En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Bush Justice

A Dealer, bewitched by gain-promising dreams
Settled down near my Station, to trade with my Teams,
And to sell to, my men too! from whom, through the nose,
Until then, I had screw'd just what prices I chose;
And for this, to be sure, I so hated the man,
That I swore ne'er to rest till I'd settled some plan
Whereby in the Lockup to cleverly cram him!
And so to my Super the matter I put,
Who thereupon 'found' a sheep's head near his hut,
And the 'how came it there?' was sufficient to damn him,
The Beak before who I then lugg'd him, as you
May suppose, being neck-deep in Squattery too.

'Twas a beautiful Hearing, as noted at large
By the Clerk (who was bonuss'd)-sheep-stealing the charge;
'Twould make your hearts laugh in the Records to see
How we bullied him out of his wits! -I say we,
Because while on this side against him 1 banged,
On the other the Beak said he ought to be hanged,
For a gallows-grained, scandalous son of transgression!
And committing him then-the case being so plain,
We sent him three hundred miles 'down on the chain'
To his Trial-and eke to his 'acquittal', at Session!
For what care we Squatters for Law on a push?
And for Justice! what has she to do with the Bush?

poem by Charles Harpur
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saltbush Bill's Second Flight

The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large,
That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge,
Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;
And the squatters swore when they heard the news, and wished they were well away:
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country-side
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, and the dodges and tricks he tried.
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, and stray to the squatters' grass;
He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass;
And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew,
If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through:
But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill,
And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill.

'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring,
When he started at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with a jaunty swing;
For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track
Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back.
So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, to ask could he camp the night;
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and called to him, "Can you fight?"
"Why, what's the game?" said the clean-shaved tramp, as he looked at him up and down;
"If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown!
But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me -- it wouldn't be fair nor right;
I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight:
I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm trampin' back,
To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track."

"Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap," said Stingy Smith with glee,
"A bullying fellow called Saltbush Bill, and you are the man for me.
He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row,
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow --
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard,
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard.
It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill,
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill."

"I'll take the job," said the fighting man; "and, hot as this cove appears,
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, what's lived on the game for years;
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so,
But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show;
They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, and they tried for it every night.
In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight,
For they'd rush and clinch -- it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line;
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine.
If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait
Till an opening came -- and it always came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- and, when the chance comes, make sure!
And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur:
For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours,
That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs --"
"Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut," said Smith, "for you waste your breath;
You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, of talking your man to death.
I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill,
And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill."

'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way
On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, on their six-mile stage a day;
And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along,
And when Stingy Smith came up Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong;
And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed and strayed from their camp at night,
But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight.

So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground, and never a sound was heard
But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word,
Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout,
And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill "went out".
He fell face down, and towards the blow; and their hearts with fear were filled,
For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed.

So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground,
And sent back home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round;
But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt -- in fact, he could scarcely speak --
So they let him spell till he got his wits; and he camped on the run a week,
While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray,
Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh.

Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man:
'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran:
"The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name;
He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game:
But it's worth your while to employ the chap, for there isn't the slightest doubt
You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about."
But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal:
"The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all!
He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look;
He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook.
Bill coached him up in the fighting yard, and taught him the tale by rote,
And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass, and divided your five-pound note.
'Twas a clean take-in; and you'll find it wise -- 'twill save you a lot of pelf --
When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself."

And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain,
And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black-soil plain,
When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool,
And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull,
When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses tham while he flogs,
And the air is thick with the language used, and the clamour of men and dogs --
The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat,
They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith when he read that neighbour's note.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beak Kind To Birds!

Beak kind to birds both near and far,
Both high and low as well...
To me, each bird's a superstar!
In fact, to me, they're swell!
Beak kind to birds and show you care
With titbits now and then...
And watch with wonder as they share
Their breakfast once again!
Beak kind and keep your cats at bay...
Else feeding birds take flight!
It's nicer seeing birds at play
Than watching them take fright!
Beak kind to birds, give them their space
So they may co-exist...
For none on Earth can take their place,
So they'd be sorely missed!
Beak kind to birds, they'll flock to you -
They're all our feathered friends!
It doesn't matter, black or blue...
Beak kind - 'cos it makes sense!

poem by Denis Martindale (2003)
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The Two Devines

It was shearing time at the Myall Lake,
And then rose the sound through the livelong day
Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines
That could shear a sheep with the two Devines.
They had rung the sheds of the east and west,
Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side,
And the Cooma shearers had given them best --
When they saw them shear, they were satisfied.
From the southern slopes to the western pines
They were noted men, were the two Devines.

