There's no unemployment in squatter cities. Everyone works. One-sixth of humanity is there. It's soon going to be more than that.
quote by Stewart Brand
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unemployment I Hate You
I was at varsity in my comfort zone.
I never knew the reality.
My dreams were unlimited.
Sky was the limit.
I never knew that today I would be
Sitting here unemployed, so hopeless
and ashamed of my self.
All my dreams are fading.
Unemployment you are the cause of poverty.
Unemployment you are the cause of depression.
Unemployment you are a poison.
Unemployment you are a disaster.
Unemployment I hate you.
To be employed it's not about how you know
But, about who you know.
Corruption, nepositism and cronyism
Are the recipes for poverty and unemployment.
Unemployment I hate you.
poem by Unknown Unpopular
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Are you the Cove?
“Are you the Cove?” he spoke the words
As swagmen only can;
The Squatter freezingly inquired,
“What do you mean, my man?”
“Are you the Cove?” his voice was stern,
His look was firm and keen;
Again the Squatter made reply,
"I don’t know what you mean."
“0! dash my rags! let’s have some sense –
You ain’t a fool, by Jove,
Gammon you dunno what I mean;
I mean – are you the Cove?’
‘Yes, I'm the Cove,” the Squatter said;
The Swagman answered, "Right,
I thought as much: show me some place
Where I can doss tonight."
poem by Joseph Furphy
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This Is Cause For Celebration
Aren't you happy to hear,
The unemployment rate...
Has gone down.
'Let's see...
People losing unemployment benefits.
Plus those who have given up seeking work.
And those companies who have taken their employees,
Overseas to pay no taxes here at all.
Who 'had' been unemployed and documented as such.
It's great to know that!
Less jobs are being found.
And the unemployment rate,
Is going down!
It is a miracle.
This is cause for celebration.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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They keep extending these unemployment benefits to the point where people are afraid to go out and get a job, because the job doesn't pay as much as the unemployment benefit does.
quote by Sharron Angle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Fruitful Hill
Small works, Big City;
Big works, Small City;
Like the tale of two cities.
Here comes the Bride and the bridegroom,
True love is sweeter than honey;
I am on the fruitful hill with words.
Sauerkraut on my table,
true love is sweeter than the honeycomb;
Yes, a virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.
Apples of gold,
A kiss on the lips;
Beyond the River of Ethiopia.
Like the choicest vine,
Life on the fruitful hill;
The day of the wedding crowns it all.
The purple rain,
The purple cushion,
A fruit so sweet to my taste;
Refresh me with sweet apples.
The gold of Sheba,
The fruit of Lebanon,
Let the earth be glad around you;
Flaming fire,
Swarms of flies,
Let the heavens rejoice around you;
Big works, Small City;
Small works, Big City;
A tale of two cities with the love of a muse,
The humble shall see and rejoice always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Absence
I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains
My mouth is upon your pillow
Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice discovering you
I speak to you of eternity
O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires
Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret
Plundered of their master's builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts
Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving
The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep
I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun
And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it's bright mirror.
poem by Paul Eluard
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The seventh sense
Beside five senses, you have the sixth.
It is your mind. Also you have seventh.
It is the fitness instincts, which blend
The feelings for the concrete through the fives
And that for the abstract through the sixth.
10.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Well, our economy is very strong and growing. We have created 5.4 million new jobs in the last 3 years. Our unemployment rate is better than the average unemployment rate of the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s.
quote by Ric Keller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Broken-Down Squatter
Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;
All our mates in the paddock are dead.
Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dells
And the hills where your lordship was bred;
Together to roam from our drought-stricken home
It seems hard that such things have to be,
And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a boss
But a broken-down squatter like me!
For the banks are all broken, they say,
And the merchants are all up a tree.
When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,
What chance for a squatter like me.
No more shall we muster the river for fats,
Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,
Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,
Or see the old stockyard again.
Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,
There are none but the crows left to see,
Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine
On a broken-down squatter like me.
When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,
And the cattle were dying in scores,
Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,
Thinking justice might temper the laws.
But the farce has been played, and the Government aid
Ain't extended to squatters, old son;
When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,
And resumed the best half of the run.
'Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
No squatter could stand such a rub;
For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hot
That one can't save the price of one's grub;
And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the Jews
Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal
For a broken-down squatter like me.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Cities are the greatest creations of humanity.
quote by Daniel Libeskind
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Squatter’s Daughter
OUT in the west, where runs are wide,
And days than ours are hotter,
Not very far from Lachlan Side
There dwelt a wealthy squatter.
Of old opinions he was full—
An Englishman, his sire,
Was hated long where peasants pull
Their forelocks to the squire.
He loved the good old British laws,
And Royalty’s regalia,
And oft was heard to growl because
They wouldn’t fit Australia.
