always beg for an encore from Carol and their applause for her is prolonged and loud
And to know she makes others so happy would make him so happy and proud.
He was a good son of the Mersey and his soul will live forever more
And his ashes carried by the ocean currents may end up on his homeland shore
Remembered by everyone who knew him as one well worthy of recall
As one who was decent and generous and who believed in a fair go for all.
I Always Yearn For What Once Was
I always yearn for what once was and cannot be again
And nostalgic memories of the past are all that with me remain
But were I to return to my old hometown a stranger there I'd be
The years have brought about great change and time has left it's mark on me.
Most of us migrants much the same we yearn for childhood years
Though time is running out on us and we too old for tears
The wanderlust in the young heart the far off hills are green
It is a bigger world out there and so much to be seen.
We did not have to leave our homeland shore like the poor refugees
The wanderlust was in our hearts and it we did appease
Yet wanderlust in it's own way is a sort of a disease
It compels people for to fly or sail to lands beyond the seas.
We quickly age and we grow old and time quickly ticks away
And we look back with nostalgia when the years have left us gray
Old Viki who came south from Greece she has known a better day
Oh give me back my youth again I often hear her say.
My thoughts go back to childhood years when I've had a few beers
But time for me too did not wait and I'm now too old for tears
Perhaps in this great southern land I'll live my final day
From the old town by Clara hill more than half a world away.
And nostalgic memories of the past are all that with me remain
But were I to return to my old hometown a stranger there I'd be
The years have brought about great change and time has left it's mark on me.
Most of us migrants much the same we yearn for childhood years
Though time is running out on us and we too old for tears
The wanderlust in the young heart the far off hills are green
It is a bigger world out there and so much to be seen.
We did not have to leave our homeland shore like the poor refugees
The wanderlust was in our hearts and it we did appease
Yet wanderlust in it's own way is a sort of a disease
It compels people for to fly or sail to lands beyond the seas.
We quickly age and we grow old and time quickly ticks away
And we look back with nostalgia when the years have left us gray
Old Viki who came south from Greece she has known a better day
Oh give me back my youth again I often hear her say.
My thoughts go back to childhood years when I've had a few beers
But time for me too did not wait and I'm now too old for tears
Perhaps in this great southern land I'll live my final day
From the old town by Clara hill more than half a world away.
To Fiona On Her Birthday
You are three years old Fiona at beginning of life's way
And I hope you had a good party and a wonderful birthday
Just a three year little lady and yet too young to know
That life's pathway isn't rosy thorns on life's pathway grow.
You come from good stock Fiona from a noble family tree
The Kellehers of Birkenhead Avenue a respected family
Born in the Lucky Country but still Irish to the core
As your roots came to Australia from that distant emerald shore.
Know your father Mick, Fiona he's a good fellow your dad
And we went to school together known him since I was a lad
He has always been a good friend truest friend I've ever had
And he's still the same Mick Kelleher in him not one ounce of bad.
And your mother Rose the Aussie from woman kind stand apart
She's a good and kindly woman she is blessed with a kind heart
And her ancestors came from Ireland so you've got Irish blood from either side
And you've got something to live up to and that's dignity and pride.
When I first saw you Fiona you were standing in bare feet
In your grand parents concrete back yard in Ireland near Millstreet
And methought there's one healthy girlie she will live to ripe old age
She will live way beyond eighty right up to life's final page.
My one wish for you Fiona is that you ever could
Remain as you are now in your innocent childhood
Free of guilt and guileless and unburdened by life's care
And happy as wild songbird when he pipes his merry air.
Happy birthday to you Fiona though the greeting may be late
It is better late than never though time and tide for no one wait
And I wish you lots of happy birthdays and my sincerest wish for you
Is that you'll get what you want most in life and may all of your dreams come true.
And I hope you had a good party and a wonderful birthday
Just a three year little lady and yet too young to know
That life's pathway isn't rosy thorns on life's pathway grow.
You come from good stock Fiona from a noble family tree
The Kellehers of Birkenhead Avenue a respected family
Born in the Lucky Country but still Irish to the core
As your roots came to Australia from that distant emerald shore.
Know your father Mick, Fiona he's a good fellow your dad
And we went to school together known him since I was a lad
He has always been a good friend truest friend I've ever had
And he's still the same Mick Kelleher in him not one ounce of bad.
And your mother Rose the Aussie from woman kind stand apart
She's a good and kindly woman she is blessed with a kind heart
And her ancestors came from Ireland so you've got Irish blood from either side
And you've got something to live up to and that's dignity and pride.
When I first saw you Fiona you were standing in bare feet
In your grand parents concrete back yard in Ireland near Millstreet
And methought there's one healthy girlie she will live to ripe old age
She will live way beyond eighty right up to life's final page.
My one wish for you Fiona is that you ever could
Remain as you are now in your innocent childhood
Free of guilt and guileless and unburdened by life's care
And happy as wild songbird when he pipes his merry air.
Happy birthday to you Fiona though the greeting may be late
It is better late than never though time and tide for no one wait
And I wish you lots of happy birthdays and my sincerest wish for you
Is that you'll get what you want most in life and may all of your dreams come true.
Work Weary Man
This shovelling concrete is a bore
I feel tired can't take much more
All this working like a slave
Will ge me an early grave.
My time has come to quit
I have had enough of it
I and hard work don't agree
Shovelling concrete is too hard for me.
That pig headed foreman shouting
Day after day he's mouthing
The man doesn't know where to stop
He would drive you till you drop.
The manager has made it clear
He doesn't want workers union here
Says unions commit the sin
Of spoiling working men.
I will give notice today
And on friday draw my weeks back pay
Give my bones a rest from toil
And take it easy for awhile.
I feel tired can't take much more
All this working like a slave
Will ge me an early grave.
My time has come to quit
I have had enough of it
I and hard work don't agree
Shovelling concrete is too hard for me.
That pig headed foreman shouting
Day after day he's mouthing
The man doesn't know where to stop
He would drive you till you drop.
The manager has made it clear
He doesn't want workers union here
Says unions commit the sin
Of spoiling working men.
I will give notice today
And on friday draw my weeks back pay
Give my bones a rest from toil
And take it easy for awhile.
I Did Feel Like Giving Up On Writing
I did feel like giving up on writing all chances of fame and glory gone
But a tiny voice whispered within me I feel that you ought to go on
Tomorrow you may write your best verses and your gifts you should never deny
So just keep on keeping on mister right up till the day that you die.
No you should never give up writing despite your lack of wealth and fame
Not everybody can be famous and have people honour their name
You write a song to Mother Nature the birds and the flowers and the bees
The sound that the wind makes on wild days as it soughs it's way through the trees.
You write of the creek that flows to the river and the river that flows to the sea
Out there in Mother Nature's garden there is so much beauty to see
You write of the natural beauty and Mother Nature glorify
You tell her how much that you love her the lark sings for her in the sky.
You write of the poor and the lonely the forsaken mother and wife
Her husband has left her for another and she knows about the hard life
For some people life far from easy our destiny beyond our control
But do not give up on your verses for why would you wish to starve your soul.
I did feel like giving up on writing till a tiny voice within me said
Tomorrow you may pen your best verses and your better days may be ahead
And the tiny voice it inspires me to write something new every day
So I will write on till the finish why should I give writing away?
But a tiny voice whispered within me I feel that you ought to go on
Tomorrow you may write your best verses and your gifts you should never deny
So just keep on keeping on mister right up till the day that you die.
No you should never give up writing despite your lack of wealth and fame
Not everybody can be famous and have people honour their name
You write a song to Mother Nature the birds and the flowers and the bees
The sound that the wind makes on wild days as it soughs it's way through the trees.
You write of the creek that flows to the river and the river that flows to the sea
Out there in Mother Nature's garden there is so much beauty to see
You write of the natural beauty and Mother Nature glorify
You tell her how much that you love her the lark sings for her in the sky.
You write of the poor and the lonely the forsaken mother and wife
Her husband has left her for another and she knows about the hard life
For some people life far from easy our destiny beyond our control
But do not give up on your verses for why would you wish to starve your soul.
I did feel like giving up on writing till a tiny voice within me said
Tomorrow you may pen your best verses and your better days may be ahead
And the tiny voice it inspires me to write something new every day
So I will write on till the finish why should I give writing away?
Where The Powlett Flows Down To The sea
The lark he rise above the rank scrub and he carols as upward he fly
And as he ascends he grows smaller till he disappears in the sky
And in the quiet of the mid morning his song seems so peaceful to me
In that old brown and beautiful country where the Powlett flows down to the sea.
The old brown hills above Kilcunda must be old as old father time
By South West Gippsland of the Bunurong the bards have been inspired to rhyme
They overlook the flat and wide paddocks where the extinct thylacine once did range free
And where the Powlett will flow on forever on it's journey down to the sea.
Where the Bunurong danced their corroborees long before the white people came
And changed the countryside forever but suppose nothing does stay the same
On those hills were many eucalypt and wattles but the pioneers removed every tree
Yet old Powlett slowly flow onwards on it's journey down to the sea.
The magpie on a wattle is piping his song one could never mistake
The loud quacking of the wild black duck the softer quacking of the drake
A rugged land full of wild beauty and beauty is all I can see
Between Dalyston and Kilcunda where the Powlett flows down to the sea.
And as he ascends he grows smaller till he disappears in the sky
And in the quiet of the mid morning his song seems so peaceful to me
In that old brown and beautiful country where the Powlett flows down to the sea.
The old brown hills above Kilcunda must be old as old father time
By South West Gippsland of the Bunurong the bards have been inspired to rhyme
They overlook the flat and wide paddocks where the extinct thylacine once did range free
And where the Powlett will flow on forever on it's journey down to the sea.
Where the Bunurong danced their corroborees long before the white people came
And changed the countryside forever but suppose nothing does stay the same
On those hills were many eucalypt and wattles but the pioneers removed every tree
Yet old Powlett slowly flow onwards on it's journey down to the sea.
The magpie on a wattle is piping his song one could never mistake
The loud quacking of the wild black duck the softer quacking of the drake
A rugged land full of wild beauty and beauty is all I can see
Between Dalyston and Kilcunda where the Powlett flows down to the sea.
Lines On Overhearing Two Boys Arguing Over Their Dads
first boy
My dad is better than your dad better in every way
He's working in a better job and he earns a better pay
My dad will soon be manager he's heading for the top
And your dad's near the bottom and further down he'll drop.
Second boy
Your dad may soon be manager but your dad is a snob
And you are just a braggart mouth to boast about his job
My dad is no intellectual but he works hard for his bread
And I am better clad than you and I look better fed.
first boy
Of my dad's successful career I feel obliged to talk
My dad he drives a rolls to work whilst your's to the train walk
And if you think you look better dressed and better fed than me
Then each time you look in the mirror must be someone else you see.
second boy
So your dad drives a rolls royce to work but that doesn't mean he's great
My dad's a better man than him and worth more to the State,
My dad works hard for his livelihood and your dad lacks in pride
Whilst others sweat to earn their bread he sits on his backside.
first boy
So you say that my dad's a lazy man from insult please refrain
My dad he does the hardest work he works hard with his brain
And I feel proud of what he's achieved and there's none so great as he
And by you trying to belittle him proof of your jealousy.
second boy
You speak of insult and jealousy but the jealous one is you
My dad works harder than your dad and you know that is true
You are jealous of my father and we don't see eye to eye
And I've got football training in an hour and so I've got to say goodbye.
My dad is better than your dad better in every way
He's working in a better job and he earns a better pay
My dad will soon be manager he's heading for the top
And your dad's near the bottom and further down he'll drop.
Second boy
Your dad may soon be manager but your dad is a snob
And you are just a braggart mouth to boast about his job
My dad is no intellectual but he works hard for his bread
And I am better clad than you and I look better fed.
first boy
Of my dad's successful career I feel obliged to talk
My dad he drives a rolls to work whilst your's to the train walk
And if you think you look better dressed and better fed than me
Then each time you look in the mirror must be someone else you see.
second boy
So your dad drives a rolls royce to work but that doesn't mean he's great
My dad's a better man than him and worth more to the State,
My dad works hard for his livelihood and your dad lacks in pride
Whilst others sweat to earn their bread he sits on his backside.
first boy
So you say that my dad's a lazy man from insult please refrain
My dad he does the hardest work he works hard with his brain
And I feel proud of what he's achieved and there's none so great as he
And by you trying to belittle him proof of your jealousy.
second boy
You speak of insult and jealousy but the jealous one is you
My dad works harder than your dad and you know that is true
You are jealous of my father and we don't see eye to eye
And I've got football training in an hour and so I've got to say goodbye.
The Clara News
It started as a newsletter and it's readership was small
And when the Clara News was born to life offhand I can't recall
Perhaps in the mid sixties but what year I do not know
The babe back then now past his prime it seems so long ago.