'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand,
Great struggling brutes, that shearers shirk,
For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand,
And seventy sheep was a big day's work.
"At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines
To shear such sheep," said the two Devines.

But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque
When they came to deal with the station ewes;
They were bare of belly and bare of neck
With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's.
"We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines
When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines.

But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines
Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath,
That a message came for the two Devines
That their father lay at the point of death.
So away at speed through the whispering pines
Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines.

It was fifty miles to their father's hut,
And the dawn was bright when they rode away;
At the fall of night, when the shed was shut
And the men had rest from the toilsome day,
To the shed once more through the darkening pines
On their weary steeds came the two Devines.

"Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said;
"Is the old man dead and the funeral done?"
"Well, no sir, he ain't not exactly dead,
But as good as dead," said the eldest son --
"And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose,
So we came straight back to tackle the ewes."

*

They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake,
And the shed is merry the livelong day
With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
And a couple of "hundred and ninety-nines"
Are the tallies made by the two Devines.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saltbush Bill

Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey --
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains.
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains:
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black --
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight.
Yet the squatters' men, thought they haunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousand starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow.
They set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
The forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and cursed the Jackaroo; he cursed him, alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldly feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the well-grassed plain in the regular prize-ring style.

Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground, and he sparred for wind, and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill --
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and gave his opponent best.

So the new chum rode to the homestead straight, and told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell --
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again;
A week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Good Shepherd’s Love

One sheep amongst the hundred, if gets lost,
The Good Shepherd begins to search for it,
Returning when ’tis found at any cost –
Lamb gets His shoulders upon which to sit!

God seeks and saves the lamb that’s gone astray!
He will not rest until lost one is found;
He leaves the ninety-nine behind that day;
He leads them on to newer grazing-ground.

What love, the Shepherd’s heart bears for His sheep!
He tends to every lamb with equal care;
Yet, some decide to take the plunge down steep,
And meet their death, despite His warnings bare.

The Good Shepherd will not forsake one sheep!
No wolves in sheep-skin dare to come or creep.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-7-2008

poem by John Celes
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The Beautiful Land Of Australia

All you on emigration bent,
With home and England discontent,
Come, listen to my sad lament,
All about the bush of Australia.
I once possessed a thousand pounds.
Thinks I—how very grand it sounds
For a man to be farming his own grounds
In the beautiful land of Australia.

Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Upon the voyage the ship was lost.
In wretched plight I reached the coast,
And was very nigh being made a roast,
By the savages of Australia.

And in the bush I lighted on
A fierce bushranger with his gun,
Who borrowed my garments, every one,
For himself in the bush of Australia.

Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.

Sydney town I reached at last,
And now, thinks I, all danger's past,
And I shall make my fortune fast
In this promising land of Australia.
I quickly went with cash in hand,
Upon the map I chose my land.
When I got there 'twas barren sand
In the beautiful land of Australia.

Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.

Of sheep I got a famous lot.
Some died of hunger, some of rot,
For the devil a dropp of rain they got,
In this flourishing land of Australia.
My convict men were always drunk,
They kept me in a constant funk.
Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk,
How I wish I was out of Australia!

Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of ills, enough I've had you'll own.
And then at last, my woes to crown,
One night my log house was blown down
That settled us all in Australia
And now of home and all bereft,
The horrid spot I quickly left,
Making it over by deed of gift
To the savages of Australia.

Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia

I gladly worked my passage home,
And now to England back I've come,
Determined never more to roam,
At least, to the bush of Australia.
And stones upon the road I'll break,
And earn my seven bob a week,
Which is surely better than the freak
Of settling down in Australia.

