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A Lonely Man

When I'm out among the fellows, with the work to hold my mind,
Then there's heaps of joy in livin' an' the world seems awful kind
Awful kind an' awful jolly, with no trace of melancholy,
An' I tell myself the bloke that don't enjoy it must be blind
When I'm out among the fellows; but, when I am sittin' here,
Dreamin' by my lonely fireside, then the world gets kind of queer.

I suppose it's how you take it: what they call the point of view;
An' a man don't look for dreamin' when there's work for him to do.
But he can't be ever toilin', an' at times he gets to spoilin'
All the joy the day has brought him - when he lets the black thoughts through.
It suppose it's livin' lonely, as a fellow never should;
For a lonely man gets broodin', and the broodin' isn't good.

It's never good, the sayin' is, for man to live alone.
But 'tain't because I like it that I'm batchin' on my own,
For a bloke must take what's goin', an' my life ain't all been growin'
Daffodils and hummin' dance tunes just to give my soul a tone.
It's muscle I've had to grow since days when I was small,
An' all the muscle that I've made is with the axe an' maul.

When folks are poor an' toil is hard an' times are harder still
A boy soon learns the use of time if he would eat his fill.
Long before I'd finished schoolin' I had put aside my foolin'.
Till now, at thirty an' a bit, I'm workin' at a mill.
It isn't much; then then my folks knew that my chance was dim,
Or they might have named me Reginald instead of just plain Jim.

Just Jim the Hatter, Lonely Jim, the bloke that don't say much.
I've heard how people talk of me: the gossipers an' such.
An' they say I'm slow at givin'; but I've got my way of livin',
An' I've got my bit of farm-land an' a house that ain't a hutch.
An' tho it hurts if this man sneers or that misunderstands,
I'm proud to know that all I've got was earned with my two hands.

Suppose I don't go gay at times an' throw around the cash:
It's knowin' want that frightened me from gettin' over rash.
I know I'm keen on savin'; but the pinchin' and the slavin'
An' the starvin' in the old days keeps a man from bein' flash.
I never treated neighbours mean or grudged a man a pound;
But I ain't out to buy loud cheers by throwin' it around.

An' after all - well, I don't know - it sums up much the same;
No matter how a man has lived, no matter what his aim
If it's savin', if it's spendin' - all his life is just a blendin'
Of the gay days an' the grey days: an' he's got to play the game.
So where's the use of grumblin' if the game don't suit your bent?
I tells myself this all night - an' yet I ain't content.

There's days that sometimes come to me when toilin's simple bliss,
An' every little job becomes a joy I wouldn't miss:
When the labour seems like playin', an' I catch myself a-sayin',
'Why, it's grand to think a man gets paid for doin' things like this!'
But, after, came the lonely night, when I've looked back an' said,
'To think I have to slave like that to earn a bit of bread!'

When I'm out among the fellows, oh, the world's a place to prize;
But here, beside my lonely fire, the glamour of it dies.
Sittin' here I take to gettin' gloomy views of things, an' frettin'
Till my dog looks up, and wonders, with a question in his eyes.
He's been my mate for years an' years, an' things that folks don't see
Both good an' bad has been thrashed out by my old dog an' me.

Well he knows he's safe for sharin' while I've got a bite an' sup.
When I'm fit, he's full of frolic, laughin' like a silly pup
Out for fun. But when I'm feelin' sad at night, he just comes stealin'
To the fire an' stretches out there with his brown eyes lookin' up,
Lit with such a queer soft sadness that I feel it isn't fair
My own private little worries spoils the evenin' for the pair.

Here, to-night, I've sat an' told him - while his tail flopped on the floor
Of particular conditions that have got me feelin' sore.
An' my present little worry is the matter of Ben Murray
An' his sudden-like attentions to the widow at the store.
I ain't nothin' to the widow, as Ben Murray ought to see;
But I hear he's taken fight lately, with some reference to me.

I ain't nothin' to the widow - not as yet, at any rate;
Tho' a bloke can't be dead certain what is like to be his fate.
But I own that I've been thinkin', an' there ain't no use in blinkin'
At the fact a man must settle down before it gets too late.
I ain't nothing to the widow - don't know that I ever will.
Seems to me it's awful reckless takin' lifelong chances - still...

Me an' my old dog's been talkin' quite a lot - of love an' things:
Weighin' matters; an' we reckon this here love is full of stings,
Fuller than a stingin' nettle. If a fellow wants to settle
He needs solid care an' comfort, not the stuff the poet sings.
Love an' all that talk, we reckon, is a silly sort of fake -
What's a plain man wantin' further if his wife can wash and bake?

I ain't nothin' to the widow ... Neither is Ben Murray though!
An' he won't find me unwillin' if he wants a little go.
I'm not over-keen on fightin'; but his boastin' and his skitin'
Puts my back up; an' his sneerin' often gets down pretty low.
Course, the widow's never mentioned - that's to say, by name, outright;
But I know what's gnawin' at him when I hear he's talking fight.

Talkin' fight an' acting' ugly: not reel earnest, half an' half -
Shootin' sneers into his smilin', slingin' spite nto his chaff.
Tho' a fight I'm never shirkin', when I'm with the fellows, workin',
I can give him good as he does, an' just take it with a laugh.
But at evenin' when I'm broodin', I chew over all the lot,
Till his jokes swell into insults an' his hintin' makes me hot.

He can have it - if he wants it! He won't be too long denied!
But I've heard he's mentioned fivers - wants to fight five pounds a side.
If I'm licked, of course, I lose it; an' that fool and will go and booze it:
Throw it clean into the gutter with the other cash he's shied.
I been told to-day he's saying' that his fiver saves his skin. . . .
Wonder what he meant, the blighter, that should make the fellows grin. . . .

Jumpin' Moses! . . . He can have it! Anywhere an' anywhen!
Fivers? let him talk of fivers! Holy wars, I'll make it ten!
He'll get fightin', too, in plenty. If he likes I'll make it twenty!
We shall see whose skin is safest an' whose hide is toughest then.
I ain't got no grudge against him - only what the rotter's said.
I ain't nothin' to the widow! ... Here, old dog, we'll get to bed

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Robin

Hi, it's a funny world! This mornin' when I woke
I saw red robin on the fence, an' heard the words he spoke.
Red robin, he's a perky chap, an' this was his refrain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

To talk like that about his wife! It had me scandalized.
I'd heard him singin' so before, but never recognised
The meaning of his chatter, or that he could be so vain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

I don't know how, I don't know why, but this reminded me
I was promised to the widow for this Sunday night to tea.
I'd promised her for weeks an' weeks, until she pinned me down.
I recollects this is the day, an' gets up with a frown.

I was thinkin' of the widow while I gets me clobber on -
Like a feller will start thinkin' of the times that's past an' gone.
An', while my thoughts is runnin' so, that bird chips in again:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

Now, the widow's name is Jenny, an' it strikes me sort of queer
That my thoughts should be upon her when that robin's song I hear.
She ain't so homely neither; but she never could compare
With a certain bonzer vision with the sunlight in her hair.

When I wander down that evenin', she come smilin' to the gate,
An' her look is calculatin', as she scolds because I'm late.
She takes my hat an' sits me down an' heaves a little sigh.
But I get a queer sensation from that glimmer in her eye.

She starts to talk about the mill, an' then about the strike,
An' then she digs Ben Murray up an' treats him nasty-like;
She treats him crool an' cattish, as them soft, sweet women can.
But I ups an' tells her plainly that I think Ben is a man.

First round to me. But she comes back, an' says Ben is a cad
Who's made a laughin'-stock of her, an' treated her reel bad.
I twig she's out for sympathy; so counters that, an' says
That Ben's a broken-hearted man about the mill these days.

The second round to me on points; an' I was havin' hopes.
(I might have known that widows were familiar with the ropes.)
'But he'd never make a husband!' says the widow, with a sigh.
An' again I gets a warnin' from that glimmer in her eye.