The Clara News has come of age and it's now read far and wide
And it's editor Denis Reardon on his achievement can take pride
The newsletter he helped to launch to a magazine has grown
And in every corner of the globe the Clara News is known.
The Dromtarriffe mother sends it to her son in the U S of A
At the arrival of each issue he even know the day
He will return home next Spring perhaps this time to stay
When the fields of old Duhallow bloom beautiful in May.
And the Cullen mother sends it to her daughter in Australia far away
She lives in northern New South Wales in sunny Byron Bay
And though her children are Australian and Australia her new home
The old feelings of nostalgia she has not fully outgrown.
John O Brien from Ballydaly wrote for the Clara News
And his neighbour John O Regan also published his views
And the main news from Cullen supplied by Noreen Meade
Duhallow's leading magazine is always good to read.
Of the happenings in Cloghoula Mrs Eily Buckley wrote
And amongst her great achievements she is a well known poet
And news from Aubane by Noreen Kelleher to so many bring joy
Her home from home is by Mushera hill ten miles from Lisnaboy.
Sean Radley for years the backbone of the Millstreet Museum Society
As a historical preserver there is none so great as he
A well respected person in that Town by Clara hill
He used to write for The Clara News I wonder does he still?
Willie Neenan wrote on athletics he was a great athlete
When in his prime four decades back he was the one to beat
A world silver medallist he still competes today
It's true old soldiers never die they merely fade away.
John Tarrant wrote on soccer as well as the G A A
Though Millstreet teams are not as good as Millstreet in by gone day
But it's the likes of John who keep alive what is a flickering flame
And for his effort he deserve perhaps a better fame.
Anne Casey wrote on greyhounds how the Millstreet speedsters fared
With the people of the Parish local successes she shared
She was born into greyhounds Paddy Casey was her dad
And her love of the fastest canines far more than a passing fad.
The late Maurice Murray O Callaghan of the Corkman and of Millstreet Items fame
And Colman Culhane and Jerry Doody have news columns to their name
And for Dromtariffe Donie Lucey give of his time unselfishly
And the news from old Kilcorney from the pen of K C C.
Christy Fitz and Bobby Evans for Clara News did write
And Michael Dennehy and Sean O Riordan if memory serves me right
And there were many others who offhand I can't recall
For my memory at times doesn't seem to serve me well at all.
I last received a copy of the Clara News in nineteen eighty nine
It was sent to me from Millstreet Town from an old friend of mine
And that copy which came all of the way from land beyond the sea
Is still in my possession as a treasured memory.
It started as a newsletter and it's readership was small
And when the Clara News was born to life offhand I can't recall
Perhaps back in the mid sixties that tiny seed was sown
And the simple two page newsletter to a magazine has grown.
And when the Clara News was born to life offhand I can't recall
Perhaps in the mid sixties but what year I do not know
The babe back then now past his prime it seems so long ago.
The Clara News has come of age and it's now read far and wide
And it's editor Denis Reardon on his achievement can take pride
The newsletter he helped to launch to a magazine has grown
And in every corner of the globe the Clara News is known.
The Dromtarriffe mother sends it to her son in the U S of A
At the arrival of each issue he even know the day
He will return home next Spring perhaps this time to stay
When the fields of old Duhallow bloom beautiful in May.
And the Cullen mother sends it to her daughter in Australia far away
She lives in northern New South Wales in sunny Byron Bay
And though her children are Australian and Australia her new home
The old feelings of nostalgia she has not fully outgrown.
John O Brien from Ballydaly wrote for the Clara News
And his neighbour John O Regan also published his views
And the main news from Cullen supplied by Noreen Meade
Duhallow's leading magazine is always good to read.
Of the happenings in Cloghoula Mrs Eily Buckley wrote
And amongst her great achievements she is a well known poet
And news from Aubane by Noreen Kelleher to so many bring joy
Her home from home is by Mushera hill ten miles from Lisnaboy.
Sean Radley for years the backbone of the Millstreet Museum Society
As a historical preserver there is none so great as he
A well respected person in that Town by Clara hill
He used to write for The Clara News I wonder does he still?
Willie Neenan wrote on athletics he was a great athlete
When in his prime four decades back he was the one to beat
A world silver medallist he still competes today
It's true old soldiers never die they merely fade away.
John Tarrant wrote on soccer as well as the G A A
Though Millstreet teams are not as good as Millstreet in by gone day
But it's the likes of John who keep alive what is a flickering flame
And for his effort he deserve perhaps a better fame.
Anne Casey wrote on greyhounds how the Millstreet speedsters fared
With the people of the Parish local successes she shared
She was born into greyhounds Paddy Casey was her dad
And her love of the fastest canines far more than a passing fad.
The late Maurice Murray O Callaghan of the Corkman and of Millstreet Items fame
And Colman Culhane and Jerry Doody have news columns to their name
And for Dromtariffe Donie Lucey give of his time unselfishly
And the news from old Kilcorney from the pen of K C C.
Christy Fitz and Bobby Evans for Clara News did write
And Michael Dennehy and Sean O Riordan if memory serves me right
And there were many others who offhand I can't recall
For my memory at times doesn't seem to serve me well at all.
I last received a copy of the Clara News in nineteen eighty nine
It was sent to me from Millstreet Town from an old friend of mine
And that copy which came all of the way from land beyond the sea
Is still in my possession as a treasured memory.
It started as a newsletter and it's readership was small
And when the Clara News was born to life offhand I can't recall
Perhaps back in the mid sixties that tiny seed was sown
And the simple two page newsletter to a magazine has grown.
All I Ask For
All I wish for is an equal World where everyone prosper and thrive
Where people don't die of malnutrition or have to struggle to survive
The wealthy just keep getting wealthier the majority of the World's wealth controlled by the few
That all are created equal in god's eyes I never did believe was true.
I feel god by wealthy people was manufactured for to give the poor battlers hope
A god they can turn to when in trouble when they find it so hard to cope
With the stress of day to day living when the young mother finds her food cupboard bare
Without food for to feed her children for help to her god she offers a prayer.
But of course her god does not heed her and a miracle for her he does not perform
Her prayers on deaf ears they have fallen like shouting for help in a storm
Her husband with another woman and she and her two young children for food have to wait
Until after 9 a m tomorrow when she receives her pittance from the State.
All I wish for is a more equal World but such I will not live for to see
The wealthy they just keep getting wealthier in a World of so much poverty
And god for the poor is a last hope yet when to him for help they pray
He does not come to their assistance or give them help in any way.
Where people don't die of malnutrition or have to struggle to survive
The wealthy just keep getting wealthier the majority of the World's wealth controlled by the few
That all are created equal in god's eyes I never did believe was true.
I feel god by wealthy people was manufactured for to give the poor battlers hope
A god they can turn to when in trouble when they find it so hard to cope
With the stress of day to day living when the young mother finds her food cupboard bare
Without food for to feed her children for help to her god she offers a prayer.
But of course her god does not heed her and a miracle for her he does not perform
Her prayers on deaf ears they have fallen like shouting for help in a storm
Her husband with another woman and she and her two young children for food have to wait
Until after 9 a m tomorrow when she receives her pittance from the State.
All I wish for is a more equal World but such I will not live for to see
The wealthy they just keep getting wealthier in a World of so much poverty
And god for the poor is a last hope yet when to him for help they pray
He does not come to their assistance or give them help in any way.
Hilaire Belloc
Born in a Village near Paris in eighteen seventy and he went to the reaper in nineteen fifty three
And in his most amazing life he was for awhile a British M P
But it is mostly as a great writer that he is remembered today
He may be dead for half of a century but his genius with us will stay.
He had feelings and he had humor he was everybodys poet
At poetry readings and literary gatherings lines from him young writers quote
A down to earth sort of a fellow though he scaled the heights of literary fame
One of literatures great characters Hilaire Belloc was his name.
He lampooned the upper classes which hurt his literary career
Yet in death the fame of Hilaire Belloc is growing a little every year
In his cautionary tales and children verses mirth and humor does abound
Amongst the humorists of literature better than him not to be found.
Hilaire Belloc still a legend his works don't have a use by date
In the annals of prose and poetry he lives as an all time great
One of the great writers of his era in literarure's golden time
And known to be as great as any when he was in his literary prime.
And in his most amazing life he was for awhile a British M P
But it is mostly as a great writer that he is remembered today
He may be dead for half of a century but his genius with us will stay.
He had feelings and he had humor he was everybodys poet
At poetry readings and literary gatherings lines from him young writers quote
A down to earth sort of a fellow though he scaled the heights of literary fame
One of literatures great characters Hilaire Belloc was his name.
He lampooned the upper classes which hurt his literary career
Yet in death the fame of Hilaire Belloc is growing a little every year
In his cautionary tales and children verses mirth and humor does abound
Amongst the humorists of literature better than him not to be found.
Hilaire Belloc still a legend his works don't have a use by date
In the annals of prose and poetry he lives as an all time great
One of the great writers of his era in literarure's golden time
And known to be as great as any when he was in his literary prime.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
I Won't Be Watching The Oscars
Instead of the night of the Oscars it should be called the night of conceit
Where the big stars of the blockbuster movies with each other for attention compete
The gowns and suits they wear worth thousands of dollars their physical beauty on display
They may be glamorous and very wealthy people but their values are in decay.
These people have a falseness about them they are tainted by wealth and fame
Yet perhaps if I were as successful I too like them would be the same
I would have face lifts and wear makeup and change the natural colour of my hair
But an old car it cannot be made new though it's engine you often repair.
I don't tune in to the night of the Oscars for the Oscars don't appeal to me
Though millions of people all over the world sit and watch it on the t v
Perhaps I am rather old fashioned but these people to me don't appeal
They do not seem to live in a real world but then I ask you what is real?
I won't be watching the Oscars on the t v over such a thing I do not lose sleep
I am a strange one in my own way I don't follow on like the sheep
These people may be wealthy and famous but their sense of values in a mess
And the most of them very unhappy for money doesn't buy happiness.
Where the big stars of the blockbuster movies with each other for attention compete
The gowns and suits they wear worth thousands of dollars their physical beauty on display
They may be glamorous and very wealthy people but their values are in decay.
These people have a falseness about them they are tainted by wealth and fame
Yet perhaps if I were as successful I too like them would be the same
I would have face lifts and wear makeup and change the natural colour of my hair
But an old car it cannot be made new though it's engine you often repair.
I don't tune in to the night of the Oscars for the Oscars don't appeal to me
Though millions of people all over the world sit and watch it on the t v
Perhaps I am rather old fashioned but these people to me don't appeal
They do not seem to live in a real world but then I ask you what is real?
I won't be watching the Oscars on the t v over such a thing I do not lose sleep
I am a strange one in my own way I don't follow on like the sheep
These people may be wealthy and famous but their sense of values in a mess
And the most of them very unhappy for money doesn't buy happiness.
The Laws Of Nature
In the lonely wood of Clara orange breast robin pipes his song
A warning to all Clara robins 'that this here space to me belong'
And neighbour cock robin listen and the message is understood
Of old cocky himself master at the corner of the wood.
Every morning of the Spring time from branch of tall larch tree
He utter forth a warning in a song like melody
As if to say 'hey neighbour robin stay clear of my boundary'
For if you venture across my border blood will be spilt needlessly.
Even in the wilds of the wild kingdom all creatures are not wholly free
Some are bound by law of Nature to stay in one territory
And like us mortal humans they fall out and disagree
And they wage war on each other and for the loser it's die or flee.
In the lonely wood of Clara on this bright morning in May
Orange breast robin pipes his warning 'keep away oh keep away'
Keep away ye other robins from my wife and family
Dare ye venture across my border this acre belong to me.
A warning to all Clara robins 'that this here space to me belong'
And neighbour cock robin listen and the message is understood
Of old cocky himself master at the corner of the wood.
Every morning of the Spring time from branch of tall larch tree
He utter forth a warning in a song like melody
As if to say 'hey neighbour robin stay clear of my boundary'
For if you venture across my border blood will be spilt needlessly.
Even in the wilds of the wild kingdom all creatures are not wholly free
Some are bound by law of Nature to stay in one territory
And like us mortal humans they fall out and disagree
And they wage war on each other and for the loser it's die or flee.
In the lonely wood of Clara on this bright morning in May
Orange breast robin pipes his warning 'keep away oh keep away'
Keep away ye other robins from my wife and family
Dare ye venture across my border this acre belong to me.
The Winners Write The History
That the winners write the war histories should not be the case
For war is a tragedy a human disgrace
And the losers in war see their country destoyed
And the war history never written by the losing side.
Look at Oliver Cromwell victorious in war
The deeds of his glory from England known far
But those who write on Cromwell they never do tell
Of one who for poor people made life earthly hell.
