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Building and marrying of children are great wasters.
Know the 20 biggest time wasters
Know the 20 biggest time wasters
We are good in spending time, but inept in really utilizing it. The
following are the time wasters in both personal and professional lives. It
is presumed that you are wise enough to cure them.
Attempting too much triggered by over ambition, over response and over desire
Unclear role and responsibility without adequate authority
Intruders in the name of visitors, guests and others
Inability to say “no” for whatever reason, may be fear or love
Inadequate control over things happening around
Inadequate planning, probably not knowledgeable as to how to go about
Running short of resources
Not adequately informed of the progress
Inability to get certain tasks done by others
Lack of self discipline not keeping up to schedules, not adhering to
punctuality
Unfinished tasks in chain of events leading to designed goals
Reacting only when deviations observed, not bothering about preventive steps
Wasteful discussions and purposeless meetings
Unnecessarily detailing, loose ends searching
Self disorganization
Poor or ineffective communication
Procrastination – assuming self to the best, waiting for crisis to crop up, postponing tougher tasks
Over socializing, diluting the purpose of interpersonal interaction
Time consuming telephone or mobile calls, both in and out
Travel without purpose
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If i were a rich biatch!
If i was rich,
i'd buy lots of things,
glitzy bits,
and diamond rings,
there would be,
no money rashings,
i'd have to follow,
the trendy fashions,
i'd eat out in expensive places,
and you would still see,
the same old wasters,
if i were rich,
i'd have no money worries,
i would get down to the shops in a hurry,
but i'm not rich,
and i never will be,
i work hard for my money,
and that is me!
poor or rich?
i can't choose which,
but i will never be a rich biatch! !
poem by Emma Jane Rae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fletcher Memorial Home
Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere
And build them a home a little place of their own
The fletcher memorial
Home for incurable tyrants and kings
And they can appear to themselves every day
On closed circuit t.v.
To make sure theyre still real
Its the only connection they feel
ladies and gentlemen, please welcome reagan and haig
Mr. begin and friend mrs. thatcher and paisley
Mr. brezhnev and party
The ghost of mccarthy
The memories of nixon
And now adding colour a group of anonymous latin
American meat packing glitterati
Did they expect us to treat them with any respect
They can polish their medals and sharpen their
Smiles, and amuse themselves playing games for a while
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down youre dead
Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye
With their favourite toys
Theyll be good girls and boys
In the fletcher memorial home for colonial
Wasters of life and limb
Is everyone in?
Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Corruption Reigns Supreme
Politicians and union chiefs,
Are really so alike,
High salaries and pension schemes,
They never go on strike.
They're rewarded when they make a mess,
The same applies when they fail,
Whereas we'd be sacked immediately,
Then thrown into jail.
Their policies are much the same,
In Immorality they are entwined,
They want the plebs under their thumb,
In corruption they are enshrined.
They're paid for by the working class,
They always get their way,
Yet when it comes to all their perks,
We do not have a say.
When we hit recession,
For us redundancy will lurk,
While they retain their earnings,
They forever remain in work.
Take the miners leader,
He was pretty deft,
He's the leader of a union,
Where there are no miners left.
Trade unions and the government,
Have an affiliation,
You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,
It's a truly sick creation.
You often find that union chiefs,
End up as politicians,
The job is very much the same,
Dictating our conditions.
If they were truly competent people,
With problems we would not be beset,
But throughout the world these wasters,
Have saddled us with massive debt.
They must be forced to recognise,
That we've all had enough,
If they had to live as we do,
They would find it really tough.
The workers of the modern world,
Really need to unite,
Strip these people of all their power,
Then push them out of sight.
Maybe then we could rid ourselves,
Of our lowly self esteem,
But the problem is we're far too weak,
That's Why,
'' Corruption Reigns Supreme ''
Odysseus: In Memory Of Arthur Griffith
You had the prose of logic and of scorn,
And words to sledge an iron argument,
And yet you could draw down the outland birds
To perch beside the ravens of your thought
The dreams whereby a people challenges
Its dooms, its bounds. You were the one who knew
What sacred resistance is in men
That are almost broken; how, from resistance used,
A strength is born, a stormy, bright-eyed strength
Like Homer's Iris, messenger of the gods,
Coming before the ships the enemy
Has flung the fire upon. Our own, our native strength
You mustered up. But I will never say this,
Walking beside you, or looking on you,
With your strong brow, and chin was like a targe,
And eyes that were so kindly of us all.