This squatter had a lovely child—
An angel bright we thought her;
And all the stockmen rude and wild
Adored the squatter’s daughter.
But on a bright eventful morn,
A swell of northern nation—
A lordling—brought his languid yawn
And eyeglass to the station.
He coveted the squatter’s wealth;
He saw the squatter’s daughter:
And, what is more than heart or health,
His empty title bought her.
And “Yes”, the father made her say
In spite of tears and kissing;
But early on the wedding day
The station found her missing.
And madder still the squatter grew,
And madder still the lover;
When by-and-by a-missing too,
A stockman they discover.
Then on the squatter’s brow the frown
Went blacker still and blacker;
He sent a man to bring from town
A trooper and a tracker.
The dusty rascal saw the trail;
He never saw it plainer;
The reason why he came to fail
Will take a shrewd explainer.
A day and night the party lose;
The track the tracker parried;
And then a stockman brought the news—
“The runaways were married!”
The squatter swore that he’d forgive,
Perhaps, when he forgot her;
But he’d disown her while he’d live,
And while they called him squatter.
But as the empty months went o’er,
To ease his heart’s vexation
He brought his bold young son-in-law
To manage stock and station.
And glad was he that he forgave,
Because a something had he
To keep his gray hairs from the grave,
And call him “Dear Grand Daddy”.
To Democratic victories
In after years he’d listen;
And, strange to say, to things like these
His aged eyes would glisten.
The lordling took another girl
Not quite of his desire,
And went to where the farmers twirl
Their forelocks to the squire.
Now often to the station comes
An old and wrinkled tracker:
They cheer his heart with plenty rum,
And “plenty pheller bacca”.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Absence
I speak to you over cities
I speak to you over plains
My mouth is against your ear
The two sides of the walls face
my voice which acknowledges you.
I speak to you of eternity.
O cities memories of cities
cities draped with our desires
cities early and late
cities strong cities intimate
stripped of all their makers
their thinkers their phantoms
Landscape ruled by emerald
live living ever-living
the wheat of the sky on our earth
nourishes my voice I dream and cry
I laugh and dream between the flames
between the clusters of sunlight
And over my body your body extends
the layer of its clear mirror.
poem by Paul Eluard
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The Squatter Of The Olden Time
I'll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all,
Even to the scabby wanderer you'd think no good at all;
For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small
Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
He darkly hints that Thompson's run from scab is scarcely free
This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
But finds with grief he's not received as he had hoped to be.
His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free,
And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see
This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Tunnel Vision
I have been advised of having tunnel vision...
You know when you are near blind as a bat?
Worried and in fear-for my eyes my dear?
Nah, my nose works and i'm sure i smell a rat**! ;
Thank God for my nose and my ears...
Never mind my limited sight...
A highly developed instinct also carries me-
Through the blackest of darkest night! ;
It gives me much sought after information...
Of long ago sequesterd plans and schemes...**
I've been told that i am sixth sense old...
That my information is formed in my dreams;
So never mind my tunnel vision sweetheart-
My nose and my ears do just fine...
Coupled with the sixth sense instinct God gave to me...
For miles i can smell my enemies sign**;
May 14,2010
**Smoke From The Attic (as usual)
The Phantom IS Back.
poem by Theodora Onken
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The Squatter, Three Cornstalks, and the Well
There was a Squatter in the land—
So runs the truthful tale I tell—
There also were three cornstalks, and
There also was the Squatter’s Well.
Singing (slowly): “Sin and sorrer, sin and sor-rer, sin and sor-r-r-rer.”
The Squatter he was full of pluck,
The Cornstalks they were full of sin,
The well it was half full of muck
That many rains had drifted in.
Singing (with increased feeling): “Sin, &c.”
The Squatter hired the Cornstalks Three
To cleanse the well of mud and clay;
And so they started willing-lee
At five-and-twenty bob a day.
Singing (apprehensively): “Sin, &c.”
At five-and-twenty bob the lot—
That’s eight-and-four the day would bring
To each; and so they thought they’d got
A rather soft and easy thing.
Singing (sadly): “Sin, &c.”
The Cornstalks cleaned the well within
A day or two, or thereabout—
And then they worked an awful sin—
A scheme to make the job last out.
Singing (reproachfully): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
For when the well was cleaned out quite
Of all its logs and muck and clay
They tipped a drayload down at night
And worked to haul it up next day.
Singing (dismally): “Sin, &c.”
But first the eldest, christened Hodge,
He greased the dray-wheel axles, so
The super wouldn’t smell the dodge
And couldn’t let the Squatter know.
Singing (hopelessly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The stuff they surfaced out each day
With some surprise the Squatter saw.
He never dreamt the sand and clay
Was three miles off the night before.
Singing (mournfully): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
But he got something in his eye;
It wasn’t green, that’s very plain.