To the Catholics of Ireland Cromwell was a brute
The poor rural peasants he did persecute
Yet streets in his honour distant from England today
The winners only write the history so true what they say.
Efrain Rios Montt became President of Guatemala even though he
Was guilty of serious crimes against humanity
An old man now but for his crimes yet to pay
The winners write the history it's always been that way.
Augusto Pinochet in Chile has blood on his hands
And that he may die a free man seems hard to understand
And though loathed by many in Chile for his crimes of shame
The winners write the history and their's is the fame.
I've just mentioned a few for there are many more
Who have committed crimes against humanity but like it has been said before
That the winners write the history and that's how 'twill remain
And the mistakes of the past are repeated again.
For war is a tragedy a human disgrace
And the losers in war see their country destoyed
And the war history never written by the losing side.
Look at Oliver Cromwell victorious in war
The deeds of his glory from England known far
But those who write on Cromwell they never do tell
Of one who for poor people made life earthly hell.
To the Catholics of Ireland Cromwell was a brute
The poor rural peasants he did persecute
Yet streets in his honour distant from England today
The winners only write the history so true what they say.
Efrain Rios Montt became President of Guatemala even though he
Was guilty of serious crimes against humanity
An old man now but for his crimes yet to pay
The winners write the history it's always been that way.
Augusto Pinochet in Chile has blood on his hands
And that he may die a free man seems hard to understand
And though loathed by many in Chile for his crimes of shame
The winners write the history and their's is the fame.
I've just mentioned a few for there are many more
Who have committed crimes against humanity but like it has been said before
That the winners write the history and that's how 'twill remain
And the mistakes of the past are repeated again.
Jude From Koonwarra
Jude from Koonwarra is beyond her prime
She is in her late thirties and like they say time
Doesn't wait for any woman or for any man
And three score and ten the average human life span.
She gave birth to one daughter the blond haired Kareen
Last year in September she turned nineteen
She now lives in Melbourne where she works for Myer
A two hours drive from Koonwarra in the South Gippsland Shire.
Jude from Koonwarra she is a divorcee
She doesn't have a man for to cook him his tea
Last year her husband left her for one of twenty four
Stories such as this we've often heard of before.
Jude from Koonwarra gray through her brown hair
She never uses hair dye or makeup doesn't wear
Yet she looks rather lovely and she ages naturally
And one can say of her that she is what you see.
Jude from Koonwarra will give love one more try
Once bitten to her doesn't mean twice shy
Like many she hopes for to meet her soul mate
And for Mr Right she is prepared for to wait.
She is in her late thirties and like they say time
Doesn't wait for any woman or for any man
And three score and ten the average human life span.
She gave birth to one daughter the blond haired Kareen
Last year in September she turned nineteen
She now lives in Melbourne where she works for Myer
A two hours drive from Koonwarra in the South Gippsland Shire.
Jude from Koonwarra she is a divorcee
She doesn't have a man for to cook him his tea
Last year her husband left her for one of twenty four
Stories such as this we've often heard of before.
Jude from Koonwarra gray through her brown hair
She never uses hair dye or makeup doesn't wear
Yet she looks rather lovely and she ages naturally
And one can say of her that she is what you see.
Jude from Koonwarra will give love one more try
Once bitten to her doesn't mean twice shy
Like many she hopes for to meet her soul mate
And for Mr Right she is prepared for to wait.
On The Banks Of The Yarra
On it's way to Melbourne through many a bush town
The banks of the Yarra look sunbaked and brown
On through dry and bare paddocks on towards the sea shore
Where it has flowed forever and will flow forever more.
On the banks of the Yarra I met an old bloke
In the shade of a gum tree he enjoyed a smoke
He puffed on his fag as he looked at the sky
Saying the day is so warm and the ground is so dry.
He looked across the paddock so dry and so bare
Saying there is not enough fodder for a fire to live there
And then he pointed towards Melbourne saying look at the gray
The smog clouds are full of pollution today.
He had lived near the Yarra since he was a boy
This nuggety old fellow silver haired and shy
His brown wrinkled face seemed the worst for sun wear
Yet he did seem like one who did not have a care.
On the banks of the Yarra he bade me goodbye
Saying I'm off to the pub mate my throat's feeling dry
And the bright summer's sun aggravated my eyes
And the air it was full of the buzzing of flies.
The banks of the Yarra look sunbaked and brown
On through dry and bare paddocks on towards the sea shore
Where it has flowed forever and will flow forever more.
On the banks of the Yarra I met an old bloke
In the shade of a gum tree he enjoyed a smoke
He puffed on his fag as he looked at the sky
Saying the day is so warm and the ground is so dry.
He looked across the paddock so dry and so bare
Saying there is not enough fodder for a fire to live there
And then he pointed towards Melbourne saying look at the gray
The smog clouds are full of pollution today.
He had lived near the Yarra since he was a boy
This nuggety old fellow silver haired and shy
His brown wrinkled face seemed the worst for sun wear
Yet he did seem like one who did not have a care.
On the banks of the Yarra he bade me goodbye
Saying I'm off to the pub mate my throat's feeling dry
And the bright summer's sun aggravated my eyes
And the air it was full of the buzzing of flies.
We Are Near Life's Finish Line
I feel happy for you mister on your huge superannuation payout
You've earned it so you can relax that's what life should be about
You and your wife can dine out better now and drink more expensive wine
Yet you and I only one thing in common share we are near life's finish line.
You tell me you worked as an engineer for the local council and you earned good take home pay
But you had to provide for and raise five children that's life or so they say
Still others on less than half of your wages raise their big family
And many must live till the day they die in abject poverty.
I do wish you well mister may your retirement years be great
Though you I won't be out golfing with and I'll never be your mate
You are just a well dressed fellow with your wife walking in the park
Though your dog doesn't seem to like me and at me he always bark.
Our lifestyles seem very different but that can be said of most
And I won't be there on your birthday for your happy birthday toast
But we share one thing in common with the vegetarian kine
The reaper for us is waiting as we are near life's finish line.
You've earned it so you can relax that's what life should be about
You and your wife can dine out better now and drink more expensive wine
Yet you and I only one thing in common share we are near life's finish line.
You tell me you worked as an engineer for the local council and you earned good take home pay
But you had to provide for and raise five children that's life or so they say
Still others on less than half of your wages raise their big family
And many must live till the day they die in abject poverty.
I do wish you well mister may your retirement years be great
Though you I won't be out golfing with and I'll never be your mate
You are just a well dressed fellow with your wife walking in the park
Though your dog doesn't seem to like me and at me he always bark.
Our lifestyles seem very different but that can be said of most
And I won't be there on your birthday for your happy birthday toast
But we share one thing in common with the vegetarian kine
The reaper for us is waiting as we are near life's finish line.
The Poor Unhappy Young Woman
The poor unhappy young woman doesn't life seem so unfair
She owns her own big company her dad's a billionaire
But the love ache that is in her heart will take time to repair
Her lover he has left her he has found love elsewhere.
She found out he had been unfaithful to her and an argument ensued
And he merely walked out on her left her in a shattered mood
Whilst she grieves for a lost love his new found passion he enjoy
The bond of trust is broken and trust money cannot buy.
Some men prove so unfaithful and their women they deceive
And some women for a lost love for months on end will grieve
And the ache of love has been known to last for months and even years
And the wealthy young business woman by love has been reduced to tears.
The poor unhappy young woman is financially secure
In some ways she is very wealthy and in other ways quite poor
She is grieving for a lost love one to her who was untrue
Whilst he enjoys the passion of making love to someone new.
She owns her own big company her dad's a billionaire
But the love ache that is in her heart will take time to repair
Her lover he has left her he has found love elsewhere.
She found out he had been unfaithful to her and an argument ensued
And he merely walked out on her left her in a shattered mood
Whilst she grieves for a lost love his new found passion he enjoy
The bond of trust is broken and trust money cannot buy.
Some men prove so unfaithful and their women they deceive
And some women for a lost love for months on end will grieve
And the ache of love has been known to last for months and even years
And the wealthy young business woman by love has been reduced to tears.
The poor unhappy young woman is financially secure
In some ways she is very wealthy and in other ways quite poor
She is grieving for a lost love one to her who was untrue
Whilst he enjoys the passion of making love to someone new.
You Know Who Your Friends Are
If the radiator is boiling and you've got a sick car
And the sun blazes so hot it boils the roadway tar
And you are stuck by the highway and from home you are far
It's in moments like these you know who your friends are.
Some people ignore you as they are driving by
If you were dying on the road side they'd leave you to die
You raise your hand for them to stop but they don't look your way
The karma that your's will be theirs too one day.
And others whilst driving by laughing at you
When you are in trouble your friends are so few
And when you show them you're angry they laugh all the more
What goes around will come around you've heard that before.
But one fellow stops in a shabby old van
And he introduces himself to you saying I will help you man
And to tow you to the nearest garage he goes out of his way
And for his act of kindness he will not accept pay.
Your car radiator boiling and you are in despair
And motorists drive by leaving you standing there
But one stops to help you in a shabby old car
When you are in trouble you know who your friends are.
And the sun blazes so hot it boils the roadway tar
And you are stuck by the highway and from home you are far
It's in moments like these you know who your friends are.
Some people ignore you as they are driving by
If you were dying on the road side they'd leave you to die
You raise your hand for them to stop but they don't look your way
The karma that your's will be theirs too one day.
And others whilst driving by laughing at you
When you are in trouble your friends are so few
And when you show them you're angry they laugh all the more
What goes around will come around you've heard that before.
But one fellow stops in a shabby old van
And he introduces himself to you saying I will help you man
And to tow you to the nearest garage he goes out of his way
And for his act of kindness he will not accept pay.
Your car radiator boiling and you are in despair
And motorists drive by leaving you standing there
But one stops to help you in a shabby old car
When you are in trouble you know who your friends are.
A Man In His Seventies
It's obvious that he has known a better day
The hopes that he had are now fading away
Of going home to Scotland his homeland for to die
To the vale by the hill where he lived as a boy.
A man without kin here without wife or child
For years in the big city buildings he toiled
His home and life savings a con man from him stole
And his present circumstance beyond his control.
He can't go back to Scotland as he doesn't have the fare
And anyway now he'd be a stranger there
Yet in fancy he stand by the babbling stream
And the song of the dipper he hear in his dream.
The wanderlust in him when he was nineteen
He left the old highlands and he has not seen
His old home by the hill for thirty years or more
And he won't be returning to Scotland's green shore.
A man in his seventies gaunt looking and gray
His old home in the highlands from here far away
Ripped off by a con man and in his old age he's poor
And he should now be happy and financially secure.
The hopes that he had are now fading away
Of going home to Scotland his homeland for to die
To the vale by the hill where he lived as a boy.
A man without kin here without wife or child
For years in the big city buildings he toiled
His home and life savings a con man from him stole
And his present circumstance beyond his control.
He can't go back to Scotland as he doesn't have the fare
And anyway now he'd be a stranger there
Yet in fancy he stand by the babbling stream
And the song of the dipper he hear in his dream.
The wanderlust in him when he was nineteen
He left the old highlands and he has not seen
His old home by the hill for thirty years or more
And he won't be returning to Scotland's green shore.
A man in his seventies gaunt looking and gray
His old home in the highlands from here far away
Ripped off by a con man and in his old age he's poor
And he should now be happy and financially secure.
Don't Talk To Me Of Johnny Howard
Don't talk to me of Johnny Howard of him I do not wish to hear
My feelings on that fellow to you I already have made clear
It is not to discuss politics or politicians that ever bring me here
But to unwind and relax and enjoy a cold beer.
Don't worry about Johnny Howard he is not worrying about you
About the working class or working kind that bloke doesn't give a chew
The upper middle to the wealthy class are all he care about
Don't worry about politics enjoy your glass of stout.
Don't talk to me of politics politicians I don't trust
The rich get rich the poor get poor do you feel that is just?
Don't talk to me of Johnny Howard the bloke he has had eight years
To rid this land of poverty yet he only preys upon our fears
Your Coalition Government only talk of war on terrorism and border security
And favour the rich at the expense of the poor and jail every boat refugee
In this underpopulated land of plenty there should not be poverty
Go waste your precious vote on Howard but of him don't talk to me.
Don't talk to me of politics and least of all John Howard
You can judge the people so they say by the one they have empowered
And if the government we've got is our only hope then that for us says it all
Our dreams for this great country to say the least seem small.
Don't talk to me of politics I wish to drink in peace
I came in here for to relax and from cares to find release
Politicians retire on huge pensions they are of the privileged few
And they do not waste their energy on thinking of me and you.
My feelings on that fellow to you I already have made clear
It is not to discuss politics or politicians that ever bring me here
But to unwind and relax and enjoy a cold beer.
Don't worry about Johnny Howard he is not worrying about you
About the working class or working kind that bloke doesn't give a chew
The upper middle to the wealthy class are all he care about
Don't worry about politics enjoy your glass of stout.