I says I ain't no judge of that; an' treats it with a laugh.
But she keeps the talk on 'usbands for a minute an' a half.
I can't do much but spar a bit, an' keep her out of range;
So the third round is the widow's; an' the fight takes on a change.

I'm longin' for a breather, for I've done my nerve a lot,
When suddenly she starts on 'Love,' an' makes the pace reel hot.
In half a jiff she has me on the ropes, an' breathin' hard,
With not a fight inside me - I can only duck an' guard.

She uppercuts me with a sigh, an' jabs me with a glance.
(When a widow is the fighter, has a single bloke a chance?)
Her short-arm blows are amorous, most lovin' is her lunge;
Until it's just a touch an' go I don't throw up the sponge.

I use my head-piece here a bit to wriggle from the fix;
For the widow is a winner 'less I fluke a win by tricks.
An' I lets a reel mean notion (that I don't seek to excuse),
when I interrupts her rudely with, 'But have you heard the news?'

Now, to a woman, that's a lead dead certain of a score,
An' a question that the keenest is unable to ignore.
An' good old Curiosity comes in to second me,
As I saw her struggle hopeless, an' 'What news is that?' says she.

An' here I spins a lovely yarn, a gloomy hard-luck tale
Of how I've done my money in, an' I'm about to fail,
How my house an' land is mortgaged, how I've muddled my affairs
Through foolin' round with racin' bets and rotten minin' shares.

I saw the fight was easy mine the minute I begun;
An', after half a dozen words, the time-keep counted 'One.'
An' when I finish that sad tale there ain't the slightest doubt
I am winner of the contest, an' the widow's down an' out.

But not for long. Although she's lost, the widow is dead game:
'I'm sorry, Mister Jim,' says she, 'for both your loss an' shame.
All things is changed between us now, of course; the past is dead.
An' what you were about to say you please will leave unsaid.'

. . . . . . . . . .

I was thinkin' in the evenin' over how I had escaped,
An' how the widow took it all - the way she stared an' gaped.
She looked her plainest at that time; but that don't matter now;
For, plain or fair, I know of one who's fairer, anyhow.

I tells meself that beauty ain't a thing to count with man,
An' I would never choose a wife on that unthinkin' plan.
No robin was awake, I swear; but still I heard that strain;
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Bob Blair

I got so down to it last night,
With longin' for what could not be,
That nothin' in the world seemed right
Or everything was wrong with me.
My house was just a lonely hole,
An' I had blisters on my soul.

Top of my other worries now
The boys are talkin' strike, an' say
If we put up a sudden row
We're sure of forcin' up our pay.
I'm right enough with what I get;
But some wants more, an' then more yet.

Ben Murray's put it up to me:
He says I got some influence
Amongst them, if I agree
'Which I will do if I have sense'
We'll make the boss cough up a bit.
That's how Ben Murray looks at it.

I don't know that the old boss can.
I've heard he's pushed to make ends meet.
To me he's been a fair, straight man
That pays up well an' works a treat.
But if I don't get in this game,
Well, 'blackleg' ain't a pretty name.

This thing has got me thinkin' hard,
But there is worse upon my mind.
What sort of luck has broke my guard
That I should be the man to find
A girl like that? . . . The whole world's wrong!
Why was I born to live and long?

I get so down to it last night
With broodin' over things like this,
I said 'There's not a thing in sight
Worth havin' but I seem to miss.'
So I go out and get some air
An' have a word with old Bob Blair.

Bob's livin' lonely, same as me;
But he don't take to frettin' so
An' gettin' megrims after tea.
He reads a lot at night, I know;
His hut has books half up the wall
That I don't tumble to at all.

Books all about them ancient blokes
That lived a thousand years ago:
Philosophers an' funny folk
What he sees in them I don't know.
There ain't much fun, when all is said,
In chap that is so awful dead.

He put his book down when I came,
He took his specs off, patient-like.
He's been in Rome; an' who can blame
The old man if he gets the spike
To be jerked back so suddenly
By some glum-lookin' coot like me.

At first he looks at me quite dazed,
As tho' 'twas hard to recognize
The silly fool at which he gazed;
An' then a smile come in his eyes:
'Why, Jim,' he says. 'Still feelin' blue?
Kiss her, an' laugh!' . . . But I says, 'Who?'

'Why, who, if not the widow, lad?'
But I says, 'Widows ain't no go.'
'What woman, then, makes you so sad?'
I coughs a bit an' says, 'Dunno.'
He looked at me, then old Bob Blair
He ran his fingers through his hair.

'God help us, but the case is bad!
An' men below, an; saints above
Look with mixed feelin's, sour an' sad,
Upon a fool in love with love.
Go, find her, lad, an' be again,
Fit to associate with men.

'Don't leave yourself upon the shelf:
It's bad for man to live alone.'
'Hold on,' says I. 'What ails yourself?
What are you doin' on your own?'
Quickly he turned away his head.
'That's neither here nor there,' he said.

I saw I'd made a clumsy break;
An' tied to cover it with talk
Of anything, for old Blair's sake.
He don't reply; but when I'd walk
Outside he says, 'What's this I hear
About the mill boys actin' queer?'

So then we yarns about the strike,
An' old Bob Brown frowns an' shakes his head.
'There's something there I hardly like;
The boss has acted fair,' he said.
'Eight years I've toiled here constantly,
An' boss an' friend he's been to me.

'I know he's up against it bad;
Stintin' himself to pay the men.
Don't listen to this tattle, lad,
An' leave that dirty work to Ben.
He tries to play on others need;
It's partly devil, partly greed.

'Ben's not a reel bad lot at heart,
But ignorant an' dull of sight,
An' crazed by these new creeds that start
An' grow like mushrooms, overnight;
An' this strange greed that's spread the more
Since the great sacrifice of war.

'Greed everywhere!' sighed old man Blair.
'Master an' man have caught the craze;
An' those who yesterday would share
Like brothers, now spend all their days
Snatchin' for gain - the great, the small.
And, of, folly of it all!'

He tapped the small book by his hand.
'Two thousand years ago they knew
That those who think an' understand
Can make their wants but very few.
Two thousand years they taught
That happiness can not be bought.'

'Progress?' he shouted. 'Bah! A Fig!
Where are the things that count or last
In buildin' something very big
Or goin' somewhere very fast?
We put the horse behind the cart;
For where's your progress of the heart?

'Great wisdom lived long years ago,
An' yet we say that we progress.
The paint an' tinsel of our show
Are men more generous, or kind?
Then where's your progress of the mind?'

(I think Bob Blair's a trifle mad;
They say so, too, around these parts;
An' he can be, when he's reel bad,
A holy terror once he starts.
dare say it's readin' books an' such.
Thank God I never read too much!)

I says I'm sure I don't know
Where all this progress gets to now.
He smiles a bit an' answers low,
'Maybe you'll find out, lad, somehow.
But talkin' makes my old head whirl;
So you be off, an' - find that girl.'

I says Good night, an' out I goes;
But I was hardly at the door
When his old specs is on his nose,
An' his book in his hand once more;
An', as I take the track for home,
Bob Blair goes back to Ancient Rome.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Real World

I remember me sittin on my daddys
Knee
Dreamin about what life had in store for me
When I look back now it really makes me mad
The years I took for granted were the best I had
School was alright
Gave me time to fantasize
But one day I woke up
And I realized
Im livin in the real world
Everythings written in black and white
Livin in the real world
Where you dont get nothin unless you fight
I wanna relax but I dont know how
The pressures on me are much stronger now
I remember the days I didnt have a care
Aside from being afraid somebodyd cut my hair
I wanna make it
Before my chances are gone
They say be patient
But it takes too long
Im livin in the real world
Everythings written in black and white
Livin in the real world
Where you dont get nothin unless you fight
Real world
Where there aint no holiday in sight
Livin in the real world
Where you dont get nothin unless you fight
Someday soon Ill settle down for
Good
There was a time I thought I never would
Im gonna live with a lady on a quiet beach
Im gonna have three kids, maybe one of each
Ive got to make it
Before my chances are gone
They say be patient
But it takes too long
Im livin in the real world
Everythings written in black and white
Livin in the real world
Where you dont get nothin unless you fight
Real world
Where there aint no holiday in sight
Livin in the real world
Where you dont get nothin unless you fight

song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vision

Of things that roam about the bush I ain't got many fears,
For I knows their ways an' habits, and I've chummed with them for years.
For man or beast or gully ghost I've pluck enough to spare;
But I draws the line at visions with the sunlight in their hair.