Currabubula, Bogolong,
Ulladulla, Gerringong.
If you wouldn't become an ourang-outang,
Don't go to the bush of Australia.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Super Sadist

Super angry
Super hated
Super evil
Super serrated
Super guitar
Super faded
Never sad sad sad

Super hated
Super sarcastic
Super sedated
The super sadist

Keeps his hands in his mouth
That's gold plated
Hates himself more and more
Cause he's made it
Super evil
Super jaded
Never sad sad sad

Super hated
Super sarcastic
Super sedated
The super sadist

Super high tech
Super pay check
Super ego
Super hate pro
Super cautious
Super nauseous
Never sad sad sad

Super all gone
Super hold on
Super ego
Super phenomenon
Super destroy
Super small boy
Never sad sad sad

Super asshole
Super nothing

song performed by by Jack Off Jill from Sexless Demons And Scars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Likeness

When I came forth this morn I saw
Quite twenty cloudlets in the air;
And then I saw a flock of sheep,
Which told me how these clouds came there.

That flock of sheep, on that green grass,
Well might it lie so still and proud!
Its likeness had been drawn in heaven,
On a blue sky, in silvery cloud.

I gazed me up, I gazed me down,
And swore, though good the likeness was,
'Twas a long way from justice done
To such white wool, such sparkling grass.

poem by William Henry Davies
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Alankar (Decor) -9

Soul Release

'Oh no, oh no, hey no, hey not you cry
O' my dear heart what gain gain you crying
What gain regained hollering and you try
Pain clutched you clutch patience till me flying

And me His child as I rest in His hand
You fill their hunt of fleshy need and thirst
Erst vow, again a sheep be not on land
As I to Him so pray no slay thrust first'

In haste the heart the sheep's on men mutters
'And you my soul shall plead for no altar
As me so laid butchered fixed by cutters'
But Hades bitters 'no soul shall taste nectar'

Oh Lord done can be what? to Hades his taste
To sheep their weep, to men their sin life waste?

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Parables of Jesus: ‘The Lost Sheep’

A shepherd with his hundred sheep,
Was grazing them in a meadow green;
When to his horror he noticed
That one was missing from the flock:
‘It wandered off and had got lost! ’
‘It wandered off and had got lost! ’

He left the ninety-nine behind
In the open, open country-side;
He went in search of the missing one,
And finding, lifted it with love,
Placed it on his shoulders, neck,
And came back to his flock with joy;
And came back to his flock with joy.

“Rejoice! I’ve found my sheep,
Just one out of a hundred fold,
One that was lost sometime ago,
I love it dearly anyhow!
Rejoice, my friends and neighbors all,
The sheep that was lost is found;
The sheep that was lost is found! ”

Sheep that was lost is like a soul,
Afilled with sins, and far from God;
And when a sinner repents then,
There’s much rejoicing in heaven;
There’s much rejoicing in heaven!

Lost sheep is like a sinner who
Commits sins and has strayed from God;
But God of love for all creatures,
Seeks him out without delay when
He has atoned for his sins,
And soul comes back to Maker’s fold;
And soul comes back to Maker’s fold.

The Good Shepherd – Lord Jesus Christ
Was sent to earth to be born man
in utter poverty and strife,
And suffer for the sins of all;
And suffer for the sins of all.

He came to earth to preach God’s Word
Of forgiveness of mankind’s sins;
He sought just sinners and not saints,
And made their hearts truly repent,
And saved them from the fiery hell,
Whither unrepentant souls go;
Whither unrepentant souls go.

The Good Shepherd is Jesus Christ,
Who came to preach the Word of God;
He sought the sinners’ souls all lost,
Explained to them about God’s love,
And the need to feel sorry,
As God’s ready to forgive sins,
No matter how many / grievous;
No matter how many / grievous!

Joy fills heaven, Abode of God,
And angels rejoice much more when
A penitent sinner repents,
And soul embraces God again;
And soul embraces God again;

Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-09-’10

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Extremely Positive

What I want I want.
No substitutes for me.
I settled for replacements then...
Back when I had those needs.

I've tasted afairs that went nowhere.
And embarrassments I faced.
But those days are not returning now.
I can not see that as a possibility.

What I want I want.
No substitutes for me.
I settled for replacements then...
Back when I had those needs.