Don't talk to me of politics politicians I don't trust
The rich get rich the poor get poor do you feel that is just?
Don't talk to me of Johnny Howard the bloke he has had eight years
To rid this land of poverty yet he only preys upon our fears
Your Coalition Government only talk of war on terrorism and border security
And favour the rich at the expense of the poor and jail every boat refugee
In this underpopulated land of plenty there should not be poverty
Go waste your precious vote on Howard but of him don't talk to me.
Don't talk to me of politics and least of all John Howard
You can judge the people so they say by the one they have empowered
And if the government we've got is our only hope then that for us says it all
Our dreams for this great country to say the least seem small.
Don't talk to me of politics I wish to drink in peace
I came in here for to relax and from cares to find release
Politicians retire on huge pensions they are of the privileged few
And they do not waste their energy on thinking of me and you.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Shy Young Gippsland Poet
I know this poet in Gippsland and she is one who writes rather well
But she must live with the disappointment that her poems she cannot even sell
Perhaps I would understand it were her verses doggerel
But her poems are things of great beauty blooming like flowers of the dell.
I could come up with a reason for her lack of poetical success
She is a very shy person and others do not try to impress
She doesn't read at poetry gatherings she is not of the in crowd
Things for her might be quite different were she more haughty and proud.
It would be an understatement if I did not say that I was not surprised
That one with such a rare talent as a poet not recognized
In a World of self promotion herself she does not promote
And so few sing the praises of the shy young Gippsland poet.
A dark haired young Gippsland poetess and quite lovely to behold
And her poems things of great beauty yet her books remain unsold
She is shackled by her inhibitions far too sensitive and shy
She is not one of the in crowd and success has passed her by.
But she must live with the disappointment that her poems she cannot even sell
Perhaps I would understand it were her verses doggerel
But her poems are things of great beauty blooming like flowers of the dell.
I could come up with a reason for her lack of poetical success
She is a very shy person and others do not try to impress
She doesn't read at poetry gatherings she is not of the in crowd
Things for her might be quite different were she more haughty and proud.
It would be an understatement if I did not say that I was not surprised
That one with such a rare talent as a poet not recognized
In a World of self promotion herself she does not promote
And so few sing the praises of the shy young Gippsland poet.
A dark haired young Gippsland poetess and quite lovely to behold
And her poems things of great beauty yet her books remain unsold
She is shackled by her inhibitions far too sensitive and shy
She is not one of the in crowd and success has passed her by.
I Am Confused In My Thinking
Sometimes I feel I'd be happy if I were as dumb as a stone
I am confused in my thinking but in that I am not alone
Many others out there like me who ask themselves who am I?
We live confused in our thinking and confused in our thinking we'll die.
Listening to talkback radio confuses me all the more
People with different opinions trying to each other outscore
Seems they are all trying to tell me that their opinions can't be wrong
They confuse me in my thinking I'm not so mentally strong.
Very confused in my thinking and mixed up as mixed up can be
Yet there are many more out there who are as confused as me
Each with their different opinions who is wrong and who is right?
Yet I am certain for many that life is a hard uphill fight.
I am confused in my thinking it's a confusing World we live in
Sad to think that some have to lose out just so that others can win
From the cradle to our last day it's uphill all of the way
But the years have not left me wiser only made me old and gray.
I am confused in my thinking but many more like me out there
Two with the exact same opinions one now might say very rare
Maybe I'm going a bit dippy and maybe I need a brain scan
I feel lost in mental clutter I am a befuddled man.
I am confused in my thinking but in that I am not alone
Many others out there like me who ask themselves who am I?
We live confused in our thinking and confused in our thinking we'll die.
Listening to talkback radio confuses me all the more
People with different opinions trying to each other outscore
Seems they are all trying to tell me that their opinions can't be wrong
They confuse me in my thinking I'm not so mentally strong.
Very confused in my thinking and mixed up as mixed up can be
Yet there are many more out there who are as confused as me
Each with their different opinions who is wrong and who is right?
Yet I am certain for many that life is a hard uphill fight.
I am confused in my thinking it's a confusing World we live in
Sad to think that some have to lose out just so that others can win
From the cradle to our last day it's uphill all of the way
But the years have not left me wiser only made me old and gray.
I am confused in my thinking but many more like me out there
Two with the exact same opinions one now might say very rare
Maybe I'm going a bit dippy and maybe I need a brain scan
I feel lost in mental clutter I am a befuddled man.
I Must Go Back
Someday soon I must go back
To my home by Millstreet railway track
To those places far away
Shannaknuck and green Liscreagh.
Oh for Coolikerane cross
My heart feels at a loss
And I can't forget the bog
Where I roamed with Jack the dog.
To walk the wood by Clara hill
Listening to the songbirds trill
And to watch the swallows soar
O'er the fields of Claramore.
And to feel so much at ease
In Mountleader where the trees
Seem to kiss the clear blue sky
On a fine day in July.
To lay by Kippagh lake
Half asleep and half awake
Listening to a skylark sing
High above you on the wing.
To walk down Millstreet's West End
And there meet an erstwhile friend
Who would clasp and shake your hand
Oh the feeling would be grand.
Here am I a wanderlust
In a city of mistrust
Sweating for my living crust
Amidst the choking grime and dust.
I am tired of this big town
These big buildings get me down
Different coloured peoples white, black and brown
All seeking their own renown.
If I only had the cash
To the airport I would dash
And I never more would stray
From Millstreet far away.
To my home by Millstreet railway track
To those places far away
Shannaknuck and green Liscreagh.
Oh for Coolikerane cross
My heart feels at a loss
And I can't forget the bog
Where I roamed with Jack the dog.
To walk the wood by Clara hill
Listening to the songbirds trill
And to watch the swallows soar
O'er the fields of Claramore.
And to feel so much at ease
In Mountleader where the trees
Seem to kiss the clear blue sky
On a fine day in July.
To lay by Kippagh lake
Half asleep and half awake
Listening to a skylark sing
High above you on the wing.
To walk down Millstreet's West End
And there meet an erstwhile friend
Who would clasp and shake your hand
Oh the feeling would be grand.
Here am I a wanderlust
In a city of mistrust
Sweating for my living crust
Amidst the choking grime and dust.
I am tired of this big town
These big buildings get me down
Different coloured peoples white, black and brown
All seeking their own renown.
If I only had the cash
To the airport I would dash
And I never more would stray
From Millstreet far away.
Her Wish Is To Live In Wonthaggi
Her wish is to live in Wonthaggi and there to raise her family
In the former mining town in Southern Gippsland renowned for it's coal history
Her husband is a fellow townsman and he feels the same way as she
And most of those born in Wonthaggi with their views would not disagree.
With year old twins a boy and a girl we have been so lucky she say
My husband a hard working fellow he works hard for rather good pay
We own our own home in Wonthaggi and here we're determined to stay
We never could move from South Gippsland and here we will grow old and gray.
There's no better place than Wonthaggi a ten minutes drive to the sea
And lots of cheap cafes to eat in when you go out for a family tea
The people are always so friendly you make a friend there every day
From her hometown the miner's grand daughter could never live too far away.
She says she will live in Wonthaggi till the grim reaper pays her the call
For she loves her home town in South Gippsland to her the best place of them all
And her husband he nods in agreement saying Wonthaggi for her and for I
In this town we will raise our children and here we will grow old and die.
In the former mining town in Southern Gippsland renowned for it's coal history
Her husband is a fellow townsman and he feels the same way as she
And most of those born in Wonthaggi with their views would not disagree.
With year old twins a boy and a girl we have been so lucky she say
My husband a hard working fellow he works hard for rather good pay
We own our own home in Wonthaggi and here we're determined to stay
We never could move from South Gippsland and here we will grow old and gray.
There's no better place than Wonthaggi a ten minutes drive to the sea
And lots of cheap cafes to eat in when you go out for a family tea
The people are always so friendly you make a friend there every day
From her hometown the miner's grand daughter could never live too far away.
She says she will live in Wonthaggi till the grim reaper pays her the call
For she loves her home town in South Gippsland to her the best place of them all
And her husband he nods in agreement saying Wonthaggi for her and for I
In this town we will raise our children and here we will grow old and die.
Lines Written On Meeting Two Kerry Ladies
It is a long distance from Ireland from green mead and bogland brown
To Victoria's biggest City that is famous Melbourne Town
But I met two Kerry ladies and quite pretty ones as well
Where the Melbourne Irish hang out at the Normandy hotel.
They seemed aloof and lonely so I asked to join their company
And they made me feel quite welcome they did not object to me
They seemed nice enough young ladies untouched by conceit or guile
And they had the warmth of Kerry in their free and easy smile.
Lovely dark haired Mareod O Leary from a place called Scartaglen
She complained that she was homesick and was not attracting men
But in a place where she is new to and where unattached young men are few
It is hard to find love and friendship and familiar hearts more true.
And lovely fair haired Ann Carroll she look Irish to the core
From a place called Gneeveguilla just a short drive from Rathmore
She too was feeling homesick for Sliabh Luachra by the hills
For the fields and woods of east Kerry and the rippling streams and rills.
They are beautiful young nurses and to chat to them's a joy
But they are out of place in Melbourne they are far too quiet and shy
And shy ladies though quite pretty almost all of the time lose out
And to get men in big city one must learn to mix about.
Methink they should return to Kerry and wed good Kerry womens sons
They could comfort them and love them when their hard days work was done
And they might breed strong healthy children hard as Kerry mountain wire
Who might one day help 'The Kingdom' win another Sam Maguire.
Two young nurses from east Kerry I met in the Normandy Hotel
And though that has been some time ago I still remember well
That they felt very homesick for their green old homeland shore
And I drank and chatted with them for two hours or maybe more.
To Victoria's biggest City that is famous Melbourne Town
But I met two Kerry ladies and quite pretty ones as well
Where the Melbourne Irish hang out at the Normandy hotel.
They seemed aloof and lonely so I asked to join their company
And they made me feel quite welcome they did not object to me
They seemed nice enough young ladies untouched by conceit or guile
And they had the warmth of Kerry in their free and easy smile.
Lovely dark haired Mareod O Leary from a place called Scartaglen
She complained that she was homesick and was not attracting men
But in a place where she is new to and where unattached young men are few
It is hard to find love and friendship and familiar hearts more true.
And lovely fair haired Ann Carroll she look Irish to the core
From a place called Gneeveguilla just a short drive from Rathmore
She too was feeling homesick for Sliabh Luachra by the hills
For the fields and woods of east Kerry and the rippling streams and rills.
They are beautiful young nurses and to chat to them's a joy
But they are out of place in Melbourne they are far too quiet and shy
And shy ladies though quite pretty almost all of the time lose out
And to get men in big city one must learn to mix about.
Methink they should return to Kerry and wed good Kerry womens sons
They could comfort them and love them when their hard days work was done
And they might breed strong healthy children hard as Kerry mountain wire
Who might one day help 'The Kingdom' win another Sam Maguire.
Two young nurses from east Kerry I met in the Normandy Hotel
And though that has been some time ago I still remember well
That they felt very homesick for their green old homeland shore
And I drank and chatted with them for two hours or maybe more.
Big Lefty
Big lefty who drinks at the local pub he dislikes Howard, Blair and Bush
And if one mention any of their names to him the blood to his head rush
He says these blokes are not worth arguing over and of them I do not wish to hear
I came in here to socialize and for to enjoy a few bottles of beer.
Big lefty who drinks at the local pub stands over six foot four
A powerfully built man of muscle of one hundred kilos or more
But he's a nice sort of a fellow he doesn't throw his weight around
And people like him one might say are not that easy to be found.
But mention Bush or Howard or Blair to him and it really gets him going
And the anger in his brown eyes one can see slowly growing
He says what have they done for the World except create more refugees
And destroy Countries and kill people do change the subject please.
Big lefty who drinks at the local pub was twenty nine last May
The type of bloke to help you who would go out of his way,
A family man he loves his wife and their year old baby boy
He says I hope we're not raising young Luke in a war for to die.
Big Lefty who drinks at the local pub is a good sort of a bloke
But names such as Howard and Bush and Blair an angry response from him provoke
He says how they get elected into high office I will never understand
They kill and maim people and destroy homes and pollute sea and land.
And if one mention any of their names to him the blood to his head rush
He says these blokes are not worth arguing over and of them I do not wish to hear
I came in here to socialize and for to enjoy a few bottles of beer.
Big lefty who drinks at the local pub stands over six foot four
A powerfully built man of muscle of one hundred kilos or more
But he's a nice sort of a fellow he doesn't throw his weight around
And people like him one might say are not that easy to be found.
But mention Bush or Howard or Blair to him and it really gets him going
And the anger in his brown eyes one can see slowly growing
He says what have they done for the World except create more refugees
And destroy Countries and kill people do change the subject please.