When a man has fought an' conquered it is good in many ways:
There's the pride in having done it, an' the other fellows' praise;
There's the glory an' the standin' that you get among the men
All their looks are more respectful since I socked it into Ben.

I was feelin' fine this mornin' when I started out to work;
An' I caught myself high-steppin' with a boastful sort of jerk;
With my head a trifle higher an' my eye a little stern.
I thought the world was mine for keeps; but I'd a lot to learn.

Young Dick, the Dusty, wasn't half as cheeky as of old;
The men were actin' friendly-like, but I kept kind of cold
An' distant, as becomes a bloke who's scored a knock-out thump
Till just approachin' dinner time; an' then I got my bump.

It's fine to see your cobbers lookin' at you like the know
You're not a man to trifle with; at least, I found it so.
Ben Murray was quite affable, an' once he whispered me
There's a certain somethin' doin', an' he'll see me privately.

I was workin' at the rip saw, cursin' at my achin' back,
When I saw the blessed vision comin' down the log-year track.
There were others in the party, but the one that got my stare
Was her with two brown, laughin' eyes an' sunlight in her hair.

'More visitors!' growled old man Pike. 'Another city push.
I'll bet a quid they ask us why we 'spoil the lovely bush.'
I hardly heard him saying it, for like a fool I stand,
My eyes full of the vision an' a batten in my hand.

'You gone to sleep?' the sawyer said. 'What's got you mesmerized?'
I start to work like fury, but my thoughts can't be disguised.
'Oh, Jim's gone dippy with the Spring'; replies old Pike an' grins.
I turn to answer dignified; but trip, an' bark my shins.

Next thing I know the boss is there, an' talkin' fine an' good.
Explaining' to the visitors how trees are made of wood.
They murmur things like 'Marvellous!' an' 'What a monster tree!'
An' then the one with sunlit hair comes right bang up to me.

'I saw you fall,' she sort of sung: you couldn't say she talked,
For her voice had springtime in it, like the way she looked an' walked.
'I saw you fall,' she sung at me. 'I hope you were not hurt.'
An' suddenly I was aware I wore my oldest shirt.

'It never hurt me half as much as your two smilin' eyes.'
That's how I could have answered her - and watched old Pike's surprise
'It never harmed me half as much as standin' here like this
With tattered shirt an' grimy hands' . . . But I just says, 'No, Miss.'

'Oh, no,' I says. 'We're pretty hard, an' have to take them cracks.'
(But just to see her sudden smile, made me as soft as wax.)
'You're strong,' she smiles. I answers, 'Oh, I'm pretty strong, all right.'
An' close behind I heard old Pike observin', 'Hear 'im skite!'

That finished me. I lost what little nerve I had, an' grew
Dead certain that I looked a fool, an' that she thought so, too.
She talked some more; but I can't tell what other things she said.
I went all cold, except my ears, an' thye were burnin' red.

I only knew her eyes were soft, her voice was kind an' low.
I never spoke another word exceptin' 'Yes' an' 'No.'
I never felt a bigger chump in all my livin' days,
Well knowin' I was gettin' worse at every word she says.

An' when she went off with the rest I stood there, lookin' sick.
Until I caught a chance remark of little Dirty Dick.
'What price the widders now?' says he. I answer fierce an' low:
'Were you addressin' me?' I says; an' Dick was prompt with 'No!'

I don't know how I finished up; my thoughts were far from clear;
For, in between me an' the bench, that vision would appear.
No other man chucke doff at me, but by their looks 'twas plain
I'd lost a bit of that respect it took a fight to gain.

An', when the knock-off whistle blew, Ben Murray he came by,
An' says he'd like that private talk, but, 'Pickle it,' says I.
''Twill have to keep til later on.' He answers, 'As you like.'
Soon after that I saw him talkin' earnest with old Pike.

If I'd been right, I might have known there's somehting in the air
By the way the blokes were actin'; but a fat lot did I care.
Swell visions an' the deadly pip was what was wrong with me.
I slung a word to my old dog, an' we trudged home to tea.

An' after, in the same old way, we sits beside the fire,
To have a talk, my dog an' me, on fools an' vain desire.
I tell him I'm a silly chump to thnk the things to do.
An', with a waggle of his tail, he says he thinks so too.

I tell him I suppose she's rich, or so she seems to be;
Most likely some reel city swell - an' he don't disagree.
I says to him the chances are I'll not see her no more.
Then he gives me a funny look, an' curls up on the floor.

But I was slow to take the tip, an' went on talkin' rot
About injustice in the world, an' boiled up good an' hot.
I spouts of wrongs of workin' men an' how our rulers fail.
His eyes are shut, but he just seconds motions with his tail.

All beuaty's only for the rich, all times, an' every way.
The toilers just take what is left, as I've heard Murray say
When he's bene talkin' to the boys about the workers' rights,
An' spoutin' of equality, down at the huts, of nights.

I turned the social system inside-out for my old dog.
Tho' he don't seem much entertained, but lies there like a log.
I spoke of common people's wrongs - especially of mine;
But when I came to mention love I thought I heard him whine.

But I went on, an' said straight out that, tho' I seemed above
Such nonsense once, I'd changed a bit, an' I believed in love.
I said love was a splendid thing! . . . Then, true as I am born,
He rose, an' yawned, an' shut me up with one crook glance of scorn.

It's bad enough to be a bloke without one reel close friend;
But when your dog gives you the bird it's pretty near the end.
Ashamed, I sneaked away to bunk; an' fell to dreamin' there
Of a little brown-eyed vision with the sunlight in her hair.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Freak of Spring

At any other time of year
It might have passed, but Spring is queer.
He says somethin' - I dunno
Somethin' nasty. I says, 'Ho!'
'Ho, yourself!' he says, an' glares.
I says nothin' - only stares.
'Coot!' says he . . . Then up she goes!
An' I land him on the nose.

It was Spring, Spring, Spring! Just to hear the thrushes sing
Would make a fellow laugh, or love, or fight like anything.
Which mood called I wasn't carin'; I was feelin' fine an' darin';
So I fetches him a beauty with a lovely left-arm swing.
Ben Murray staggered back a bit an' howled a wicked word
Which gave me feelin's of great joy . . . An' that's how it occurred.

'On the sawdust!' yells old Pike,
Gloatin' and bloodthirsty-like.
'On the sawdust with yeh both!
Truth to tell, I'm nothin' loth.
I peel off my coat an' vest.
Murray, with his rage suppressed,
Comes up eager, pale with spite.
'Glory!' shouts old Pike. 'A fight!'

It was Spring, glad Spring, an' the swallows on the wing
Made a man feel kind an' peaceful with their cheery twittering.
As I watched their graceful wheelin' with a pleasant sort of feelin'
Old man Pike pulled out his ticker, an' the mill-hands made a ring.
There was gold upon the wattle an' the blackwood was in bud,
An' I felt the call for action fairly sizzin' in my blood.

Murray comes on like a bull;
Both his eyes with spleen are full.
Let him have it - left an' right. . . .
Pike is bustin' with delight. . . .
Right eye once and left eye twice
Then he grabs me like a vice. . . .
Down into the dust we go
Bull-dog grip and short-arm blow.

It was Spring! Mad Spring! Just to feel him clutch an' cling
Told me plain that life was pelendid an' my strength a precious thing.
On the sawdust heap we scrambled, while the fellows yelled an' gambled
On the fight; an' Ben loosed curse-words in a never-endin' string.
Oh, I glimpsed the soft sky shinin' and I smelled the fresh-cut wood;
An' as we rolled I pummelled him, an' knew the world was good.