He said the well was rather dry,
And they could fill it up again.
Singing (mournfully and dismally): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The Cornstalks went to work next day
In hope, of course, of extra tin—
The Squatter watched, and, sad to say,
The mullock wouldn’t all go in.
Singing (with great pathos): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
And though the Cornstalks twigged the ruse
Whereby the boss had done ’em brown,
They argued that the clay was loose,
And wanted time to settle down.
Singing (hopelessly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The boss began to rave and tear,
And yelled with a most awful frown,
“I will not settle up, I swear,
Till that there clay is settled down!”
Singing (hopefully): “Sin, &c.”
“Before my cheques yer’Il pocket, boys,
Yer’ll put a mountain in a well”—
The Cornstalks didn’t make a noise,
They only murmured sadly—!
Singing (triumphantly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
MORAL:
There is a moral to my rhyme—
A moral to the dirge I sing—
That when you do go in for crime
You mustn’t overdoo the thing.
Singing (more dismally than ever): “Sin and sorrer, s-i-n and sor-r-r-r-rer!”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sixth Place and Falling
Below children and grand children plus old friends,
My rank in importance continually descends.
Then ahead there's bridge and constant reading,
Which result so sadly in my sixth place seeding.
I find it appalling that I'm in the sixth spot and falling,
Though my greatest concern is where it all will end…
How far down the depths will my position descend?
Now that I'm old, unhealthy and not very attractive,
Will the next level ahead be a person more active?
I don't smoke, can't drink and sex is just a concept.
Maybe sixth place is too high for someone so inept.
At the end no matter how far I sank or my final rank,
Her love made it worthwhile so I'll have her to thank.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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She Works Hard For The Money
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Onetta there in the corner stand
and wonders where she is and
it's strange to her
some people seem to have everything
Nine a.m. on the hour hand
and she's waiting for the bell
and she's looking real pretty
just wait for her clientele
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
Twenty five years have
come and gone
and she' seen a lot of tears
of the ones who come in
they really seem to need her there
It's a sacrifice working day to day
for little money just tips for pay
But it's worth it all
just to hear them say that they care
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She already knows
she's seen her bad times
she already knows
these are the good times
She'll never sell out
she never will
not for a dollar bill
she works hard
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
She works hard for the money
so hard for it honey
she works hard for the money
so you better treat her right
song performed by by Donna Summer from The Donna Summer Anthology
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I did go through a period where I was on unemployment. That was my low point: Martha Quinn on line at unemployment, hoping nobody will recognize her.
quote by Martha Quinn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sixth Place and Sliding
Below children and grandchildren plus old friends,
My rank in importance continually descends.
Then ahead there's bridge and constant reading,
Which result so sadly in my sixth place seeding.
I find it appalling that I'm in the sixth spot and falling;
Slipping and sliding at the time of this writing.
Though my greatest concern is where it all will end…
How far down the depths will my position descend?
Now that I'm old, unhealthy and not very attractive,
Will the next level ahead be a person more active?
I don't smoke, can't drink and sex is just a concept.
Maybe sixth place is too high for someone so inept.
At the end no matter how far I sank or my final rank,
Her love made it worthwhile so I'll have her to thank.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rock n Roll Cities
Rock n roll cities, look out here we come
From buffalo to the gulf of mexico
Rock n roll cities, look out for our bus
Does anybody know the way to idaho?
Well its good to be back
Had some trouble on the way
I never thought wed get here
But we made it just the same
The flight over was real rough
So could you lead me to a beer
I see the pretty girls getting younger
Every year
Rock n roll cities, look out here we come
From new york state to the gulf of mexico
Rock n roll cities, look out for our bus
Does anybody know the way to idaho?
Wcvr konk, wsos, are we still on that playlist?
Well, its anybodys guess
But what does it matter when youre out on the town
Rock n roll cities, with a pizza to go
Rock n roll cities, philadelphia p.a.
I got my radio
Promo for mtv
Whats next on the itinerary? can anybody tell?
Whats the hotel like? is there cable t.v. as well?
Get up with a headache, fall asleep on the plane
And we get there, start all over again
Rock n roll cities, look out were coming through
Kansas city, fresno, san diego
Rock n roll cities, look out here we come
Richmond, cleveland, ohio, nebraska, st. paul
Rock n roll cities, look out here we come
From buffalo to the gulf of mexico
Rock n roll cities, watch out for our bus
Does anybody know the way to idaho?
Flight 62 now leaving for memphis stopping at boston
Washington d.c. with continuing service to los angeles
Seattle, portland... etc...
Rock n roll cities, look out here we come
90 miles on highway 61
Rock n roll ladies, watch out here we come
Does anybody know the way to madison?
Rock n roll cities look out here we come
Rock n roll cities
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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