Big lefty who drinks at the local pub was twenty nine last May
The type of bloke to help you who would go out of his way,
A family man he loves his wife and their year old baby boy
He says I hope we're not raising young Luke in a war for to die.
Big Lefty who drinks at the local pub is a good sort of a bloke
But names such as Howard and Bush and Blair an angry response from him provoke
He says how they get elected into high office I will never understand
They kill and maim people and destroy homes and pollute sea and land.
I've Said More Than I Ought To Say
I'm running out of ideas lately and I've said more than I ought to say
And I spend too much energy on worrying it is such a beautiful day
The magpie larks in the park piping the silver gulls mewing by the sea
And the beautiful rainbow lories sipping nectar from the flowers on the flowering gum tree.
In the high tide the big waves are rolling and racing up the sandy shore
The ocean has been there forever and will be there forever more
And we who feel we are important are mere grains in the sands of time
Our span is the brief span of mortals and a fleeting moment our prime.
I met this old bloke on the jetty he told me that he was a poet
His hair it was gray, long and straggly and he wore a shabby old coat
He sung to me some of his verses he sure had the great gift of song
We parted with a warm handshake and he whistled as he shuffled along.
I thought on the clever old fellow a stranger to wealth and to fame
He is such a marvellous poet yet his not a great literary name
For one with such wonderful talent why should he have to be so poor
Those who speak of the great god in heaven of their god I don't feel so sure?
Life is a bit much for me lately I ought to keep my tongue at bay
And I should listen to wiser people I've said more than I ought to say
I ought to be more like the old poet he sung to me his song of the day
And with a toothy smile he farewelled me and he whistled as he went on his way.
And I spend too much energy on worrying it is such a beautiful day
The magpie larks in the park piping the silver gulls mewing by the sea
And the beautiful rainbow lories sipping nectar from the flowers on the flowering gum tree.
In the high tide the big waves are rolling and racing up the sandy shore
The ocean has been there forever and will be there forever more
And we who feel we are important are mere grains in the sands of time
Our span is the brief span of mortals and a fleeting moment our prime.
I met this old bloke on the jetty he told me that he was a poet
His hair it was gray, long and straggly and he wore a shabby old coat
He sung to me some of his verses he sure had the great gift of song
We parted with a warm handshake and he whistled as he shuffled along.
I thought on the clever old fellow a stranger to wealth and to fame
He is such a marvellous poet yet his not a great literary name
For one with such wonderful talent why should he have to be so poor
Those who speak of the great god in heaven of their god I don't feel so sure?
Life is a bit much for me lately I ought to keep my tongue at bay
And I should listen to wiser people I've said more than I ought to say
I ought to be more like the old poet he sung to me his song of the day
And with a toothy smile he farewelled me and he whistled as he went on his way.
John Shaw Neilson
In the Wimmera Mallee country where the Wimmera waters flow
To the old brown and dry paddocks the seasons come and go
Once the countryside of a famous poet now in literary renown
He lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of Nhill Town.
For years he worked in hard labouring jobs in his slow hard climb to fame
And the World was better for him living in it John Shaw Neilson was his name
And though not well educated his poems stand the test of time
Perhaps Aiustralia's leading lyricist when he was in his prime.
One of those rare and special people born with the wordsmith skill
From his birth place of Penola as a young boy he moved with his family to Nhill
One who fell in love with Nature he wrote beautiful poetry
And he reached the peak of perfection when he penned 'The Orange Tree'
For some nothing in life comes easy and everything comes at a price
Neilson lost most of his poems in the Mallee destroyed by a plague of mice
And late in his life due to his failing sight the great one ceased to write
His poetic gems of beauty which gave so much delight.
In Melbourne Neilson grew old and in Melbourne he did die
And the beauty in his verses to his greatness testify
The great poet of the Mallee and few as great as he
Yet despite his works of genius he died in poverty.
To the old brown and dry paddocks the seasons come and go
Once the countryside of a famous poet now in literary renown
He lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of Nhill Town.
For years he worked in hard labouring jobs in his slow hard climb to fame
And the World was better for him living in it John Shaw Neilson was his name
And though not well educated his poems stand the test of time
Perhaps Aiustralia's leading lyricist when he was in his prime.
One of those rare and special people born with the wordsmith skill
From his birth place of Penola as a young boy he moved with his family to Nhill
One who fell in love with Nature he wrote beautiful poetry
And he reached the peak of perfection when he penned 'The Orange Tree'
For some nothing in life comes easy and everything comes at a price
Neilson lost most of his poems in the Mallee destroyed by a plague of mice
And late in his life due to his failing sight the great one ceased to write
His poetic gems of beauty which gave so much delight.
In Melbourne Neilson grew old and in Melbourne he did die
And the beauty in his verses to his greatness testify
The great poet of the Mallee and few as great as he
Yet despite his works of genius he died in poverty.
On Hearing A Blackbird
I hear the blackbird singing he's sung since dawn of day
And everytime I hear that voice it takes me to far away
And again I walk on a day in Spring through the wood on higher ground
So good to breathe the mountain air and birdsong all around.
The gold billed blackbird singing on branch of cypress tree
At the verge of his border proclaiming territory
His borderline invisible you look you cannot see
But he know where that line is it's in his memory.
Each time I hear the blackbird I walk the wood again
And wildflowers blooming healthy fresh from life giving rain
And sunshine through the scattering clouds and everywhere so green
And the little dipper piping on rock in mountain stream.
The man may leave his valley for places far away
But the valley travel with him and the mountain in him stay
And the carolling of songbird he knew bring back the by gone day
And memories come flooding of green woods of the May.
I hear the blackbird singing on branch of cypress tree
And memories of the past once more are coming back to me
And robin in the woodland pipe upon the leafy bough
And skylark in the heavens lilt above the mountain brow.
And everytime I hear that voice it takes me to far away
And again I walk on a day in Spring through the wood on higher ground
So good to breathe the mountain air and birdsong all around.
The gold billed blackbird singing on branch of cypress tree
At the verge of his border proclaiming territory
His borderline invisible you look you cannot see
But he know where that line is it's in his memory.
Each time I hear the blackbird I walk the wood again
And wildflowers blooming healthy fresh from life giving rain
And sunshine through the scattering clouds and everywhere so green
And the little dipper piping on rock in mountain stream.
The man may leave his valley for places far away
But the valley travel with him and the mountain in him stay
And the carolling of songbird he knew bring back the by gone day
And memories come flooding of green woods of the May.
I hear the blackbird singing on branch of cypress tree
And memories of the past once more are coming back to me
And robin in the woodland pipe upon the leafy bough
And skylark in the heavens lilt above the mountain brow.
Bureaucratic Thinking
It's not what sort of a person you are but your value to the State
That is bureaucratic thinking that some others imitate
Ask what you can do for your Country with such I do not agree
Instead ask what you can do with your gift of humanity?
Ask what you can do for others who are less well off than you
Or do you believe as many do we choose the life path we pursue?
I do not think for a moment that people wish for to be poor
It is everybody's wish I'm sure to be financialy secure.
It is bureaucratic thinking to say that he or she
Is more value to the Country than one in poverty
And so many become poorer for every millionaire
That's the side effects of bureaucracy and is bureaucracy fair?
It is bureaucratic thinking for to demonize the poor
But the worthy humanatarians for poverty seeks the cure
In a World where some have too much many of malnutrition die
Ask what you can do for your Country is a bureaucratic lie.
Ask what you can do for your Country we've heard many times before
But the eagle with an injured wing o'er the valley cannot soar
And your value as a person is your value to the State
That is bureaucratic thinking and to that I cannot relate.
That is bureaucratic thinking that some others imitate
Ask what you can do for your Country with such I do not agree
Instead ask what you can do with your gift of humanity?
Ask what you can do for others who are less well off than you
Or do you believe as many do we choose the life path we pursue?
I do not think for a moment that people wish for to be poor
It is everybody's wish I'm sure to be financialy secure.
It is bureaucratic thinking to say that he or she
Is more value to the Country than one in poverty
And so many become poorer for every millionaire
That's the side effects of bureaucracy and is bureaucracy fair?
It is bureaucratic thinking for to demonize the poor
But the worthy humanatarians for poverty seeks the cure
In a World where some have too much many of malnutrition die
Ask what you can do for your Country is a bureaucratic lie.
Ask what you can do for your Country we've heard many times before
But the eagle with an injured wing o'er the valley cannot soar
And your value as a person is your value to the State
That is bureaucratic thinking and to that I cannot relate.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Nature's Garden Far Away
Those old feelings of nostalgia are stirred up by the beer
Where the rapids of the river run the dipper's song I hear
And the chaffinch he is singing in the grove beside the rill
And the skylark he is carolling above the bracken hill.
I visualize the blackbird's nest of clay and mosses made
And I see three green brown spotted eggs the female bird has laid
And the robin he is singing on the flowering horse chestnut tree
And the fields are full of wildflowers nature's beauty surrounds me.
The drinking group that I am part of are all sports minded men
Will the Aussies in the cricket have another mighty win
And will Brisbane the champions of Aussie rules football win the flag again this year?
Each to their own or so they say or so it would appear.
But their conversation I don't feel with for my thoughts are far away
Where the gray fog cloaks the mountain on a damp and rainy day
They must think me rather moody not the best of company
Yet in their group they make me feel welcome for they sit and drink with me.
O'er the green vale by the mountain I can see the swallows fly
And I hear them chirp and twitter in the gray late April sky
And on the leafy hedgerow the plain brown dunnock sings his song
Still with places once familiar the bond now doesn't seem that strong.
It's the beer again that takes me to nature's garden far away
To the places I grew up in back to where I did not stay
But the memories are fading like the wildflowers in decay
And the old face getting older and the balding head more gray.
Where the rapids of the river run the dipper's song I hear
And the chaffinch he is singing in the grove beside the rill
And the skylark he is carolling above the bracken hill.
I visualize the blackbird's nest of clay and mosses made
And I see three green brown spotted eggs the female bird has laid
And the robin he is singing on the flowering horse chestnut tree
And the fields are full of wildflowers nature's beauty surrounds me.
The drinking group that I am part of are all sports minded men
Will the Aussies in the cricket have another mighty win
And will Brisbane the champions of Aussie rules football win the flag again this year?
Each to their own or so they say or so it would appear.
But their conversation I don't feel with for my thoughts are far away
Where the gray fog cloaks the mountain on a damp and rainy day
They must think me rather moody not the best of company
Yet in their group they make me feel welcome for they sit and drink with me.
O'er the green vale by the mountain I can see the swallows fly
And I hear them chirp and twitter in the gray late April sky
And on the leafy hedgerow the plain brown dunnock sings his song
Still with places once familiar the bond now doesn't seem that strong.
It's the beer again that takes me to nature's garden far away
To the places I grew up in back to where I did not stay
But the memories are fading like the wildflowers in decay
And the old face getting older and the balding head more gray.
The Brave Young Men Of Ireland
The brave young men of Ireland who died in World War One
Their lives not celebrated when the battle had been won
Forgotten in their homeland not one monument to their fame
That they are not remembered does seem an awful shame.
Lloyd George made them a promise that if they fought under the Union Jack
That Ireland to the Irish he would be handing back
And they thought that they were fighting for Irish freedom when they fought on Britain's side
And in the trenches of Europe thousands of young Irish died.
The brave young men of Ireland by Lloyd George were misled
He promised for to hand back Ireland to the Irish and they believed him when he said
That for their services to Britain's war cause small Nations their freedom would receive
But politicians are deceitful and they know how to deceive.
The brave young men of Ireland by the British Prime Minister were betrayed
He went back on a promise that to them by him was made
They are treated as traitors in their homeland and honour to them is denied
Though they thought they fought for Ireland and in Ireland's cause they died.
They left their Irish towns and Villages back in nineteen fourteen
The brave young men of Ireland their likes not since been seen
Yet disowned as traitors in their homeland seems such a sad thing to say
They fought and died for Lloyd George's glory and their bones in Europe lay.
The brave young men of Ireland of them we should feel proud
They were the true war heroes where the gunfire echoed loud
For the love of their homeland such a sacrifice they made
But never in their honour a ceremony or parade.
Their lives not celebrated when the battle had been won
Forgotten in their homeland not one monument to their fame
That they are not remembered does seem an awful shame.
Lloyd George made them a promise that if they fought under the Union Jack
That Ireland to the Irish he would be handing back
And they thought that they were fighting for Irish freedom when they fought on Britain's side
And in the trenches of Europe thousands of young Irish died.
The brave young men of Ireland by Lloyd George were misled
He promised for to hand back Ireland to the Irish and they believed him when he said
That for their services to Britain's war cause small Nations their freedom would receive
But politicians are deceitful and they know how to deceive.