''Tain't a dog-fight!' shouts Bob Blair.
'Stand up straight an' fight it fair.'
I get end-up with a grin.
'Time!' yells Pike, an' bangs a tin.
'Corners, boys. A minute's spell.'
'Good lad, Jim! You're doin' well,'
Says the little Dusty, Dick. . . .
Murray's eye is closin' quick.

It was Spring, sweet Spring, an' a man must have his fling:
Healthy men must be respondin' to the moods the seasons bring.
That sweet air, with scrub scents laden, all my body was invadin',
Till each breath I drew within me made me feel I was king.
'Twas the season to be doin' - fondlin' maids, or fightin' men -
An' I felt my spirit yearnin' for another crack at Ben.

Pike bangs on his tin again.
'Time!' he roars. 'Get to it, men!'
I come eager, fit to dance;
Ben spars cautious for a chance.
With a laugh I flick him light;
Then - like lightin' comes his right
Full an' fair upon the jaw
Lord, the purple stars I saw!

It was Spring, wild Spring! When I felt the sudden sting
Of a clout all unexpected, I was just a maddened thing -
Just a savage male thing ragin'; battle all my wits engagin'.
Instant I was up an' at him, an' I punched him round the ring.
I forgot the scents an' season; I lost count of time an' place;
An' my only aim an' object was to batter Murray's face.

Pike is dancin' wild with joy;
Dusty Dick howls, 'At him, boy!'
I am at him, fast an' hard.
Then, as Murray drops his guard,
I get in one, strong an' straight,
Full of emnity an' weight.
Down he goes; the fellows shout.
'One!' starts Pike, then. . . 'Ten - an' out!'

It was Spring, gay Spring. Still were swallows on the wing,
An', on a sudden, once again I heard the thrushes sing.
There was gold upon the wattle, an' my recent wish to throttle
Murray, as he lay there groain', was a far-forgotten thing.
In the soft blue sky were sailin' little clouds as fine as fluff.
'Wantin' more?' I asked him gently; but Ben Murray said, 'Enough.'

'Well done, Jim,' says old Bob Blair.
''Tis the brave deserves the fair.'
An' he laughs an' winks at Pike
In a way that I don't like.
Widders,' grins young Dusty Dick,
'Likes a bloke whose hands is quick.
Now poor Ben can take the sack.'
But I frowns, an' turns my back.

It was Spring, the fickle Spring; an' a most amazin' thing
Came upon me sudden-like an' set me marvellin'.
For no longer was I lookin' for a wife to do my cookin',
But for somethin' sweet and tender of the kind that kiss an' cling.
Oh, for such a one I'd battle, an' I'd win by hook or crook;
But it did seem sort of foolish to go fightin' for a cook.

Standin' on the sawdust heap
I feel mean an' rather cheap,
Widows? Let the widow go!
What we fought for I don't know.
Murray offers me his hand:
'Jim, you've won; so understand,
I don't mean to block your road . . .'
But I answer, 'That be blowed!'

'Why, it's Spring, man, Spring!' (An' I gave his fist a wring)
'If you reckoned me your rival, give up thinkin' such a thing.
I just fought for fun an' frolic, so don't you get melancholic;
An', if you have notions yonder, why, buck up an' buy the ring!
Put some beefsteak on your eye, lad, an' learn how to keep your guard.'
Then I put my coat an' vest on, an' walked homeward . . . thinkin' hard.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Before the War

'Before the war,' she sighs. 'Before the war.'
Then blinks 'er eyes, an' tries to work a smile.
'Ole scenes,' she sez, 'don't look the same no more.
Ole ways,' she sez, 'seems to 'ave changed their style.
The pleasures that we had don't seem worth while
Them simple joys that passed an hour away
An' troubles, that we used to so revile,
'Ow small they look', she sez. ''Ow small today.

'This war!' sighs ole Mar Flood. An' when I seen
The ole girl sittin' in our parlour there,
Tellin' 'er troubles to my wife Doreen.
As though the talkin' eased 'er load 'uv care,
I thinks uv mothers, 'ere and everywhere,
Smilin' a bit while they are grievin' sore
For grown-up babies, fightin' Over There;
An' then I 'ears 'em sigh, 'Before the war.'

My wife 'as took the social 'abit bad.
I ain't averse - one more new word I've learned
Averse to tea, when tea is to be 'ad;
An' when it comes I reckon that it's earned.
It's jist a drink, as fur as I'm concerned,
Good for a bloke that toilin' on the land;
But when a caller comes, 'ere am I turned
Into a social butterfly, off-'and.

Then drinkin' tea becomes a 'oly rite.
So's I won't bring the family to disgrace
I guts a bit 'uv coachin' overnight
On ridin' winners in this bun-fed race.
I 'ave to change me shirt, an' wash me face,
An' look reel neat, from me waist up at least,
An sling remarks in at the proper place,
An' not makes noises drinkin', like a beast.

''Ave some more cake. Another slice, now do.
An' won't yeh 'ave a second cup uv tea?
'Ow is the children?' Ar, it makes me blue!
This boodoor 'abit ain't no good to me.
I likes to take me tucker plain an' free:
Tea an' a chunk out on the job for choice,
So I can stoke with no one there to see.
Besides, I 'aven't got no comp'ny voice.

Uv course, I've 'ad it all out with the wife.
I argues that there's work that must be done.
An' tells 'er that I 'ates this tony life.
She sez there's jooties that we must not shun.
You bet that ends it; so I joins the fun,
An' puts 'em all at ease with silly grins
Slings bits uv repartee like ''Ave a bun,'
An' passes bread an' butter, for my sins.

Since I've been marri'd, say, I've chucked some things,
An' learned a whole lot more to fill the space.
I've slung all slang; crook words 'ave taken wings,
An' I 'ave learned to entertain with grace.
But when ole Missus Flood comes round our place
I don't object to 'er, for all 'er sighs;
Becos I likes 'er ways, I likes 'er face,
An', most uv all, she 'as them mother's eyes.

'Before the war,' she sighs, the poor ole girl.
'Er talk it gets me thinkin' in between,
While I'm assistin' at this social whirl. . . .
She comes across for comfort to Doreen,
To talk about the things that might 'ave been
If Syd 'ad not been killed at Suvla Bay,
Or Jim had not done a bunk at seventeen,
An' not been heard uv since 'e went away.

They 'ave a little farm right next to us
'Er and 'er husband - where they live alone.
Spite uv 'er cares, she ain't the sort to fuss
Or serve up sudden tears an' sob an' moan,
An' since I've known 'er some'ow I 'ave grown
To see in 'er, an' all the grief she's bore,
A million brave ole mothers 'oo 'ave known
Deep sorrer since them days before the war.

'Before the war,' she sez. 'Yeh mind our Syd?
Poor lad. . . . But then, yeh never met young Jim
'Im 'oo was charged with things 'e never did.
Ah, both uv you'd 'ave been reel chums with 'im.
'Igh-spirited 'e was, a perfect limb.
It's six long years now since 'e went away
Ay, drove away.' 'Er poor ole eyes git dim.
'That was,' she sighs, 'that was me blackest day.

'Me blackest day! Wot am I sayin' now?
That was the day the parson came to tell
The news about our Syd. . . . An', yet, some'ow . . . .
My little Jim!' She pauses for a spell. . . .
'Your 'olly'ocks is doin' reely well,'
She sez, an' battles 'ard to brighten up.
'An' them there pinks uv yours, 'ow sweet they smell.
An' - Thanks! I think I will 'ave one more cup.'

As fur as I can get the strength uv it,
Them Floods 'ave 'ad a reel tough row to how.
First off, young Jim, 'oo plays it high a bit,
Narks the ole man a treat, an' slings the show.
The come the war, an' Syd 'e 'as to go.
'E run 'is final up at Suvla Bay
One uv the Aussies I was proud to know.
An' Jim's cracked 'ardy since 'e went away.