And sorrow comes as on that August day,
With our ship cleaving through the seas for home,
And that news coming sparkling through the air,
That you were dead, and that we'd never see you
Looking upon the state that you had builded.
The news that came was like that weight of waters
Poured on our hopes! Our navies yet unbuilded,
Our city left inglorious on its site,
Our fields uncleared, and over
Our ancient house the ancient curse of war!
And could we pray, touching the island-homeland,
Other than this: 'Odysseus, you who laboured
So long upon the barren outer sea;
Odysseus, Odysseus, you who made
The plan that drove the wasters from the house,
And bent the bow that none could bend but you:
Be with us still:
Your memory be the watcher in our house,
Your memory be the flame upon our hills.
poem by Padraic Colum
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How Do I Get Close
Living in a world where the flesh is cheap.
Body touches body but its only skin deep.
I can hold you in my arms every time that you weep
But weve lost that emotional flow.
Living on a planet full of emptiness
With maximum exposure full of sleaziness
But the make up on your face cant disguise loneliness
Where designer feelings are in vogue, what do they know?
Darlin darlin how do I get close to you when im
Trying, trying my heart is reaching out to you
How do I get close to you?
In this world without feeling,
Where words have no meaning,
If I were lying, lying,
Id have more chance of reaching you but im,
Crying, crying, but I cant get my message through,
How do I get close to you?
Get close to the sinners trying hard to repent
Get close to the homeless wasters and the innocent
Get close to the souls ignored and forgotten by the
Establishment.
People get afraid to touch in case it rubs off on them
Gotta get close, yeah people gotta stay close, close.
People gotta stay close.
Though we seem together, its breaking my heart.
This world is full of barriers that keep us apart.
Keep it superficial before feelings can start
In a world thats all glitter and glow, what do they know?
Darlin, darlin, I cant communicate to you without
Crying, crying, I cant get a message through
How do I get close to you?
How can I get close?
How can I get close?
Darlin, darlin, how do I get close to you when youre
Surviving surviving in a world thats making us confused
Guess Im afraid of losing you.
In this world without feeling.
Somehow we gotta stay close.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Uncle Jim
'I got no time fer wasters, lad,' sez 'e,
'Give me a man wiv grit,' sez Uncle Jim.
'E bores 'is cute ole eyes right into me,
While I stares 'ard an' gives it back to 'im.
Then orl at once 'e grips me 'and in 'is:
'Some'ow,' 'e sez, 'I likes yer ugly phiz.'
'You got a look,' 'e sez, 'like you could stay;
Altho' yeh mauls King's English when yeh yaps,
An' 'angs flash frills on ev'rythink yeh say.
I ain't no grammarist meself, per'aps,
But langwidge is a 'elp, I owns,' sez Unk,
'When things is goin' crook.' An' 'ere 'e wunk.
'Yeh'll find it tough,' 'e sez, 'to knuckle down.
Good farmin' is a gift—like spoutin' slang.
Yeh'll 'ave to cut the luxuries o' town,
An' chuck the manners of this back-street gang;
Fer country life ain't cigarettes and beer.'
'I'm game,' I sez. Sez Uncle, 'Put it 'ere!'
Like that I took the plunge, an' slung the game.
I've parted wiv them joys I 'eld most dear;
I've sent the leery bloke that bore me name
Clean to the pack wivout one pearly tear;
An' frum the ashes of a ne'er-do-well
A bloomin' farmer's blossomin' like 'ell.
Farmer! That's me! Wiv this 'ere strong right 'and
I've gripped the plough; and blistered jist a treat.
Doreen an' me 'as gone upon the land.
Yours truly fer the burden an' the 'eat!
Yours truly fer upendin' chunks o' soil!
The 'ealthy, 'ardy, 'appy son o' toil!
I owns I've 'ankered fer me former joys;
I've 'ad me hours o' broodin' on me woes;
I've missed the comp'ny, an' I've missed the noise,
The football matches an' the picter shows.
I've missed—but, say, it makes me feel fair mean
To whip the cat; an' then see my Doreen.
To see the colour comin' in 'er cheeks,
To see 'er eyes grow brighter day be day,
The new, glad way she looks an' laughs an' speaks
Is worf ten times the things I've chucked away.
An' there's a secret, whispered in the dark,
'As made me 'eart sing like a flamin' lark.
Jist let me tell yeh 'ow it come about.
The things that I've been thro' 'ud fill a book.
Right frum me birf Fate played to knock me out;
The 'and that I 'ad dealt to me was crook!