The brave young men of Ireland by the British Prime Minister were betrayed
He went back on a promise that to them by him was made
They are treated as traitors in their homeland and honour to them is denied
Though they thought they fought for Ireland and in Ireland's cause they died.
They left their Irish towns and Villages back in nineteen fourteen
The brave young men of Ireland their likes not since been seen
Yet disowned as traitors in their homeland seems such a sad thing to say
They fought and died for Lloyd George's glory and their bones in Europe lay.
The brave young men of Ireland of them we should feel proud
They were the true war heroes where the gunfire echoed loud
For the love of their homeland such a sacrifice they made
But never in their honour a ceremony or parade.
You Seem So Swell There Mister
You seem so swell there mister in your brand new motor car
And you wish to let the world know of how wonderful you are
You show your blond the scenery and you drive her up and down
With your car stereo blaring through the wide streets of the town.
You may impress some people but you do not impress me
I look at you driving your car and only arrogance I see
You want us all to notice and I have taken note
That smug smirk you wear on your face tell me of one who gloat.
For your obvious trappings of wealth you I do not begrudge
But by the way you flaunt your assets you ask me to be your judge
Driving through the leafy suburb with your car stereo blaring loud
You do like to be noticed and you do seem rather proud.
With your girlfriend there beside you a big smile on her face
A rather lovely looker and her curves in the right place
She helps to feed your ego and make a man of you
But with you will she linger and does she love you true?
You seem so swell there mister with your girlfriend and new car
You want all of us to notice of just how marvellous you are
With your car stereo blaring loudly you may yet learn from father time
That on too much self adulation some young men spend their fleeting prime.
And you wish to let the world know of how wonderful you are
You show your blond the scenery and you drive her up and down
With your car stereo blaring through the wide streets of the town.
You may impress some people but you do not impress me
I look at you driving your car and only arrogance I see
You want us all to notice and I have taken note
That smug smirk you wear on your face tell me of one who gloat.
For your obvious trappings of wealth you I do not begrudge
But by the way you flaunt your assets you ask me to be your judge
Driving through the leafy suburb with your car stereo blaring loud
You do like to be noticed and you do seem rather proud.
With your girlfriend there beside you a big smile on her face
A rather lovely looker and her curves in the right place
She helps to feed your ego and make a man of you
But with you will she linger and does she love you true?
You seem so swell there mister with your girlfriend and new car
You want all of us to notice of just how marvellous you are
With your car stereo blaring loudly you may yet learn from father time
That on too much self adulation some young men spend their fleeting prime.
A Tolerant Society
A tolerant society we've heard it all before
That fellow he is different he is from a distant shore
He never will be my friend so him I will ignore
I will only tolerate him just that and nothing more.
A tolerant society those words often used of late
By the leaders of the government in a so called egalatarian State
Yet his birthday or successes we will never celebrate
We will only tolerate him he will never be our mate.
A tolerant society words used best to describe
That we will put up with others but we'll stick by our own tribe
Them we shall not acknowledge or to them say hello
And about them and their culture we do not wish to know.
In a tolerant society we only tolerate
And closer ties or friendships with them we do not wish to cultivate
He is from a different culture and our differences are great
And we only tolerate him he will never be our mate.
That fellow he is different he is from a distant shore
He never will be my friend so him I will ignore
I will only tolerate him just that and nothing more.
A tolerant society those words often used of late
By the leaders of the government in a so called egalatarian State
Yet his birthday or successes we will never celebrate
We will only tolerate him he will never be our mate.
A tolerant society words used best to describe
That we will put up with others but we'll stick by our own tribe
Them we shall not acknowledge or to them say hello
And about them and their culture we do not wish to know.
In a tolerant society we only tolerate
And closer ties or friendships with them we do not wish to cultivate
He is from a different culture and our differences are great
And we only tolerate him he will never be our mate.
On Germaine Greer
She tells her truths to Australians but some her truths do not wish to hear
But I am one of those who will always listen to the outspoken Germaine Greer
Some say now that she lives in England they hope in England she remain
And yet others they will tell you that Australia's loss is Britain's gain.
Criticisms from one of our own often can be hard to take
But Germaine tells it how she sees it and quite an impact her words make
Those who say dare she criticize us it would seem have got it wrong
Criticism can be healthy it can help to make us strong.
When she criticizes us for our values with her I cannot disagree
We do not give enough respect to Aboriginal culture and history
And we do not treat refugees at all well people from war torn countries far away
To lock them up in detention centres not what one would call fair play.
Germaine Greer I do admire you as your equals are hard to find
When you feel the need arises you will always speak your mind
Yet sadly not enough are like you what you need to say you'll say
And may you keep on speaking your mind in old England far away
But I am one of those who will always listen to the outspoken Germaine Greer
Some say now that she lives in England they hope in England she remain
And yet others they will tell you that Australia's loss is Britain's gain.
Criticisms from one of our own often can be hard to take
But Germaine tells it how she sees it and quite an impact her words make
Those who say dare she criticize us it would seem have got it wrong
Criticism can be healthy it can help to make us strong.
When she criticizes us for our values with her I cannot disagree
We do not give enough respect to Aboriginal culture and history
And we do not treat refugees at all well people from war torn countries far away
To lock them up in detention centres not what one would call fair play.
Germaine Greer I do admire you as your equals are hard to find
When you feel the need arises you will always speak your mind
Yet sadly not enough are like you what you need to say you'll say
And may you keep on speaking your mind in old England far away
Jeffter
A near to perfect summer day of 25 degrees
And in old Caledonia street a gentle coastal breeze
In the gardens and the nature strips is rustling in the trees
And around the flowers and blossoms the buzz of flies and bees.
But Jeffter from the Solomons those Islands far away
Thinks it is a bit chilly far from a perfect day
One from a warmer climate where it is warm all year
The Islands they call paradise the Islands north of here.
Married to Beth an Australian Wonthaggi is now his home
But the Island that he came from he never could disown
The man has left his Island but the Island in him stay
And nostalgia does not die easily that's what the migrant say.
A warm hearted fellow Jeffter as warm as the breeze
That blows across his Island in the Pacific seas
And quite true to his heritage he smiles quite easily
We ought to bless the Solomons for people such as he.
In the old former coal town in South Gippsland with his step daughter and wife
For Jeffter from the Solomons a different sort of life
From the life he was used to but he will settle down
And he will be an asset to old Wonthaggi Town.
A near perfect day in Wonthaggi free of humidity
But Jeffter from the Solomons with that would not agree
For him a little chilly no warmth in the breeze
And he would like it warmer by at least ten degrees.
And in old Caledonia street a gentle coastal breeze
In the gardens and the nature strips is rustling in the trees
And around the flowers and blossoms the buzz of flies and bees.
But Jeffter from the Solomons those Islands far away
Thinks it is a bit chilly far from a perfect day
One from a warmer climate where it is warm all year
The Islands they call paradise the Islands north of here.
Married to Beth an Australian Wonthaggi is now his home
But the Island that he came from he never could disown
The man has left his Island but the Island in him stay
And nostalgia does not die easily that's what the migrant say.
A warm hearted fellow Jeffter as warm as the breeze
That blows across his Island in the Pacific seas
And quite true to his heritage he smiles quite easily
We ought to bless the Solomons for people such as he.
In the old former coal town in South Gippsland with his step daughter and wife
For Jeffter from the Solomons a different sort of life
From the life he was used to but he will settle down
And he will be an asset to old Wonthaggi Town.
A near perfect day in Wonthaggi free of humidity
But Jeffter from the Solomons with that would not agree
For him a little chilly no warmth in the breeze
And he would like it warmer by at least ten degrees.
Ella Kupper
Not much luck in love for fifty years old Ella Kupper she has wasted her time on three useless men
In the love stakes she's never been a winner but in love it's not easy for to win
To each she's had a child she has raised two sons and a daughter the eldest thirty and the youngest twenty four
But she is planning one more try at marriage though she has tried and failed three times before.
She feels this time that she has found her soul mate success is there for those who try
She wept a little when her third marriage ended but she never wished for to lay down and die
She could have said enough of men forever but she will not go down without a fight
I've yet to hear it said of fourth time lucky though three Mr Wrongs could lead to Mr Right.
The men she married to her were unfaithful she could have said that all men are the same
But she is not one who is into generalizing and for her bad experiences all men she does not blame
She is one of those who can put the past behind her and for any of her ex husbands she does not hold a grudge
She says that she will leave them to their karma and she is not the one for to be their judge.
Not much luck in love so far for Ella Kupper but good things come to all of those who wait
And her marriage number four may work out for her for it would seem she has found her soul mate
She does not blame all men for her bad experiences and the gift of happiness she still pursue
And she is an incurable romantic and she claims she has found a love's that's true.
In the love stakes she's never been a winner but in love it's not easy for to win
To each she's had a child she has raised two sons and a daughter the eldest thirty and the youngest twenty four
But she is planning one more try at marriage though she has tried and failed three times before.
She feels this time that she has found her soul mate success is there for those who try
She wept a little when her third marriage ended but she never wished for to lay down and die
She could have said enough of men forever but she will not go down without a fight
I've yet to hear it said of fourth time lucky though three Mr Wrongs could lead to Mr Right.
The men she married to her were unfaithful she could have said that all men are the same
But she is not one who is into generalizing and for her bad experiences all men she does not blame
She is one of those who can put the past behind her and for any of her ex husbands she does not hold a grudge
She says that she will leave them to their karma and she is not the one for to be their judge.
Not much luck in love so far for Ella Kupper but good things come to all of those who wait
And her marriage number four may work out for her for it would seem she has found her soul mate
She does not blame all men for her bad experiences and the gift of happiness she still pursue
And she is an incurable romantic and she claims she has found a love's that's true.
Life It Just Goes On
They came from different backgrounds and were different as chalk and cheese
And she was quite ambitious and he not hard to please
And he was one of those without an ambitious life plan
And the parents for their daughter see him as the wrong sort of a man.
Such a bloke for their daughter not good enough they said
She needed a good provider for the years that lay ahead
An educated professional with a uni degree
In science or engineering or in technology.
The passion in their relationship it lasted for awhile
But passion can die quickly and about that he now smile
When she told him it was over he did not feel moved to tears
He went into the local pub and he drank a couple of beers.
Two with different expectations such relationships do not last
And he does not lament for what might have been and shed tears for the past
He feels happy that she ended it she would not be his ideal wife
He now enjoys the odd one night stand and less stress in his life.
She has found herself a new love a civil engineer
And they are engaged to be married at the end of the year
And her parents now feel happier they've welcomed this one to the family
And he is one they feel proud to call a son in law to be.
They had different life expectations and much in common did not share
And when she told him it was over he did not seem to much care
For their relationship had foundered and all of the love and passion out of it had gone
And he now enjoys the one night stand and life it just goes on.
And she was quite ambitious and he not hard to please
And he was one of those without an ambitious life plan
And the parents for their daughter see him as the wrong sort of a man.
Such a bloke for their daughter not good enough they said
She needed a good provider for the years that lay ahead
An educated professional with a uni degree
In science or engineering or in technology.
The passion in their relationship it lasted for awhile
But passion can die quickly and about that he now smile
When she told him it was over he did not feel moved to tears
He went into the local pub and he drank a couple of beers.
Two with different expectations such relationships do not last
And he does not lament for what might have been and shed tears for the past
He feels happy that she ended it she would not be his ideal wife
He now enjoys the odd one night stand and less stress in his life.
She has found herself a new love a civil engineer
And they are engaged to be married at the end of the year
And her parents now feel happier they've welcomed this one to the family
And he is one they feel proud to call a son in law to be.
They had different life expectations and much in common did not share
And when she told him it was over he did not seem to much care
For their relationship had foundered and all of the love and passion out of it had gone
And he now enjoys the one night stand and life it just goes on.
Homesick For Semaphore
From the coastal suburb near Port Adelaide she yearns for the old brown shore
And she won't be staying on here in Melbourne she will return to Semaphore
And she misses the wide beach by the ocean that stretches from Sem to Largs Bay
The dark haired one from South Australia she thinks about home every day.
From Melbourne Semaphore not that distant an eleven hours by car drive away
And 'tis possible for people to feel homesick in their home country home is where the heart is they say
Just twenty one on her next birthday she misses home and family
And she misses the wide and the long streets of old Semaphore by the sea.
A young woman of striking beauty she has the great Semaphore charm
And nothing to dislike about her she is likeable good natured and warm
Melbourne is too busy for her life lived there at a hectic pace
That's what she likes most about Semaphore it is such a laid back old place.
She will return to South Australia in Melbourne she will not stay
Though that may mean less job opportunities and that may mean a cut in pay
In her dreams she hears the gulls mewing on the wide beach of the old brown shore
And her future is not in Victoria for she is homesick for Semaphore.