'Er Jim! These mothers! Lord, they're all the same.
I wonders if Doreen will be that kind.
Syd was the son 'oo played the reel man's game;
But Jim 'oo sloped an' left no word be'ind,
His is the picter shinin' in 'er mind.
'Igh-spirited! I've 'eard that tale before.
I sometimes think she'd take it rather kind
To 'ear that 'is 'igh spirits run to war.

'Before the war,' she sez. 'Ah, times was good.
The little farm out there, an' jist us four
Workin' to make a decent liveli'ood.
Our Syd an' Jim! . . . Poor Jim! I grieves me sore;
For Dad won't 'ave 'im mentioned 'ome no more.
'E's 'urt, I know, cos 'e thinks Jim 'urt me.
As if 'e could, the bonny boy I bore. . . .
But I must off 'ome now, an' git Dad's tea.'

I seen 'er to the gate. (Take it frum me,
I'm some perlite.) She sez, 'Yeh mustn't mind
Me talkin' uv Jim, but when I see
Your face it brings 'im back; 'e's jist your kind.
Not quite so 'an'some, p'r'aps, nor so refined.
I've got some toys uv 'is,' she sez. 'But there
This is ole woman's talk, an' you be'ind
With all yer work, an' little time to spare.

She gives me 'and a squeeze an' turns away,
Sobbin', I thort; but then she looks be'ind,
Smilin', an' wavin', like she felt reel gay,
I wonders 'ow the women work that blind,
An' jist waves back; then goes inside to find
A lookin'-glass, an' takes a reel good look. . . .
''Not quite so 'an'some, p'r'aps, nor so refined!'
Gawd 'elp yeh, Jim,' I thinks. 'Yeh must be crook.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Black Widow

I just love my nightmares
I cant wait to sleep
Enjoying all my dreams
Got no regrets
I can be a flash of lightning
Striking down on rocks
Burning down the law
Getting things I never got
Turning the world
Nothing unheard
One night can be more than a day
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
I cant stand the dreamers
Scared of things that fly
They just have sweet fantasies
And fade and die
Nightmares - are so good, so good
And they always end just when they should
Nightmares are cool, nightmares are cruel
I love the fun and the thrill
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
Black widow
Just like a black widow
Here comes the morning
And who can deny
Leaving the dream is so hard
I love my nightmares
I await their return
And this time, Im dressed to kill, dressed to kill
Just like a black widow............

song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Texas Lullaby

Tom johnston
Sittin by myself in the summertime, when the heat is burnin down
Watchin the golden crops in the field just growin without a sound
I was a boy raised in the country and its still a part of me
And you see no matter where I go its a beautiful memory
Rise with sun at the break of day, lookin out my window
Its the same as yesterday
Sittin under an old oak tree, pickin my guitar in the shade
That old tree spreadin over my head is the closest friend I made
Just me and some lonely wooden music, floatin through air
The grass is rustlin and the birds are singin and my heart dont have a care
Still another day finds me in the fields, sweat is soakin up my ragged clothes
But Id rather work than steal
Watchin the sun settle down over open texas land, looking at the cattle and the horses runnin wild as they can
Life was different in the old days, you just get a days work done
When you were finished workin in the fields, there was chores at home to be done
I was always hearin music, always wanna play me some
As a full-time friend or the way to ease the end of a woman that swayed me some
Hearin those tunes always had a way of soothin out my soul
When times got hard and work got slow it was music that kept me whole
Sun beatin down through the trees, gets so hot bring a workin man to his knees
Part of my heart, part of my soul, part of a melody
Hands are clappin and people swayin in simple harmony
Life was different in the old days, you just get a days work done
When you finished workin in the fields there was chores at home to be done
Late in the evenin on the front porch when the sun is settin in the west
Me and the boys pass around the bottle and sing what we like best
Sing about our wives, sing about our children, singin out the delta blues
Were simple folks and we like it that way, got nothin left to lose

song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Over the Fence

'Taint my idea uv argument to call a man a fool,
An' I ain't lookin' round for bricks to 'eave at ole man Poole;
But when 'e gets disputin' 'e's inclined to lose 'is 'ead.
It ain't so much 'is choice uv words as 'ow the words is said.

'E's sich a coot for takin' sides, as I sez to Doreen.
Sez she, ''Ow can 'e, by 'imself?' Wotever that may mean.
My wife sez little things sometimes that nearly git me riled.
I knoo she meant more than she said be that soft way she smiled.

Today, when I was 'arrowin', Poole come down to the fence
To get the loan uv my long spade; an' uses that pretence
To 'ave a bit uv friendly talk, an' one word leads to more,
As is the way with ole man Poole, as I've remarked before.

The spade reminds 'im 'ow 'e done some diggin' in 'is day,
An' diggin' brings the talk to earth, an' earth leads on to clay,
Then clay quite natural reminds a thinkin' bloke uv bricks,
An' mortar brings up mud, an' then, uv course it's politics.

Now Poole sticks be 'is Party, an' I don't deny 'is right;
But when he starts abusin' mine 'e's lookin' for a fight.
So I delivers good 'ome truths about 'is crowd, then Poole
Wags 'is ole beard across the fence an' tells me I'm a fool.

Now that's the dizzy limit; so I lays aside the reins,
An' starts to prove 'e's storin' mud where most blokes keeps their brains.
'E decorates 'is answers, an' we're goin' it ding-dong,
When this returned bloke, Digger Smith, comes sauntering along.
Poole's gripped the fence as though 'e means to tear the rails in two,
An' eyes my waggin' finger like 'e wants to 'ave a chew.
Then Digger Smith 'e grins at Poole, an' then 'e looks at me,
An' sez, quite soft an' friendly-like, 'Winnin' the war?' sez 'e.

Now, Poole deserves it, an' I'm pleased the lad give 'im that jolt.
'E goes fair mad in argument when once 'e gets a holt.
'Yeh make me sad,' sez Digger Smith; 'the both uv you,' sez 'e.
'The both uv us! Gawstruth!' sez I. 'You ain't includin' me?'

'Well, it takes two to make a row,' sez little Digger Smith.
'A bloke can't argue 'less 'e 'as a bloke to argue with.
I've come 'ome from a dinkum scap to find this land uv light
Is chasin' its own tail around an' callin' it a fight.

'We've seen a thing or two, us blokes 'oo've fought on many fronts;
An' we've 'ad time to think a bit between the fightin' stunts,
We've seen big things, an' thought big things, an' all the silly fuss,
That used to get us rattled once, seems very small to us.

'An' when a bloke's fought for a land an' gets laid on the shelf
It pains 'im to come 'ome and find it scrappin' with itself;
An' scrappin' all for nothin', or for things that look so small
To us, 'oo've been in bigger things, they don't seem reel at all.

'P'r'aps we 'ave some skite knocked out, an' p'r'aps we see more clear,
But seems to us there's plenty cleanin' up to do round 'ere.
We've learnt a little thing or two, an' we 'ave unlearnt 'eaps,
An' silly partisans, with us, is counted out for keeps.

'This takin' sides jist for the sake uv takin' sides - Aw, 'Struth!
I used to do them things one time, back in me foolish youth.
Out There, when I remembered things, I've kicked meself reel good.
In football days I barracked once red 'ot for Collin'wood.

'I didn't want to see a game, nor see no justice done.
It never mattered wot occurred as long as my side won.
The other side was narks an' cows an' rotters to a man;
But mine was all reel bonzer chaps. I was a partisan.

'It might sound like swelled-'ead,' sez Smith. 'But show me, if you can.'…
''Old 'ard,' sez Poole. 'Jist tell me this: wot is a partisan?'
Then Digger Smith starts to ixplain; Poole interrupts straight out;
An' I wades in to give my views, an' 'as to nearly shout.