Then comes Doreen, an' patches up me parst;
Now Forchin's come to bunk wiv me at larst.
First orf, one night poor Mar gits suddin fits,
An' floats wivout the time to wave 'good-byes.'
Doreen is orl broke up the day she flits;
It tears me 'eart in two the way she cries.
To see 'er grief, it almost made me glad
I never knowed the mar I must 'ave 'ad.
We done poor Muvver proud when she went out
A slap-up send-orf, trimmed wiv tears an' crape.
An' then fer weeks Doreen she mopes about,
An' life takes on a gloomy sorter shape.
I watch 'er face git pale, 'er eyes grow dim;
Till—like some 'airy angel—comes ole Jim.
A cherub togged in sunburn an' a beard
An' duds that shouted ''Ayseed!' fer a mile:
Care took the count the minute 'e appeared,
An' sorrer shrivelled up before 'is smile,
'E got the 'ammer-lock on my good-will
The minute that 'e sez, 'So, this is Bill.'
It's got me beat. Doreen's late Par, some way,
Was second cousin to 'is bruvver's wife.
Somethin' like that. In less than 'arf a day
It seemed 'e'd been my uncle orl me life.
'E takes me 'and: 'I dunno 'ow it is,'
'E sez, 'but, lad, I likes that ugly phiz.'
An' when 'e'd stayed wiv us a little while
The 'ouse begun to look like 'ome once more.
Doreen she brightens up beneath 'is smile,
An' 'ugs 'im till I kids I'm gettin' sore.
Then, late one night, 'e opens up 'is scheme,
An' passes me wot looks like some fond dream.
'E 'as a little fruit-farm, doin' well;
'E saved a tidy bit to see 'im thro';
'E's gittin' old fer toil, an' wants a spell;
An' 'ere's a 'ome jist waitin' fer us two.
'It's 'ers an' yours fer keeps when I am gone,'
Sez Uncle Jim. 'Lad, will yeh take it on?'
So that's the strength of it. An' 'ere's me now
A flamin' berry farmer, full o' toil;
Playin' joo-jitsoo wiv an' 'orse an' plough,
An' coaxin' fancy tucker frum the soil,
An' longin', while I wrestles with the rake,
Fer days when me poor back fergits to ache.
Me days an' nights is full of schemes an' plans
To figger profits an' cut out the loss;
An' when the pickin's on, I 'ave me 'an's
To take me orders while I act the boss;
It's sorter sweet to 'ave the right to rouse….
An' my Doreen's the lady of the 'ouse.
To see 'er bustlin' 'round about the place,
Full of the simple joy o' doin' things,
That thoughtful, 'appy look upon 'er face,
That 'ope an' peace an' pride o' labour brings,
Is worth the crowd of joys I knoo one time,
An' makes regrettin' 'em seem like a crime.
An' ev'ry little while ole Uncle Jim
Comes up to stay a bit an' pass a tip.
It gives us 'eart jist fer to look at 'im,
An' feel the friendship in 'is warm 'and-grip.
'Im, wiv the sunburn on 'is kind ole dile;
'Im, wiv the sunbeams in 'is sweet ole smile.
'I got no time fer wasters, lad,' sez 'e,
'But that there ugly mug o' yourn I trust.'
An' so I reckon that it's up to me
To make a bloomin' do of it or bust.
I got to take the back-ache wiv the rest,
An' plug along, an' do me little best.
Luck ain't no steady visitor, I know;
But now an' then it calls—fer look at me!
You wouldn't take me, 'bout a year ago,
Free gratis wiv a shillin' pound o' tea;
Then, in a blessed leap, ole Forchin lands
A missus an' a farm fair in me 'ands.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sari Bair
So, they've struck their streak o' trouble, an' they got it in the neck,
An' there's more than one ole pal o' mine 'as 'anded in 'is check;
But Ginger still takes nourishment; 'e's well, but breathin' 'ard.
An' so 'e sends the strength uv it scrawled on a chunk uv card.
'On the day we 'it the transport there wus cheerin' on the pier,
An' the girls wus wavin' hankies as they dropped a partin' tear,
An' we felt like little 'eroes as we watched the crowd recede,
Fer we sailed to prove Australia, an' our boastin' uv the breed.
'There wus Trent, ex~toff, uv England; there wus Green, ex-pug, uv 'Loo;
There wus me, an' Craig uv Queensland, wiv 'is 'ulkin' six-foot-two:
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, 'oo 'owled a rag-time air.
