Time is bunk.
quote by Douglas Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shearer's Cook
Now, shearers' cooks, as shearers know,
Are very seldom wont to blow;
But when I took to dabbing tar
And "picking-up" on Blaringar,
The cook, when "barbers" came at morn
To get a snack, would say, with scorn:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
The "bunk" or slab was in the hut,
And on it "brownie" ready cut;
Two buckets o'er the fire would be -
One filled with coffee, one with tea;
And when the chaps came filing in
The cook would say, with mirthless grin:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
Peculiar man, this shearers' cook,
And had a very ugly look.
To me - a new-chum rouseabout,
Said he, one day when all were out:
"There's nothing in this world, my lad,
That's worth your worry, good or bad;
Grief on the left,
Sorrow on the right,
Trouble on the bunk, but blast it!"
poem by William Thomas Goodge
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astonished stooped man
time's wee piss-boy
damp bunk-bed mattress fears
haiku by Warren Falcon
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Cordova
words and music by amy ray
The volunteers come for your prayers
and some souvenirs,
With ivory skin and boycott lessons
Year after year.
Well I'm tracing your face up in the space of the bottom bunk,
Oh Cordova.
Where I cried and I cried,
I knew I was trading on things that I didn't have,
The things that I didn't have.
Now you come to me
With revolution's infidelity,
With blacklisted friends and tupperware kin,
And your big history.
Well I'm tracing your face up in the space of the bottom bunk,
Oh Cordova.
Where I cried and I cried,
I knew I was trading on things that I didn't have,
The things that I didn't have.
I memorize the lullabies
of dwindling lives.
The lay of the land, the touch of each hand
We lose by and by.
I'm tracing your face up in the space of the bottom bunk,
Oh Cordova.
Where I cried and I cried,
I knew I was trading on things that I didn't have,
The things that I didn't have.
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Religion is all bunk.
quote by Thomas A. Edison
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History is more or less bunk.
quote by Henry Ford
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Exercise is bunk. If you are healthy, you don't need it: if you are sick you should not take it.
quote by Henry Ford
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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High Flier
we're winging our way to foreign lands.
passengers are thinking of soft white sand.
captain Buck is making good time.
He cocks his head, `did you hear that? that's the second time.`
He swears he can hear a honk.
he checks he's stowed his bunk.
With this tailwind they'll do alright
the passengers are enjoying the flight.
`Look out your window, we must each have a screw loose,
isn't that a goose?
for heaven's sake, man, take your foot off the brake,
don't let it overtake! `
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
quote by Erma Bombeck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Leaves
Winds whistle through the trees,
The breeze whispers and sends the leaves,
To glance off an unsuspecting tree trunk,
And then to execute a spirited bunk,
Zigzagging among the gnarled roots,
On the forest floor, which suits
Them very well, and there each one settles,
Surrounded by the stinging nettles,
To compost down and feed the ancient earth,
And then, in time, to constitute rebirth.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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I blame my mother for my poor sex life. All she told me was 'the man goes on top and the woman underneath.' For three years my husband and I slept in bunk beds.
quote by Joan Rivers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunshine and Dust Motes
I am captured here
behind velvet walls,
winging birds outside the window.
Time is my bunk-mate;
Gentle Regrets
sweeten my tea:
the passon fruit has decayed
and yet
I make of this an odd contentment;
even Lonliness can be a friend
if you have no other;
I made of this my strange concoction
which grows upon you such
that its deficiences
can seem in time strangely beautiful;
but this, too, is the lonliness of knowing
no one can understand
this odd beauty
but I.
So I smooth the table cloth
and dust the furniture
watch the dust motes fly
glittering momentarily;
the sun behind
illuminating them;
creating the illusion
that dust flying
is a star.
And each one is I
fluttering ever so gently
to the inevitable ground
but retrieved every now and again
by gentle
household breezes
which I stir
to save them.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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History is more or less bunk. It's tradition. We don't want tradition. We want to live in the present and the only history that is worth a tinker's damn is the history we made today.
quote by Henry Ford
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There’s Only The Two Of Us Here
I camped one night in an empty hut on the side of a lonely hill.
I didn’t go much on empty huts, but the night was awful chill.
So I boiled me billy and had me tea and seen that the door was shut.
Then I went to bed in am empty bunk by the side of the old slab shed.
It must have been about twelve o’clock – I was feeling cosy and warm –
When at the foot of me bunk I sees a horrible ghostly form
It seemed in shape to be half an ape with a head like a chimpanzee
But wot the hell was it doin there, and wot did it want with me?
You may say if you please that I had DTs or call me a crimson liar,
But I wish you had seen it as plain as me, with it’s eyes like coals of fire.
Then it gave a moan and a horrible groan that curdled me blood with fear,
And ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it ses. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’
I kept one eye on the old hut door and one on the awful brute;
I only wanted to dress meself and get to the door and scoot.