We battles on for one good hour. My team sleeps where it stands;
An' Poole 'as tossed the spade away to talk with both 'is 'ands.
An' Smith 'as dropped the maul 'e 'ad. Then I looks round to see
Doreen quite close. She smiles at us. 'Winnin' the war?' sez she.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wheat

'Sowin' things an' growin' things, an' watchin' of 'em grow;
That's the game,' my father said, an' father ought to know.
'Settin' things an' gettin' things to grow for folks to eat:
That's the life,' my father said, 'that's very hard to beat.'
For my father was a farmer, as his father was before,
Just sowin' things an' growin' things in far-off days of yore,
In the far-off land of England, till my father found his feet
In the new land, in the true land, where he took to growin' wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the sound of it is sweet!
I've been praisin' it an' raisin' it in rain an' wind an' heat
Since the time I learned to toddle, till it's beatin' in my noddle,
Is the little song I'm singin' you of Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Plantin' things —- an' grantin' things is goin' as they should,
An' the weather altogether is behavin' pretty good —-
Is a pleasure in a measure for a man that likes the game,
An' my father he would rather raise a crop than make a name.
For my father was a farmer, an' 'All fame,' he said, 'ain't reel;
An' the same it isn't fillin' when you're wantin' for a meal.'
So I'm followin' his footsteps, an' a-keepin' of my feet,
While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat
By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat,
Then I comes up bright an' grinnin' with the knowledge that I'm winnin',
With the rhythm of my harvester an' Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Readin' things an' heedin' things that clever fellers give,
An' ponderin' an' wonderin' why we was meant to live —-
Muddlin' through an' fuddlin' through philosophy an' such
Is a game I never took to, an' it doesn't matter much.
For my father was a farmer, as I might 'a' said before,
An' the sum of his philosophy was, 'Grow a little more.
For growin' things,' my father said, 'it makes life sort o' sweet
An' your conscience never swats you if your game is growin' wheat.'

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat!
An' you're servin', an' deservin' of a velvet-cushion seat
In the cocky-farmers' heaven when you come to throw a seven;
An' your password at the portal will be, 'Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.'

Now, the preacher an' the teacher have a callin' that is high
While they're spoutin' to the doubtin' of the happy by an' by;
But I'm sayin' that the prayin' it is better for their souls
When they've plenty wheat inside 'em in the shape of penny rolls.
For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' grieve
When he thought about the apple that old Adam got from Eve.
It was foolin' with an orchard where the serpent got 'em beat,
An' they might 'a' kept the homestead if they'd simply stuck to wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! If you're seekin' to defeat
Care an' worry in the hurry of the crowded city street,
Leave the hustle all behind you; come an' let contentment find you
In a cosy little cabin lyin' snug among the wheat.

In the city, more's the pity, thousands live an' thousands die
Never carin', never sparin' pains that fruits may multiply;
Breathin', livin', never givin'; greedy but to have an' take,
Dyin' with no day behind 'em lived for fellow-mortals' sake.
Now my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit and laugh
At the 'fools o' life,' he called 'em, livin' on the other half.
Dyin' lonely, missin' only that one joy that makes life sweet —-
Just the joy of useful labour, such as comes of growin' wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Let the foolish scheme an' cheat;
But I'd rather, like my father, when viv span o' life's complete,
Feel I'd lived by helpid others; earned the right to call 'em brothers
Who had gained while I was gainin' from God's earth His gift of wheat.

When the settin' sun is gettin' low above the western hills,
When the creepin' shadows deepen, and a peace the whole land fills,
Then I often sort o' soften with a feelin' like content,
An' I feel like thankin' Heaven for a day in labour spent.
For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' smile,
Realizin' he was wealthy in what makes a life worth while.
Smilin', he has told me often, 'After all the toil an' heat,
Lad, he's paid in more than silver who has grown one field of wheat.'

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When it comes my turn to meet
Death the Reaper, an' the Keeper of the Judgment Book I greet,
Then I'll face 'em sort o' calmer with the solace of the farmer
That he's fed a million brothers with his Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Boys Who Took The Count

See, I'm writin' to Mick as a bloke to a bloke
To a cobber o' mine at the front
An' I'm gittin' full up uv the mullock they poke
At the cove that is bearin' the brunt.
Fer 'e mus'n't do this an' 'e shouldn't do that,
An' 'e's crook if 'e looks a bit shick,
An' 'e's gittin' too uppish, an' don't touch 'is 'at
But 'ere's 'ow I puts it to Mick.

Now it's dickin to style if yer playin' the game.
If it's marbles, or shinty, or war;
I've seen 'em lob 'ome 'ere, the 'alt an' the lame,
That wus fine 'efty fellers before.
They wus toughs, they wus crooks, they wus ev'ry bad thing,
But they mixed it as gentlemen should.
So 'ere's to the coot wiv 'is eye in a sling,
An' a smile in the one that is good.

It wus playin' the game in the oval an' ring
An' playin' fer orl it wus worth
That give 'em the knack uv a punch wiv a sting
When they fought fer the land uv their birth.
They wus pebs, they wus narks, they wus reel naughty boys,
But they didn't need no second 'int,
So ere's to the bloke wiv 'is swearin' an' noise,
An' 'is foot in a fathom uv lint.

There wus fellers I knoo in the soft days uv peace;
An' I didn't know much to their good;
An' they give more 'ard graft to the overworked p'leece
Than a reel puffick gentleman should.
They wus lookin' fer lash long before it wus doo;
When it come, they wus into it, straight.
So 'ere's to the bloke wiv 'is shoulder shot thro'
'Oo is cursin' the days 'e's to wait.

Ar, dickin to swank! when it comes to a mill,
It's the bloke wiv a punch 'oo's yer friend.
An' a coarse, narsty man wiv the moniker Bill
Earns the thanks uv the crowd in the end.
(An' when I sez 'earns' I am 'opin' no stint
Will be charged agin us by-an'-bye.)
So 'ere's to the boy wiv 'is arm in a splint
An' a 'don't-care-a-dam' in 'is eye.

'Cos the fightin's too far fer to give us a grip
Of the 'ell full uv slaughter an' noise,
There's a breed that gives me the particular pip
Be the way that they torks uv the boys.
0, they're coarse, an' they're rude, an' it's awful to liv
Wiv their cursin' an' shoutin' an' fuss.
Dam it! 'Ere's to the bloke wiv the bad-lookin' chiv
That 'e poked inter trouble fer us!

0, it's dead agin etikit, dead agin style
Fer to swear an' to swagger an' skite;
But a battle ain't won wiv a drorin'-room smile,
An' yeh 'ave to be rude in a fight.
An' it's bein' reel rude to enemy blokes
That'll earn yeh that 'ero-like touch,
So 'ere's to the boy wiv 'is curses an' jokes
'Oo is 'oppin' about on a crutch.

Now, the Turk is a gent, an' they greets 'im as such,
An' they gives doo respect to 'is Nibs;
But 'e never 'eld orf to apolergise much
When 'e slid 'is cold steel in their ribs.
An' our boys won the name that they give 'em of late
'Cos they fought like a jugful uv crooks,
So 'ere's to the bloke wiv the swaggerin' gait
An' a bullet mark spoilin' 'is looks.

So, the bloke wiv the scoff, an' the bloke wiv the sneer,
An' the coot wiv the sensitive soul,
'E 'as got to sit back, an' jist change 'is idear
Uv the stuffin' that makes a man whole.
Fer the polish an' gilt that's a win wiv the skirts
It wears thin wiv the friction uv war.
So 'ere's to the cove 'oo is nursin' 'is 'urts
Wiv an oath in the set uv 'is jor.

When yeh've stripped a cove clean an' got down to the buff
Yeh come to the meat that's the man.
If yeh want to find grit an' sich similar stuff,
Yeh've to strip on a similar plan.
Fer there's nothin' like scrappin' to bare a man's soul,
If it's Billo, or Percy, or Gus.
So 'ere's to the bloke 'oo 'ops round on a pole
An' 'owls songs goin' 'ome on the bus.

Spare me days! When a bloke takes the count in a scrap
That 'e's fightin' fer you an' fer me,
Is it fair that a snob 'as the nerve fer to snout
Any swad 'cos 'is manners is free?
They're deservin' our thanks, frum the best to the worst -
An' there's some is reel rorty, I own
But 'ere's to the coot wiv the 'ang-over thirst
'Oo sprags a stray toff fer a loan.