And she won't be staying on here in Melbourne she will return to Semaphore
And she misses the wide beach by the ocean that stretches from Sem to Largs Bay
The dark haired one from South Australia she thinks about home every day.
From Melbourne Semaphore not that distant an eleven hours by car drive away
And 'tis possible for people to feel homesick in their home country home is where the heart is they say
Just twenty one on her next birthday she misses home and family
And she misses the wide and the long streets of old Semaphore by the sea.
A young woman of striking beauty she has the great Semaphore charm
And nothing to dislike about her she is likeable good natured and warm
Melbourne is too busy for her life lived there at a hectic pace
That's what she likes most about Semaphore it is such a laid back old place.
She will return to South Australia in Melbourne she will not stay
Though that may mean less job opportunities and that may mean a cut in pay
In her dreams she hears the gulls mewing on the wide beach of the old brown shore
And her future is not in Victoria for she is homesick for Semaphore.
The Night The Sam Maguire Cup Came To Millstreet
The night the Sam Maguire cup came to Millstreet
The cheering could be heard far as Rathmore
Ten thousand people in the Millstreet Town Square
I'd never seen the likes of it before.
Cork had beaten Galway in the All Ireland football final
And on the Cork team four players from Millstreet
Four players from a club team in Duhallow
By any standards an amazing feat.
Con Hartnett, Humphrey Kelleher and John Coleman
And the fellow from Annagloor Denis Long
Back then they were the heroes of Duhallow
And they inspired the songwriters to song.
It was a night I always will remember
The Town of Millstreet decked in red and white
Ten thousand people in their County colours
It lives on as a memorable sight.
Four young men honoured in the Town of Millstreet
For playing gaelic football they had won renown
Their fame spread through the length and breadth of Ireland
Far beyond Duhallow and Millstreet Town.
But that was years ago I well remember
Back in September in the fall of seventy three
And the boy back then is now an ageing fellow
And not the man he one time used to be.
The night the Sam Maguire cup came to Millstreet
The celebrations went on through the night
Ten thousand people in their County colours
It lives on as a memorable sight.
The cheering could be heard far as Rathmore
Ten thousand people in the Millstreet Town Square
I'd never seen the likes of it before.
Cork had beaten Galway in the All Ireland football final
And on the Cork team four players from Millstreet
Four players from a club team in Duhallow
By any standards an amazing feat.
Con Hartnett, Humphrey Kelleher and John Coleman
And the fellow from Annagloor Denis Long
Back then they were the heroes of Duhallow
And they inspired the songwriters to song.
It was a night I always will remember
The Town of Millstreet decked in red and white
Ten thousand people in their County colours
It lives on as a memorable sight.
Four young men honoured in the Town of Millstreet
For playing gaelic football they had won renown
Their fame spread through the length and breadth of Ireland
Far beyond Duhallow and Millstreet Town.
But that was years ago I well remember
Back in September in the fall of seventy three
And the boy back then is now an ageing fellow
And not the man he one time used to be.
The night the Sam Maguire cup came to Millstreet
The celebrations went on through the night
Ten thousand people in their County colours
It lives on as a memorable sight.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
He Has Known A Better Day
Back in the nineteen fifties he was in his glorious prime
And he was the great champion who inspired the bards to rhyme
But now he's a mere shadow of the man he used to be
Our prime years go so quickly or so 'twould seem to me.
You tell the primary school going boy about the one with silver hair
And he will say that frail old man seems fit for the wheel chair
In his prime in the fifties that seems so long ago
Of the faded heroes of the past I do not wish to know.
He does not give a second thought for one so frail and weak
His heroes in their twenties at their physical peak
He does not show much interest in one time has made gray
A champion of the fifties the old man of today.
A champion of the fifties back in the distant past
And time goes by so quickly and nothing seems to last
You tell the boy about him and he will only say
He seems so old and wasted he has known a better day.
And he was the great champion who inspired the bards to rhyme
But now he's a mere shadow of the man he used to be
Our prime years go so quickly or so 'twould seem to me.
You tell the primary school going boy about the one with silver hair
And he will say that frail old man seems fit for the wheel chair
In his prime in the fifties that seems so long ago
Of the faded heroes of the past I do not wish to know.
He does not give a second thought for one so frail and weak
His heroes in their twenties at their physical peak
He does not show much interest in one time has made gray
A champion of the fifties the old man of today.
A champion of the fifties back in the distant past
And time goes by so quickly and nothing seems to last
You tell the boy about him and he will only say
He seems so old and wasted he has known a better day.
The Former Rose Of Cullen
The former Rose of Cullen where might she be today
She left the Village years ago when flowers bloomed in the May
She left as many others did for places far away
For the land of opportunity the great U S of A.
A woman of rare beauty her equals only few
Her hair was brown and wavy and her eyes were bright and blue
By conceit unaffected and she was free of guile
She was a lovely person with warmth in her smile.
Of marriage she had proposals but 'twas not in her plan
To settle in Duhallow and wed a local man
The wanderlust was in her and her future was elsewhere
And she left behind the memories of her beauty rich and rare.
And she was almost twenty when I was just a boy
She must be in her sixties now how quick the years did fly
And years bring with them wrinkles and years bring with them gray
But the former Rose of Cullen young in my memory stay.
Through Cullen Village in Duhallow she cycled up and down
The wind was in her fair young face and tossed her hair of brown
The former Rose of Cullen was almost in her prime
And the memory of her beauty remains undimmed by time.
The wanderlust was in her and she went to live elsewhere
And I recall her beauty for she had beauty rare
The former Rose of Cullen where might she be today
Is she still in America so many miles away?
She left the Village years ago when flowers bloomed in the May
She left as many others did for places far away
For the land of opportunity the great U S of A.
A woman of rare beauty her equals only few
Her hair was brown and wavy and her eyes were bright and blue
By conceit unaffected and she was free of guile
She was a lovely person with warmth in her smile.
Of marriage she had proposals but 'twas not in her plan
To settle in Duhallow and wed a local man
The wanderlust was in her and her future was elsewhere
And she left behind the memories of her beauty rich and rare.
And she was almost twenty when I was just a boy
She must be in her sixties now how quick the years did fly
And years bring with them wrinkles and years bring with them gray
But the former Rose of Cullen young in my memory stay.
Through Cullen Village in Duhallow she cycled up and down
The wind was in her fair young face and tossed her hair of brown
The former Rose of Cullen was almost in her prime
And the memory of her beauty remains undimmed by time.
The wanderlust was in her and she went to live elsewhere
And I recall her beauty for she had beauty rare
The former Rose of Cullen where might she be today
Is she still in America so many miles away?
There's Many Worse Off Than Me
I was feeling quite dejected in the mood for self sympathy
Pondering on my poor existence on the fringe of poverty
Till the sight of an old fellow sleeping by an elm tree
Made me realize I'm lucky there's many worse off than me.
Sleeping on the damp grass without a blanket wearing tattered clothes and torn shoes
If one had a magic genie his type of life one would not choose
Long gray hair looking dishevelled he was looking the worst for wear
With his mouth wide open snoring in the chilly morning air.
In a world where some have too much it seems a human tragedy
That so many far too many live in abject poverty
Even in park by a wealthy suburb a poor old fellow sleeping rough
In a so called egalatarian society that hardly seems good enough.
And it galls me just a little to hear some say that one like him does have a choice
The only free things such people offer is their useless words of free advice
One thing I find about these people is that they do differentiate
Of the social divide they are supporters and they know how to discriminate.
For myself I was feeling sorry but I was jolted back to reality
By the sight of a poor man sleeping on the damp grass by a tree
Without even a single blanket for to protect him from the cold
There doesn't seem much of a future for one homeless, frail and old.
Pondering on my poor existence on the fringe of poverty
Till the sight of an old fellow sleeping by an elm tree
Made me realize I'm lucky there's many worse off than me.
Sleeping on the damp grass without a blanket wearing tattered clothes and torn shoes
If one had a magic genie his type of life one would not choose
Long gray hair looking dishevelled he was looking the worst for wear
With his mouth wide open snoring in the chilly morning air.
In a world where some have too much it seems a human tragedy
That so many far too many live in abject poverty
Even in park by a wealthy suburb a poor old fellow sleeping rough
In a so called egalatarian society that hardly seems good enough.
And it galls me just a little to hear some say that one like him does have a choice
The only free things such people offer is their useless words of free advice
One thing I find about these people is that they do differentiate
Of the social divide they are supporters and they know how to discriminate.
For myself I was feeling sorry but I was jolted back to reality
By the sight of a poor man sleeping on the damp grass by a tree
Without even a single blanket for to protect him from the cold
There doesn't seem much of a future for one homeless, frail and old.
He Love
He love the unfenced land of his world flat and wide
The buzzing of the flies in his own countryside
The yap of the wild dog just as the sun goes down
The silence of the sky far from the lights of town.
His people had lived here for sixty thousand years or more
Before the paler types came from that distant shore
To claim the land as theirs yet in his tribal song
The land was always here and the land to none belong.
He love the wide brown land of the country sparse in trees
To lay beside a rock and shelter from sun and breeze
And live the carefree life free of the clock's dictate
In one of the few places where time can be left to wait.
He love the tribal songs and the old corroboree
And the Dreamtime stories by the campfire with his kin and family
And hear the male roos cough in the stillness of the night
In the brown timeless land amongst the peace and quiet.
In the wide brown outback the land of the big sky
In this land he was born and in this land he will die
One of the last few Aussies his history he can trace
Back to the ancient Dreamtime of Australia's oldest race.
The buzzing of the flies in his own countryside
The yap of the wild dog just as the sun goes down
The silence of the sky far from the lights of town.
His people had lived here for sixty thousand years or more
Before the paler types came from that distant shore
To claim the land as theirs yet in his tribal song
The land was always here and the land to none belong.
He love the wide brown land of the country sparse in trees
To lay beside a rock and shelter from sun and breeze
And live the carefree life free of the clock's dictate
In one of the few places where time can be left to wait.
He love the tribal songs and the old corroboree
And the Dreamtime stories by the campfire with his kin and family
And hear the male roos cough in the stillness of the night
In the brown timeless land amongst the peace and quiet.
In the wide brown outback the land of the big sky
In this land he was born and in this land he will die
One of the last few Aussies his history he can trace
Back to the ancient Dreamtime of Australia's oldest race.
We Act As If We Are Important
We act as if we are important though in time's image we are quite small
Just a branch of the Goddess of Nature and she is the greatest of all
The reaper treats all of us as equals and whether our bones rot or burn
We came from the Goddess of Nature and to her we all must return.
I feel the years creeping up on me and little to show for my time
And I'm seen as an ageing poetaster a man with a poor grasp of rhyme
A man without much of a future and little to show for the past
Though I too had my youth and ambition but nothing I suppose does last.
The loud buzzing of cars on the highway it gives me an ache in the ears
And this war waged on Nature by mankind it fills me with phobias and fears
We insult the Goddess who feeds us her patience we constantly try
I feel one day that we will make her angry and all of mankind she will crush and destroy.
I long for the quiet and green places where humans have not left their mark
Above the scrubland that borders the river I can hear the carolling lark
His song so distinctive and natural just a fading speck in the sky
I only see him as an equal is he less a mortal than I?
We act as if we are important but thought again has proved us wrong
We are just a small branch of Nature and to Nature alone we belong
And the reaper who treats all of us as equals will return us to Nature one day
And it will not matter to us if there is or there is not a headstone for to mark the spot where we lay.
Just a branch of the Goddess of Nature and she is the greatest of all
The reaper treats all of us as equals and whether our bones rot or burn
We came from the Goddess of Nature and to her we all must return.
I feel the years creeping up on me and little to show for my time
And I'm seen as an ageing poetaster a man with a poor grasp of rhyme
A man without much of a future and little to show for the past
Though I too had my youth and ambition but nothing I suppose does last.
The loud buzzing of cars on the highway it gives me an ache in the ears
And this war waged on Nature by mankind it fills me with phobias and fears
We insult the Goddess who feeds us her patience we constantly try
I feel one day that we will make her angry and all of mankind she will crush and destroy.
I long for the quiet and green places where humans have not left their mark
Above the scrubland that borders the river I can hear the carolling lark
His song so distinctive and natural just a fading speck in the sky
I only see him as an equal is he less a mortal than I?
We act as if we are important but thought again has proved us wrong
We are just a small branch of Nature and to Nature alone we belong
And the reaper who treats all of us as equals will return us to Nature one day
And it will not matter to us if there is or there is not a headstone for to mark the spot where we lay.
How Many Have To Die
Those who promise us security they only give us fear
For of terrorists and acts of terrorism we only seem to hear
Every day the senseless slaughter of innocents around the World only seem to multiply
For victory in this so called war on terror how many have to die?
Remember babies are not born as terrorists since terrorism we create
So many young people out there are prepared to die for God and State
And kill as many as they can kill in the process they see that as their key to heaven's gate
And to some become dead heroes and be seen as truly great.