But I couldn’t find where I’d left me boots so I hadn’t a chance to clear
And, ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it moans. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’
I hadn’t a thing to defend meself, not even a stick or stone,
And ‘There’s only the two of here!’ It ses again with a horrible groan.
I thought I’d better make some reply, though I reckoned me end was near,
‘By the Holy Smoke, when I find me boots, there’ll be only one of us here.’
I get me hands on me number tens and out through the door I scoots,
And I lit the whole of the ridges up with the sparks from me blucher boots.
So I’ve never slept in a hut since then, and I tremble and shake with fear
When I think of the horrible form wot moaned, ‘There’s only the two of us here!’
poem by Edward Harrington
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You Fuel My Insecurity - Acrostic
You wanted a bunk bed.
One stacked bed,
Up above another.
For my queen was fine,
Until you soiled its sheets.
Expertly you herded me,
Left and right into the bed shop
My master card,
Your delivery instructions.
I stood sadly and watched.
New sleeping arrangements,
Same room but a different bed.
Even though its still for two,
Complete separation now.
Up there you play,
Rolling with them.
I lay awake down here.
Tormented by the thought,
Your past men are in my bed.
poem by Stewart Green
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Cracked Song For Dirty Boots
for Nimal Dunuhinga
This tree
grows still
a child's mind
a bedroom window
This house
this window
gone but for
frames crater
now
once was
home memory's
red dirt
O stand radiant-starred late afternoon
O stained stark shadows' black frieze
astonished stooped man
time's wee piss-boy
damp bunk-bed mattress fears
O stand glazed from edges
gaze to bark
vine maps of escape.
Iron shadows
impress long into
wet pit
sun shards
spy glass
throat sore
Cracked song for dirty boots
poem by Warren Falcon
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Squirrels With Tales
Skunks who bunk,
And break bread all together.
Stink and stank
As they stunk crunching feathers...
With pigeons who had their wings snipped
And tethered inside coops,
That lock!
Mocking with shocking degrading deception!
Smelling themselves to detect imperfections.
Finally they find they have not been perceptive...
To the ones who flock!
Watching...
Squirrels with tales who dropp their nuts,
From treetops!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Whisky Song
I'm frightened as a little mouse
And so I drink THE FAMOUS GROUSE,
It gives me solace, makes me brave
And hastens me to an early grave!
I don't desire to live much longer -
My lust for pleasure is far stronger,
Sobriety's a load of bunk,
I'm far more happy when I'm drunk!
Whisky is my faithful friend
And it will kill me in the end,
But don't expect remorse from me,
Just laugh at my frivolity!
Go on, give over, take a break!
My health and life are both at stake,
It doesn't matter what you think,
I'm married to my favourite drink! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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On the Wallaby
Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead,
And the possums may gambol in trees overhead;
I am humping my bluey far out on the land,
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand:
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum,
And I came by the tracks where the sundowners come.
It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.
But I think of the honest old light of my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps from the dome,
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall,
When my camp fire is built on the widest of all;
But I'm following Fate, for I know she knows best,
I follow, she leads, and it's nor'-west by west.
When my tent is all torn and my blankets are damp,
And the rising flood waters flow fast by the camp,
When the cold water rises in jets from the floor,
I lie in my bunk and I list to the roar,
And I think how to-morrow my footsteps will lag
When I tramp 'neath the weight of a rain-sodden swag.
Though the way of the swagman is mostly up-hill,
There are joys to be found on the wallaby still.
When the day has gone by with its tramp or its toil,
And your camp-fire you light, and your billy you boil,
There is comfort and peace in the bowl of your clay
Or the yarn of a mate who is tramping that way.
But beware of the town -- there is poison for years
In the pleasure you find in the depths of long beers;
For the bushman gets bushed in the streets of a town,
Where he loses his friends when his cheque is knocked down;
He is right till his pockets are empty, and then --
He can hump his old bluey up country again.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Lives Of The Saints
The lives of the saints are very good
Because the saints takes care of their health and Hygiene very well
The saints always changes their clothes everyday because they transpire Very fast in heaven due to the heat that is turned on in the winter in Heaven
Yes it gets very hot in heaven that sometimes they have to open the Windows just a bit so they can get some fresh air
And heaven is home to the saints
But the saints love living in heaven because there is no noise or Violence
During the day the saints leaves heaven and come down to earth to Help in a food bunk and they get paid for their work
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Sonnet: Who Is To Blame?
What can a leader do though he is good,
And followers are wicked to the core?
What can a watch-man do though he is shrewd
But master makes him keep open the door?
What can a teacher do if pupils bunk
Their classes, misguided by society?
What can you do if bore is wrongly sunk
In water-less a site deliberately?
What can a pilot do if plane tho’ checked
Yet crashes killing all its passengers?
What can the captain do if ship gets wrecked
And steersman drives callously ’midst dangers?
What can the Maker do if men turn bad?
A soul that’s lost to hell will make Him sad!
poem by John Celes
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