I look for clarity to guide my steps,
After weeping tears of much regret.
I've removed all issues of a mental debt!
And now I want all that I can get...
To please and satisfy,
A happiness I once denied!

What I want I want.
No substitutes for me.
I settled for replacements then...
Back when I had those needs.

Right now I am pleased,
To discover the real me!
And what others believed...
Brought me misery to grieve!

What I want I want.
No substitutes for me.
I settled for replacements then...
Back when I had those needs.

Opportunities came,
To catch me undecided.
Overnight I found myself...
Filled with excitement and much delighted!

What I want I want.
No substitutes for me.
I settled for replacements then...
Back when I had those needs.
To do for others as they chose I did.
But now a joy inside me lives!
Knowing it was 'me' I had to forgive!
And wanting what I want allows me more to give!
Feeling a freedom I had never known or shown...
That I condone and is extremely positive!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pusher

(1970) Hoyt Axton
You know I smoked a lot of grass,Oh Lord
And I popped a lot of pills
But I never did touch nothing
That my spirit couldn't kill
You know I see a lot of people walkin' round
Here with tombstones in their eyes
'Cause the pusher don't care
Child if you live or if you die
God damn on the pusher, yea yea
I said God damn him
God damn him, pusher man
You know the dealer
I said the dealer is a man
With lots of love racks in his hand
But the pusher is a monster
Good God, oh Lord he's my natural man
You know the dealer
The dealer takes a nickel lord
And sells you lots of sweet dreams
And lord knows we need lots a sweet dreams
But here comes the pusher
Takes your body and leaves your mind a screen
God damn on the pusher
I said God damn the pusher
He's not a natural man
You know the dealer takes a nickel
And he sells a box of sweet dreams
But he pusher takes your body
He takes your body
He takes your body
And he leaves your mind a screen
God damn him
God damn him, God damn him
God damn him, God damn the pusher
If I were the president, hear me, of this land
I'd declare totale war on the pusher man
Gimme now, now
I'd shoot him if he stands
I'd cut him if he runs yea
I'd kill him with my Bible
My razor and my gun
God damn him, God damn him
Oh, the pusher
God damn the pusher man

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pusher

(1970) hoyt axton
You know I smoked a lot of grass,oh lord
And I popped a lot of pills
But I never did touch nothing
That my spirit couldnt kill
You know I see a lot of people walkin round
Here with tombstones in their eyes
cause the pusher dont care
Child if you live or if you die
God damn on the pusher, yea yea
I said God damn him
God damn him, pusher man
You know the dealer
I said the dealer is a man
With lots of love racks in his hand
But the pusher is a monster
Good god, oh lord hes my natural man
You know the dealer
The dealer takes a nickel lord
And sells you lots of sweet dreams
And lord knows we need lots a sweet dreams
But here comes the pusher
Takes your body and leaves your mind a screen
God damn on the pusher
I said God damn the pusher
Hes not a natural man
You know the dealer takes a nickel
And he sells a box of sweet dreams
But he pusher takes your body
He takes your body
He takes your body
And he leaves your mind a screen
God damn him
God damn him, God damn him
God damn him, God damn the pusher
If I were the president, hear me, of this land
Id declare totale war on the pusher man
Gimme now, now
Id shoot him if he stands
Id cut him if he runs yea
Id kill him with my bible
My razor and my gun
God damn him, God damn him
Oh, the pusher
God damn the pusher man

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meddle

Calmly waking up to a hot pot of coffee
Moments later struggling and screaming “get off me! ”
You never saw it coming
But someone didn’t appreciate the tune you were humming
Or the strings you were strumming
Now your heart beats more than the little boy drumming
You were placed on a list of a suspicious sort
And someone somewhere filed a report

Mentioned to someone on how you planned to contort
The news being spread with the rest of your consort
Showed them blueprints you authored in black and white
You planned to cut society’s fabric like
The dreams of the hobos and the other destitute
Too bad now you don’t sound so resolute
Who you gonna call when your case is to be settled?
......
You know who to trust when you decide not to meddle

-You’re fighting a losing battle but yet and still you march on
Sun is setting on your ideals but all you see is the dawn
You’re one against a system as volcanic as it is cold
Don’t meddle and get out of the road if you wanna grow old