One form of violence does not defeat another this war on terror will not succeed
And each act of aggression leads to another and then to another lead
And always for the crimes of others some of the good with their lives must pay
Yet for to defeat the scourge of terrorism there is another way.
Feed the poor of third world cities and their homes do not destroy
And do not drop bombs on their suburbs from the dark of the night sky
You are only creating terrorists if you strip people of all hope
And to that awful pit of terror we'll keep on sliding down the slope.
Just like the school yard bully he must defend his title every day
Till he gets toppled by another at the top he does not stay
And the boy who beat him will get beaten by another things always do happen that way
Violence always does lead to violence wise people have been known to say.
If you destroy a fellow's home and kill his family he will never be your mate
Till the breath of life is in him for you he will only harbour hate
But if you help him and his family he will say how great you are
Violence never gets you anywhere whilst love and kindness takes you far.
For of terrorists and acts of terrorism we only seem to hear
Every day the senseless slaughter of innocents around the World only seem to multiply
For victory in this so called war on terror how many have to die?
Remember babies are not born as terrorists since terrorism we create
So many young people out there are prepared to die for God and State
And kill as many as they can kill in the process they see that as their key to heaven's gate
And to some become dead heroes and be seen as truly great.
One form of violence does not defeat another this war on terror will not succeed
And each act of aggression leads to another and then to another lead
And always for the crimes of others some of the good with their lives must pay
Yet for to defeat the scourge of terrorism there is another way.
Feed the poor of third world cities and their homes do not destroy
And do not drop bombs on their suburbs from the dark of the night sky
You are only creating terrorists if you strip people of all hope
And to that awful pit of terror we'll keep on sliding down the slope.
Just like the school yard bully he must defend his title every day
Till he gets toppled by another at the top he does not stay
And the boy who beat him will get beaten by another things always do happen that way
Violence always does lead to violence wise people have been known to say.
If you destroy a fellow's home and kill his family he will never be your mate
Till the breath of life is in him for you he will only harbour hate
But if you help him and his family he will say how great you are
Violence never gets you anywhere whilst love and kindness takes you far.
Possum
There was an old bloke his nickname was Possum he lived along by the Murray river years ago
One who lived in harmony with Mother Nature and about Nature little he did not know
He migrated to Australia from New Zealand as a young man and to his homeland he never did return
And he lived without a home in Nature's garden and from the life of one like him we do have much to learn.
By Max Jones the country detective and author in book form Possum's story has been told
For many years he slept in hollow logs in the open and the amazing thing is that he lived to be old
Without welfare or any sort of an income for money was a thing he did not need
He did not need any cash in the outback since Nature supplied him with every feed.
From Wentworth in New South Wales to Renmark in South Australia in length and breadth that does seem quite a span
The countryside frequented by old Possum he surely was a true nomadic man
In the sparsely populated Riverlands he became a well known character a fleeting glimpse of Possum walking by
And by all accounts he was helpful and generous despite the fact that he was rather shy.
In his his younger years Possum was a top class shearer though every shearer has a use by date
But the money that he earned he gave to poor wanderers and children his needs were little though his soul was great
He died under the stars in the vast outback in eleven degrees below zero the night was cold
He had survived to a ripe old age for a homeless nomad an octogenarian of 81 years old.
Max Jones the author he deserves much credit for writing the story of poor Possum's life
He was a man who did not father children a nomad who did not have kin or wife
Yet don't tell me that his life was not a success since to help out others he went out of his way
And it well could be that the winners of the future could be the type referred to as losers today
One who lived in harmony with Mother Nature and about Nature little he did not know
He migrated to Australia from New Zealand as a young man and to his homeland he never did return
And he lived without a home in Nature's garden and from the life of one like him we do have much to learn.
By Max Jones the country detective and author in book form Possum's story has been told
For many years he slept in hollow logs in the open and the amazing thing is that he lived to be old
Without welfare or any sort of an income for money was a thing he did not need
He did not need any cash in the outback since Nature supplied him with every feed.
From Wentworth in New South Wales to Renmark in South Australia in length and breadth that does seem quite a span
The countryside frequented by old Possum he surely was a true nomadic man
In the sparsely populated Riverlands he became a well known character a fleeting glimpse of Possum walking by
And by all accounts he was helpful and generous despite the fact that he was rather shy.
In his his younger years Possum was a top class shearer though every shearer has a use by date
But the money that he earned he gave to poor wanderers and children his needs were little though his soul was great
He died under the stars in the vast outback in eleven degrees below zero the night was cold
He had survived to a ripe old age for a homeless nomad an octogenarian of 81 years old.
Max Jones the author he deserves much credit for writing the story of poor Possum's life
He was a man who did not father children a nomad who did not have kin or wife
Yet don't tell me that his life was not a success since to help out others he went out of his way
And it well could be that the winners of the future could be the type referred to as losers today
The Tatie Hokers Of The Seventies
The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today?
Perhaps some of them are grand parents now and showing their years in gray
And perhaps some of them have gone to the reaper the reaper who will claim us all
But them I still remember and them I still recall.
Too old to pick potatoes for to earn a decent pay
For such hard work for people who are young or so 'twould seem that way
And without a doubt there are easier jobs for one to earn one's livelihood
The pay not big, the work is hard and working conditions far from good.
To those old brown potato fields of Wales by the Atlantic sea
I never shall return to now just a memory
Of the sort of a life style I did lead when I was in my prime
Back in the early seventies when I was new to rhyme.
Dark haired Jodie from Yorkshire back then she was nineteen
The flower of the potato fields she was a beauty queen
With her she had her pet jackdaw his name was little Joe
Though free to fly he never flew away he went where she did go.
Did she marry a gipsy man with hair as black as coal
For each to their own kind they say she was a wandering soul
And did she give birth to children and who knows they too may be
In May picking potatoes by the Atlantic sea?
Mick from Fermoy a hardy sort back then past his prime years
For his hometown in County Cork he was never moved to tears
Fond of his grog and rather fond of the nomadic life
He was never heard to speak of love and he did not have a wife.
Michael, John and Denis from north Cork back then were at their best
To the hard life of the potato fields they proved equal to the test
I heard that Michael he died young from life's cares he found release
He was a gentle sort of a bloke and may he rest in peace.
And Jack from Shropshire tall and lean his longish hair was black
All day long in the potato fields he worked with bended back
He was a generous sort of a bloke and in him nothing small
But he had a fondness for the beer and grog was his downfall.
On looking back the decades the years just seemed to fly
Above those old potato fields the gulls mewed in the sky
But that was thirty years ago and the baby at that time
Is the ageing father of today and fading from his prime.
The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today
Perhaps they bow to father time and show their years in gray
And across the brown potato fields the cool sea breezes blow
Where I picked the new spuds in May some thirty years ago.
Perhaps some of them are grand parents now and showing their years in gray
And perhaps some of them have gone to the reaper the reaper who will claim us all
But them I still remember and them I still recall.
Too old to pick potatoes for to earn a decent pay
For such hard work for people who are young or so 'twould seem that way
And without a doubt there are easier jobs for one to earn one's livelihood
The pay not big, the work is hard and working conditions far from good.
To those old brown potato fields of Wales by the Atlantic sea
I never shall return to now just a memory
Of the sort of a life style I did lead when I was in my prime
Back in the early seventies when I was new to rhyme.
Dark haired Jodie from Yorkshire back then she was nineteen
The flower of the potato fields she was a beauty queen
With her she had her pet jackdaw his name was little Joe
Though free to fly he never flew away he went where she did go.
Did she marry a gipsy man with hair as black as coal
For each to their own kind they say she was a wandering soul
And did she give birth to children and who knows they too may be
In May picking potatoes by the Atlantic sea?
Mick from Fermoy a hardy sort back then past his prime years
For his hometown in County Cork he was never moved to tears
Fond of his grog and rather fond of the nomadic life
He was never heard to speak of love and he did not have a wife.
Michael, John and Denis from north Cork back then were at their best
To the hard life of the potato fields they proved equal to the test
I heard that Michael he died young from life's cares he found release
He was a gentle sort of a bloke and may he rest in peace.
And Jack from Shropshire tall and lean his longish hair was black
All day long in the potato fields he worked with bended back
He was a generous sort of a bloke and in him nothing small
But he had a fondness for the beer and grog was his downfall.
On looking back the decades the years just seemed to fly
Above those old potato fields the gulls mewed in the sky
But that was thirty years ago and the baby at that time
Is the ageing father of today and fading from his prime.
The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today
Perhaps they bow to father time and show their years in gray
And across the brown potato fields the cool sea breezes blow
Where I picked the new spuds in May some thirty years ago.
I Envy Them
I envy them their close links to Mother Nature and I envy them their freedom of the sky
And I envy them their grace and natural beauty for a thing of natural beauty is a thing of joy
As winter nears the swallows do not tarry off to the warmer climate they do fly
And I worry about myself and my needs are they not that much happier than I?
Today I watched the swallows o'er the paddocks chasing winged insects they flew to and fro
I envy them their carefree life and freedom restriction a thing they will never know
They are not shackled by worry like humans the gift of freedom is a marvellous thing
I watched them fly above the sunlit paddocks and as they flew I heard them chirp and sing.
Their span of time seems brief compared to our span but they know joy and freedom every day
And when the chilly winds of Fall blow colder to the warmer climate they will fly away
Their innocence until death will be with them they do not judge, begrudge or criticize
And all day long above the sunlit paddocks they chase flying beetles, mosquitoes, bees and flies.
And all day long above the sunlit paddocks they chirp and twitter in the sunlit sky
And they do not seem to have a care or worry and they seem happier by far than I
And I envy them their freedom and their innocence and their carefree ways the man in me begrudge
These feathered children of the Goddess Nature who never envy criticize or judge.
And I envy them their grace and natural beauty for a thing of natural beauty is a thing of joy
As winter nears the swallows do not tarry off to the warmer climate they do fly
And I worry about myself and my needs are they not that much happier than I?
Today I watched the swallows o'er the paddocks chasing winged insects they flew to and fro
I envy them their carefree life and freedom restriction a thing they will never know
They are not shackled by worry like humans the gift of freedom is a marvellous thing
I watched them fly above the sunlit paddocks and as they flew I heard them chirp and sing.
Their span of time seems brief compared to our span but they know joy and freedom every day
And when the chilly winds of Fall blow colder to the warmer climate they will fly away
Their innocence until death will be with them they do not judge, begrudge or criticize
And all day long above the sunlit paddocks they chase flying beetles, mosquitoes, bees and flies.
And all day long above the sunlit paddocks they chirp and twitter in the sunlit sky
And they do not seem to have a care or worry and they seem happier by far than I
And I envy them their freedom and their innocence and their carefree ways the man in me begrudge
These feathered children of the Goddess Nature who never envy criticize or judge.
We Are Bloody Hard To Please
We are ninety per cent water with a bit of bone and brain
And we do not like warm sunshine and we do not like the rain
And some anthropoligists claim our ancestors were people of the trees
But of one fact I am certain we are bloody hard to please.
Some find reason to dislike you if to their culture you don't belong
Or if your god to theirs is different with you they find something wrong
And if your skin colour is different with you they don't feel at ease
And one of our greatest frailties is we are bloody hard to please.
If you are a wealthy tycoon and you own half of the town
There are many like me out there doing their best to drag you down
And they do not like you either if you shovel in mud up to your knees
We are rather complicated and we are bloody hard to please.
You may be a social worker and one of those who help the poor
And for the social ills that plague us you are trying to find the cure
But some will see in your acts of kindness a weakness on which they can seize
And find cause to criticize you we are bloody hard to please.
You show some a flowering garden and they will only see decay
Though for that I ought not to criticize them since I too am a bit that way
In most humans cynicism is an incurable disease
One might say we are dysfunctional and so bloody hard to please.
And we do not like warm sunshine and we do not like the rain
And some anthropoligists claim our ancestors were people of the trees
But of one fact I am certain we are bloody hard to please.
Some find reason to dislike you if to their culture you don't belong
Or if your god to theirs is different with you they find something wrong
And if your skin colour is different with you they don't feel at ease
And one of our greatest frailties is we are bloody hard to please.
If you are a wealthy tycoon and you own half of the town
There are many like me out there doing their best to drag you down
And they do not like you either if you shovel in mud up to your knees
We are rather complicated and we are bloody hard to please.
You may be a social worker and one of those who help the poor
And for the social ills that plague us you are trying to find the cure
But some will see in your acts of kindness a weakness on which they can seize
And find cause to criticize you we are bloody hard to please.
You show some a flowering garden and they will only see decay
Though for that I ought not to criticize them since I too am a bit that way
In most humans cynicism is an incurable disease
One might say we are dysfunctional and so bloody hard to please.
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