So I'm writin' to Mick; an' I'm feelin' reel wet
Wiv the sort o' superior nark,
'Oo tilts up 'is conk an' gits orl the boys set,
'Oo are out fer a bit uv a lark.
So I puts it to Mick, as I sez when I starts,
An' I ends wiv the solemest toast:
'Ere's to 'im - (raise yer glass) - 'oo left pride in our 'earts
An' 'is bones on Gallipoli coast.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Square Deal

'Dreamin'?' I sez to Digger Smith.
'Buck up, ole sport, an' smile.
Ain't there enough uv joy to-day
To drive the bogey man away
An' make reel things worth while?
A bloke would think, to see you stare,
There's visions on the 'ill-tops there.'

'Dreamin',' sez Digger Smith. 'Why not?
An' there is visions too.
An' when I get 'em sorted out,
An' strafe that little bogey, Doubt,
I'll start me life all new.
Oh, I ain't crook; but packed in 'ere
Is thoughts enough to last a year.

'I'm thinkin' things,' sez Digger Smith.
'I'm thinkin' big an' fine
Uv Life an' Love an' all the rest,
An' wot is right an' wot is best,
An' 'ow much will be mine.
Not that I'm wantin' overmuch:
Some work, some play, an' food an' such.'

'See 'ere,' I sez. 'You 'ark to me.
I've done some thinkin' too.
An' this 'ere land, for wot yeh did,
Owes some few million solid quid
To fightin' blokes like you.
So don't be too damn modest or
Yeh'll get less than yeh're lookin' for.'

'Money?' sez Digger. 'Loot?' sez 'e.
'Aw, give that talk a rest!
I'm sick uv it. I didn't say
That I was thinkin' all uv pay
But wot was right an' best.
An' that ain't in the crazy game
Uv grabbin' wealth an' chasin' fame.

'Do you think us blokes Over There,
When things was goin' strong,
Was keepin' ledgers day be day
An' reck'nin' wot the crowd would pay?
Pull off! Yeh got it wrong.
Do you think all the boys gone West
Wants great swank 'eadstones on their chest?

'You coots at 'ome 'as small ideer
Uv wot we think an' feel.
We done our bit an' seen it thro',
An' all that we are askin' you
Is jist a fair, square deal.
We want this land we battled for
To settle up - an' somethin' more.

'We want the land we battled for
To be a land worth while.
We're sick uv greed, an' 'ate, an' strife,
An' all the mess that's made uv life.'...
'E stopped a bit to smile.
'I got these thoughts Out There becos
We learned wot mateship reely was.'

. . . . . .

The 'ills be'ind the orchard trees
Was showin' misty blue.
The ev'nin' light was growin' dim;
An' down I sat 'longside uv 'im,
An' done some dreamin' too.
I dreams uv war; an' wot is paid
By blokes that went an' blokes that stayed.

I dreams uv honour an' reward,
An' 'ow to pay a debt.
For partin' cash, an' buyin' farms,
An' fitting chaps with legs an' arms
Ain't all - there's somethin' yet.
There's still a solid balance due;
An' now it's up to me an' you.

There's men I know ain't yet woke up,
Or reckernized that debt
Proud men 'oo wouldn't take yeh down
Or owe their grocer 'arf-a-crown-
They ain't considered, yet,
There's somethin' owin' - to the dead,
An' Diggers live for more than bread.

The 'ills be'ind the orchard trees
Jist caught the settin' sun.
A bloke might easy think that there,
'Way back be'ind the range somewhere,
Where streaks uv sunlight run,
There was a land, swep' clear uv doubt,
Where men finds wot they dreams about.

'Beauty,' sez Digger, sudden-like,
'An' love, an' kindliness;
The chance to live a clean, straight life,
A dinkum deal for kids an' wife:
A man needs nothin' less...
Maybe they'll get it when I go
To push up daisies. I dunno.'

'Dreamin',' sez Digger Smith. 'Why not?
There's visions on the hill.'...
Then I gets up an' steals away,
An' leaves 'im with the dyin' day,
Dreamin' an' doubtin' still...
Cobber, it's up to me an' you
To see that 'arf 'is dream comes true.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Game

'Ho! the sky's as blue as blazes an' the sun is shinin' bright,
An' the dicky birds is singin' over'ead,
An' I'm 'ummin', softly 'ummin', w'ile I'm achin' fer a fight,
An' the chance to fill some blighter full of lead.
An' the big guns they are boomin', an' the shells is screamin' past,
But I'm corperil - lance-corperil, an' found me game at last!'

I ixpects a note frum Ginger, fer the time wus gettin' ripe,
An I gits one thick wiv merry 'owls uv glee;
Fer they've gone an' made 'im corperil - they've given 'im a stripe,
An' yeh'd think, to see 'is note, it wus V.C.
Fer 'e chortles like a nipper wiv a bran' noo Noah's Ark
Since forchin she 'as smiled on 'im, an' life's, no more a nark.

'Ho! the sky along the 'ill-tops, it is smudged wiv cannon smoke,
An' the shells along the front is comin' fast,
But the 'eads 'ave 'ad the savvy fer to reckernise a bloke,
An' permotion's gettin' common-sense at last.
An' they picked me fer me manners, w'ich wus snouted over 'ome,
But I've learned to be a soljer since I crossed the ragin' foam.

'They 'ave picked me 'cos they trust me; an' it's got me where I live,
An' it's put me on me mettle, square an' all;
I wusn't in the runnin' once when blokes 'ad trust to give,
But over 'ere I answers to the call;
So some shrewd 'ead 'e marked me well, an' when the time wus ripe
'E took a chance on Ginger Mick, an' I 'ave snared me stripe.

'I know wot I wus born fer now, an' soljerin's me game,
That's no furphy; but I never guessed it once;
Fer when I 'it things up at 'ome they said I wus to blame,
An' foolish beaks they sent me up fer munce.
But 'ere - well, things is different to wot sich things wus then.
Fer me game is playin' soljers, an' me lurk is 'andlin' men.

'Me game is 'andlin' men, orl right, I seen it in the parst
When I used to 'ead the pushes in the Lane.
An' ev'ry bloke among 'em then done everythin' I arst,
Fer I never failed to make me feelin' plain.
Disturbers uv the peace we wus them days, but now I know
We wus aimin' to be soljers, but we never 'ad a show.

'We never 'ad no discipline, that's wot we wanted bad,
It's discipline that gives the push its might/
But wot a tie we could 'ave give the coppers if we 'ad,
Lord! We'd 'ave capchered Melbourne in an night.
When I think uv thngs that might 'ave been I sometimes sit an' grin,
Fer I might be King uv Footscray if we'd 'ad mor discipline.

'I've got a push to 'andle now wot makes a soljer proud.
Yeh ort to see the boys uv my ole squad:
The willin'est, the cheeriest, don'-care-a-damest crowd,
An' the toughest ever seen outside o' quod.
I reckon that they gimme 'em becos they wus so meek,
But they know me, an' they understan'the lingo that I speak.

'So I'm a little corperil, wiv pretties on me arm,
But yeh'd never guess it fer to see me now,
Fer me valet 'e's been careless an' me trooso's come to 'arm,
An 'me pants want creasin' badly I'll allow.
But to see me squad in action is a cure for sandy blight,
They are shy on table manners, but they've notions 'ow ter fight.

'There's a little picnic promised that 'as long been overdoo,
An' we're waitin' fer the order to advance;
An'me bones is fairly achin' fer to see my boys bung thro',
Fer I know they're dancin' mad to git the chance.
An' there's some'll sure be missin' when we git into the game;
But if they lorst their corperil 'twould be a cryin' shame.

'We can't afford no corperils. But, some'ow, I dunno.
I got a nervis feelin; in me chest,
That this 'ere bit uv fancy work might be me final go
An' I won't be 'ome to dinner wiv the rest.
It's rot; but it keeps comin' back, that lonely kind o' mood
That fills me up wiv mushy thorts that don't do any good.