On the day we left the Leeuwin, bound nor'-west for Gawd-knows-where.
'On the day we come to Cairo wiv its niggers an' its din,
To fill our eyes wiv desert sand, our souls wiv Eastern sin,
There wus cursin' an' complainin'; we wus 'ungerin' fer fight -
Little imertation soljers full uv vanity an' skite.
'Then they worked us - Gawd! they worked us, till we knoo wot drillin' meant;
Till men begun to feel like men, an' wasters to repent,
Till we grew to 'ate all Egyp', an' its desert, an' its stinks:
On the days we drilled at Mena in the shadder uv the Sphinx.
'Then Green uv Sydney swore an oath they meant to 'old us tight,
A crowd uv flarnin' ornaments wivout a chance to fight;
But little Smith uv Collin'wood, he whistled 'im a toon,
An' sez, 'Aw, take a pull. lad, there'll be whips o' stoushin' soom.'
'Then the waitin', weary waitin', while we itched to meet the foe!
But we'd done wiv fancy skitin' an' the comic op'ra show.
We wus soljers - finished soljers, an' we felt it in our veins
On the day we trod the desert on ole Egyp's sandy plains.
'An' Trent 'e said it wus a bore, an' all uv us wus blue,
An' Craig, the giant, never joked the way 'e used to do.
But little Smith uv Collin'wood 'e 'ummed a little song,
An' said, 'You leave it to the 'eads. O now we sha'n't be long!'
'Then Sari Bair, O Sari Bair, 'twus you wot seen it done,
The day the transports rode yer bay beneath a smilin' sun.
We boasted much, an' toasted much; but where yer tide line creeps,
'Twus you, me dainty Sari Bair, that seen us play fer keeps.
'We wus full uv savage skitin' while they kep' us on the shelf -
(Now I tell yeh, square an' 'onest, I wus doubtin' us meself):
But we proved it, good an' plenty, that our lads can do an' dare,
On the day we walloped Abdul o'er the sands o' Sari Bair.
'Luck wus out wiv Green uv Sydney, where 'e stood at my right 'and,
Fer they plunked 'im on the transport 'fore 'e got a chance to land.
Then I saw 'em kill a feller wot I knoo in Camberwell,
Somethin' sort o' went inside me - an' the rest wus bloody 'ell.
'Thro' the smoke I seen 'im strivin', Craig uv Queensland, tall an' strong,
Like an 'arvester at 'ay-time singin', swingin' to the song.
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, 'e 'owled a fightin' tune,
On the day we chased Mahomet over Sari's sandy dune.
'An' Sari Bair, O Sari Bair, you seen 'ow it wus done,
The transports dancin' in yer bay beneath the bonzer sun;
An' speckled o'er yer gleamin' shore the little 'uddled 'eaps
That showed at last the Southern breed could play the game fer keeps.
'We found 'im, Craig uv Queensland, stark, 'is 'and still on 'is gun.
We found too many more besides, when that fierce scrap wus done.
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, he crooned a mournful air,
The night we planted 'em beneath the sands uv Sari Bair.
'On the day we took the transport there wus cheerin' on the pier,
An' we wus little chiner gawds; an' now we're sittin' 'ere,
Wiv the taste uv blood an' battle on the lips uv ev'ry man
An' ev'ry man jist 'opin' fer to end as we began.
'Fer Green is gone, an' Craig is gone, an' Gawd! 'ow many more!
Who sleep the sleep at Sari Bair beside that sunny shore!
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, a bandage 'round 'is 'ead,
He 'ums a savage song an' vows quick vengeance fer the dead.
'But Sari Bair, me Sari Bair, the secrets that you 'old
Will shake the 'earts uv Southern men when all the tale is told;
An' when they git the strength uv it, there'll never be the need
To call too loud fer fightin' men among the Southern breed.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Kid
Now, this ain't a loocid story, but it 'as a 'igh-class moral.
I can mop up all the praises hurled at me by them it soots.
An' with them it don't appeal to I don't seek to pick a quarrel;
But I pause to say in passin', that I hold 'em brainless coots.
Well it mighter been a nightmare or it mighter been a vision.
Why or 'ow or where it 'appened, or 'ow long or shot ago
These are items I am shy of; but I've come to this decision:
It all 'appened some'ow somewhere, an' I'm tellin' all I know.
With this lengthy introduction - which I'm trustin', inter-arlier,
Will be paid for, cash, at space rates, to assist a bard in need
(For the lot of jingle-writers in our own sun-kissed Australier
Ain't so sunny as it might be, on the 'ole) - I'll now proceed.