You talked about environment, abortion, political corruption
Quagmires made with weapons of mass destruction
Obstruction of justice carried out through unions
Made pleads on TV while everybody tuned in
And asked them to “try on another man’s shoes”
If they hadn’t any then “try to chant to their blues”
If they had too many then “take a page from their news”
You claimed “there’s always more going on besides you”

But you put your message on during CSI: Super Bowl
Thinking the super flow of audience would be your super gold
You had the planet for a day and you must’ve felt super bold
Should’ve known your real issues were getting super old
And so it goes the ending of your little show
What matters most is just to go with what you’re told
You’ve got a fire that will never temper your mettle
But no one here gives a damn, so why must you meddle?

poem by P.R. Prosper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Shepherd

The shepherd goads his sheep by staff,
And leads them on to pastures green,
Instructing them to watch for wolves
That come in sheep-skin, in their midst!

The shepherd knows each sheep by name,
And calls them sweetly when they stray,
Or when they near the ledge atop
A valley deep or hill-side steep!

The sheep too know their shepherd's call,
And graze on meadows, keeping near;
They know he is their protector,
And will save them at any cost!

How safe it is when shepherd's near!
No sheep can ever lose its way;
The shepherd takes care of the flock,
But cannot bear to see one, lost!

Dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius, Parish Priest,
Holy Family Church, Perundurai, by his beloved parishioners
Copyright by Dr John Celes 31-05-2012

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Billy Barlow In Australia

When I was at home I was down on my luck,
And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—"Oh, oh,
I'll start on my travels," said Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
He'd cattle and sheep past the colony's bounds,
Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He gammon'd the cash out of Billy Barlow.
When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
He said, "My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I shall die of starvation," thought Billy Barlow.

At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
A constable came up, and to me did say,
"Are you free?" Says I, "Yes, to be sure; don't you know?"
And I handed my card, "Mr. William Barlow."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He said, "That's all gammon," to Billy Barlow.
Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
"I must send you down to be i—dentified."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
They at last let me go, and I then did repair
For my station once more, and at length I got there;
But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
Had spear'd all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"It's a beautiful country," said Billy Barlow.

And for nine months before no rain there had been,
So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I shall soon be a settler," said Billy Barlow.
And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
He replied he was sorry he couldn't, because
The bill had passed into a usurer's claws.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"But perhaps he'll renew it," said Billy Barlow.
I applied; to renew he was quite content,
If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
But as I couldn't do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
He asked, "Don't you know me?" I answered him "No."
"Why," said he, "my name's Kinsmill; how are you, Barlow?"
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He'd got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.
What I'd left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
And he said, "They won't pay all the costs and my fees;"
Then he sold off the lot, and I'm sure 'twas a sin,
At sixpence a head, and the station giv'n in.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I'll go back to England," said Billy Barlow.
My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa.,
By way of a change he'd brought up a ca. sa.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
Poor unfortunate Billy fast "under the clock;"
And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
Then once more I got free, but in poverty's toil;
I've no "cattle for salting," no "sheep for to boil;"
I can't get a job—though to any I'd stoop,
If it was only the making of portable soup."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr. Sheep

Golly, mister, where you going? you'll be late for work careful or you'll drop your briefcase jesus, what a jerk there he goes down to the subway off to catch the train too bad for him he forgot
Umbrella poor mr. sheep you're wet mr. sheep walk on, mr. sheep walk on tell me, how's your little family? how's your little wife? are you going to live with these monsters for the rest of your
Maybe you got a little girlfriend stashed somewhere in town may be you ain't got a little girlfriend ha ha ha ha ha poor mr. sheep he's a lonely guy too walk on mr. sheep walk on dance, mister!
He's doin' ok oh, oh oh, he's all right let him get up by himself now i don't want to be too rough and i don't want to be too mean you're right - this world is awful tough i know exactly what y
An but i want you to know exactly how i feel and to tell you the truth right now i feel like going i feel like going baa baa mr. sheep careful, you're walking all over your own self now walk on,
Sheep walk on, mr. sheep walk
On, mr. sheep walk on