There was me - who's most important, bein' here to tell the story
There was Kodak's gloomy lodger, an' a 'Enry Lawson bloke,
Also E.J. Brady's pirate, full of husky oaths and gory,
An' a plump and pleasin' female from an Ambrose Dyson joke.
Likewise with us at the geth'rin' Was Grant 'Ervey's Strong Australian.
An' a curly Souter peach; it was a treat the way she dressed;
An' a Louis Esson dryad, sparsely gowned an' somewot alien
(For which rhyme I point to many precedents amongst the best).
Also there were many others, far too noomerous to mention;
Bron men, somwot out of drorin', but exceedin' terse an' keen;
Yeller pups, George Reids an' dry dogs - but it is not my intention
To innoomerate the items in a Chris'mas BULLYTEEN.
Where we were I 'ave no notion, tho' it mighter been Parnassus.
Any'ow - but I'm forgettin' one small guest that came unbid;
Standin' in a corner sulkin', seldom speakin', 'cept to sass us,
Rubbin' 'is thin calves together, stood a Norman Lindsay kid.
But the main point of this story is that all of us was stony;
An' we needed money badly for to give ourselves a treat.
An' we wanted to present the editor with somethin' toney
In the shape of clubs or rest cures, just to try an' get 'im sweet.
'Mates, alas, there's nothin'left us,' ses the gloomy Lawson native.
'We can only look for other castaways from other wrecks.'
When the Wild Cat, on 'is windlass, scratched 'is left ear contemplative
An' remarked, 'I think I've gotter scheme to land the fatted cheques.
'We are valuable assets,' 'e went on, in tones finanshul.
'We are also reproductive, an' I think I see a chance
To relieve the present tension, an' secure a sum substanshul,
Which all comes of my acquaintance with low schemes an' 'igh finance.
'If we borrer twenty thousand on our natcheral resourses
On all BULLETTEEN creations - it will purchase many beers.
We can maffick, an' pay int'rest - which is a triflin' thing of course is
With a sinkin' fund extendin' over ninety-seven years.'
Well! To say we was elated is to put th ematter mildly.
I can still 'ear Brady's pirate yellin', 'Bite mates, let us bite!'
I can still see Kodak's lodger kick 'is slippered feet, and wildly
Try to borrer two-an'-sixpence on the spot....But oh, that night!
'Where do I come in?' a squeaky voice arose above our shoutin',
Rose an' squeaked, shrill an' insistent, over all our joyous din.
'Twas the kid, the Lindsay youngster, standin' in 'is corner poutin'.
'Take a pull, yer bloomin' wasters! Blime, where do i come in?
'Nice lot, ain't yer? Garn, yer loafers! Let the comin' generation
Suck their theumbs an' watcher yer jag, an' 'ump the bill when it comes due;
Slave an' work when you 'ave snuffed it. An' you look for veneration
From us kids! Why, blime, who could venerate the likes of you?
'As THE BULLYTEEN been preachin' years an' years an' years for nuffin'
On the vice of floatin' loans ab' gettin' in the 'ands of Yids?
Playin' up yer borrered money! Eatin' drinkin', swillin', stuffin'!
Then, when you 'ave checukced a seven, what a picnic for the kids!'
Spare me! You could 'ear a pin dropp when that little kid 'ad finsihed.
We just 'ung our 'eads in silence, till the Strong Australian spoke.
(Brady's pirate tore 'is whiskers, with 'is lust for jags dimished;
An' the Souter peach was sobbin' on the breast of Lawson's bloke.)
'Comrades,' ses the Strong Australian, 'see our star all glory litten!
Heed the ancient, beer-stained story! Heed the warning of the kid!
Lo, the way of ink's before us! Ringing verses shall be written
In which I shall figure largely. Yes, I shall.' An', 'struth, 'e did!
Ses the pirate, with the remnants of 'is whiskers fiercely bistlin'.
'In the war of life together we must take each wound and sear.'
'Now, we care not where we're bound for,' ses the Lawson native, whistlin'
For 'is dawg. 'It's up Matilda.' As for me, I ses, ''Ear, 'ear.'
As I sed, this yarn ain't loocid, but its moral should not fail yer.
I shall ne'er fergit that ev'nin' or the voice above the din.
It's the cry of all the kiddies, born an' unborn, in Australyer,
When we flash our borrered millyuns: 'Blime, where do we come in?'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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