song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Easy Way Out

You'll take advantage, till you think you're being used
'Cause without an enemy your anger gets confused
And I got stuck on a side you know I never chose
But it's all about
Taking the easy way out for you
I suppose
There's no escape for you, except in someone else
Although you've already disappeared within yourself
The invisible man, who's always changing clothes
It's all about
Taking the easy way out for you
I suppose
While I watch you making mistakes
I wish you luck, I really do
With the problem, with the puzzle
Whatever's left of you
I heard you found another audience to bore
Creative thinker, you imagined you were more
A new body for you to push around and pose
It's all about taking the easy way out for you
I suppose
It's all about taking the easy way out for you
I suppose

song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Screw It All

Screw the World
Screw my friends
Screw the lies that never end
Screw my mom
Screw my dad
Screw the way I feel sad
Screw my teachers
Screw my school
Screw the life of one man's rule
Screw my clothes
Screw my nose
All it is is a fake pose
Screw my body
Screw my face
Screw all the parts below my waist
Screw your life
And Screw mine
Screw the rich who drink and dine
Screw the poor
Screw the sick
All it is is a load of gick
Screw my money
Screw my car
Oh my God, I'm so sick of it all!

poem by Artemis Zeus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Conroy's Gap

This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap --
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath --
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death".

The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
to him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said,
"And listen to me, if you dare resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!"
He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.

There was a girl in that shanty bar
Went by the name of Kate Carew,
Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
But ready-witted and plucky, too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
"The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim."

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near --
And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from east to west;
In every show ring, on every course,
They always counted The Swagman best.

He was a wonder, a raking bay --
One of the grand old Snowdon strain --
One of the sort that could race and stay
With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
Born and bred on the mountain side,
He could race through scrub like a kangaroo;
The girl herself on his back might ride,
And The Swagman would carry her safely through.

He would travel gaily from daylight's flush
Till after the stars hung out their lamps;
There was never his like in the open bush,
And never his match on the cattle-camps.
For faster horses might well be found
On racing tracks, or a plain's extent,
But few, if any, on broken ground
Could see the way that The Swagman went.

When this girl's father, old Jim Carew,
Was droving out on the Castlereagh
With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through
To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
And he was a hundred miles from home,
As flies the crow, with never a track
Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam;
He mounted straight on The Swagman's back.

He left the camp by the sundown light,
And the settlers out on the Marthaguy
Awoke and heard, in the dead of night,
A single horseman hurrying by.
He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo,
And many a mile of the silent plain
That lonely rider behind him threw
Before they settled to sleep again.

He rode all noght, and he steered his course
By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,
And every time that he pressed his horse
The Swagman answered him gamely still.
He neared his home as the east was bright.
The doctor met him outside the town
"Carew! How far did you come last night?"
"A hundred miles since the sun went down."

And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,
So long as he or one of his breed
Could raise a coin, though it took their last,
The Swagman never should want a feed.
And Kate Carew, when her father died,
She kept the horse and she kept him well;
The pride of the district far and wide,
He lived in style at the bush hotel.

Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew
Nothing about could pace the crack;
Little he'd care for the man in blue
If once he got on The Swagman's back.
But how to do it? A word let fall
Gave him the hint as the girl passed by;
Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall;
Go to the stable and mind your eye."

He caught her meaning, and quickly turned
To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe
By arresting me, and it's easily earned;
Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,
The Swagman has it." So off they went,
And as soon as ever they turned their backs
The girl slipped down, on some errand bent
Behind the stable and seized an axe.

The trooper stood at the stable door
While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,
And then (the trick had been played before)
The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
Three slabs fell out of the stable wall --
'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew --
And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,
Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through.

The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring
In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate,
But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring
At the fence, and the trooper fired too late
As they raced away, and his shots flew wide,
And Ryan no longer need care a rap,
For never a horse that was lapped in hide
Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap.

And that's the story. You want to know
If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;
Of course he should have, as stories go,
But the worst of it is this story's true:
And in real life it's a certain rule,
Whatever poets and authors say
Of high-toned robbers and all their school,
These horsethief fellows aren't built that way.

Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound,
He sloped across to the Queensland side,
And sold The Swagman for fifty pound,
And stole the money, and more beside.
And took to drink, and by some good chance
Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.
And that was the end of this small romance,
The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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