'When it's gettin' near to evenin' an' the guns is slowin' down
I fergits the playful 'abits uv our foes,
An' finds meself a-thinkin' thorts uv good ole Melbourne town,
An' dreamin' dilly dreams about ole Rose.
O' course I'll see me girl again, an' give a clean, square deal,
When I come smilin' 'ome again… But that ain't 'ow I feel.

'I feel… I dunno 'ow I feel. I feel that things is done.
I seem t've 'it the limit in some way.
Per'aps I'm orf me pannikin wiv sittin' in the sun,
But I jist wrote to Rose the other day;
An' I wrote 'er sort o' mournful 'cos - I dunno 'ow it seems…
Ar, I'm a gay galoot to go an' 'ave these dilly dreams!

'Wot price the bran' noo corperil, wiv sof'nin' uv the 'eart!
If my pet lambs thort me a turtle dove
I'd 'ave to be reel stern wiv 'em, an' make another start
To git 'em where I got 'em jist wiv love…
But don't fergit, if you or your Doreen sees Rose about,
Jist tell 'er that I'm well an' strong, an' sure uv winnin' out.

'Ho! the sky's as blue as blazes, an' the sun is shinin' still,
An' the dicky bird is perchin' on the twig,
An' the guns is pop, pop, poppin' frum the trenches on the 'ill,
An' I'm lookin' bonny in me non-com's rig.
An' when yer writin' me again - don't think I want ter skite
But don't fergit the 'Corperil'; an' mind yeh spells it right.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jim

'Now, be the Hokey Fly!' sez Peter Begg.
'Suppose 'e comes 'ome with a wooden leg.
Suppose 'e isn't fit to darnce at all,
Then, ain't we 'asty fixin' up this ball?
A little tournament at Bridge is my
Idear,' sez Peter. 'Be the Hokey Fly!'

Ole Peter Begg is gettin' on in years.
'E owns a reel good farm; an' all 'e fears
Is that some girl will land 'im, by an' by,
An' shar it with 'im - be the Hokey Fly.
That's 'is pet swear-word, an' I dunno wot
'E's meanin', but 'e uses it a lot.

'Darncin'!' growls Begg. We're fixin' up the 'all
With bits uv green stuff for a little ball
To welcome Jim, 'oo's comin' 'ome nex' day.
We're 'angin' flags around to make things gay,
An' shiftin' chairs, an' candle-greasin' floors,
As is our way when blokes comes 'ome from wars.

'A little game uv Bridge,' sez Peter Begg.
'Would be more decent like, an' p'r'aps a keg
Uv somethin' if the 'ero's feelin' dry.
But this 'ere darncin'! Be the Hokey Fly,
These selfish women never thinks at all
About the guest; they only wants the ball.

'Now, cards,' sez Begg, 'amuses ev'ry one.
An' then our soldier guest could 'ave 'is fun
If 'e'd lost both 'is legs. It makes me sick
'Ere! Don't spread that candle-grease too thick
Yeh're wastin' it; an' us men 'as to buy
Enough for nonsense, be the Hokey Fly!'

Begg, 'e ain't never keen on wastin' much.
'Peter,' I sez, 'it's you that needs a crutch.
Why don't yeh get a wife, an' settle down?'
'E looks reel fierce, an' answers, with a frown,
'Do you think I am goin' to be rooked
For 'arf me tucker, jist to get it cooked?'

I lets it go at that, an' does me job;
An' when a little later on I lob
Along the 'omeward track, down by Flood's gate
I meet ole Digger Smith, an' stops to state
Me views about the weather an' the war…
'E tells me Jim gets 'ere nex' day, at four.

An' as we talk, I sees along the road
A strange bloke 'umpin' some queer sort uv load.
I points 'im out to Smith an' sez, 'Oo's that?
Looks like a soldier, don't 'e, be 'is 'at?'
'Stranger,' sez Digger, 'be the cut uv 'im.'
But, trust a mother's eyes…'It's Jim! My Jim!

My Jim!' I 'ears; an' scootin' up the track
Come Missus Flood, with Flo close at 'er back.
It was a race, for lover an' for son;
They finished neck an' neck; but mother won,
For it was 'er that got the first big 'ug.
(I'm so took back I stands there like a mug.)

Then come Flo's turn; an' Jim an' Digger they
Shake 'ands without no fancy, gran'-stand play.
Yeh'd think they parted yesterd'y them two.
For all the wild 'eroics that they do.
'Yeh done it, lad' sez Jim. 'I knoo yeh would.'
'You bet,' sez Smith; 'but I'm all to the good.'

Then, uv a sudden, all their tongues is loosed.
They finds me there, an' I am intrajuiced;
An' Jim tells 'ow it was 'e came to land
So soon, while Mar an' Flo each 'olds a 'and.
But, jist as sudden, they all stop an' stare
Down to the 'ouse, at Dad Flood standin' there.

'E's got 'is 'and up shadin' off the sun.
Then 'e starts up to them; but Dad don't run:
'E isn't 'owlin' for 'is lost boy's kiss;
'E's got 'is own sweet way in things like this.
'E wanders up, and' stands an' looks at Jim.
An', spare me days, that look was extra grim!

I seen the mother pluckin' at 'er dress;
I seen the girl's white face an' 'er distress.
An' Digger Smith, 'e looks reel queer to me:
Grinnin' inside 'imself 'e seemed to be.
At last Dad sez - oh, 'e's a tough ole gun! -
'Well, are yeh sorry now for what yeh done?'

Jim gives a start; but answers with a grin,
'Well, Dad, I 'ave been learnin' discipline.
An' tho' I ain't quite sure wot did occur
Way back' - 'e's grinnin' worse - 'I'm sorry, sir.'
(It beats me, that, about these soldier blokes:
They're always grinnin', like all things was jokes.)

P'r'aps Dad is gettin' dull in 'is ole age;
But 'e don't seem to see Jim's cammyflage.
P'r'aps 'e don't want to; for, in 'is ole eye,
I seen a twinkle as 'e give reply.
'Nex' week,' 'e sez, 'we will begin to cart
The taters. Yeh can make another start.'

But then 'e grabs Jim's 'and. I seen the joy
In mother's eyes. 'Now, welcome 'ome, me boy,'
Sez Dad; an' then 'e adds, 'Yeh've made me proud;'
That's all. An' 'e don't add it none too loud.
Dad don't express 'is feelin's in a shout;
It cost 'im somethin' to git that much out.

We 'ad the darnce. An', spite uv all Begg's fears,
Jim darnced like 'e could keep it up for years;
Mostly with Flo. We don't let up till three;
An' then ole Peter Begg, Doreen an' me
We walk together 'ome, an' on the way,
Doreen 'as quite a lot uv things to say.

'Did you see Flo?' sez she. 'Don't she look grand?
That Jim's the luckiest in all the land
An' little Smith - that girl uv is, I'm sure,
She'll bring 'im 'appiness that will endure.'
She 'ugs my arm, then sez ''Usband or wife,
If it's the right one, is the wealth uv life.'

I sneaks a look at Begg, an' answers, 'Yes,
Yeh're right, ole girl; that's the reel 'appiness.
An' if ole, lonely growlers was to know
The worth uv 'appy marridge 'ere below,
They'd swap their bank-books for a wife,' sez I.
Sez Peter Begg, 'Well! Be the - Hokey - Fly!'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Living My Life

Ooooh
La la la
La la la
Mmmm
Hey yea
No no
Mmm
Oh no
Hmmm
Oooh I'm so happy that I'm
Livin' my life
I never knew what I went through
But hoped everything'd turn out right
I'm rememberin' the days that I was holdin' my head down
When people came around I always pretended to smile
But I knew
Deep in my heart
That I was slowly
Fallin apart
Some days
All I wanted
Was to hold my mother's hand
And hear her say
"Baby...
You're gonna make it"
Over and over again
So I
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
(Livin' my life)
And I'm
So glad I made it this far
(oh)
And
Nothin' honna bring me back down
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
(turn me around)
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
And I'm
So glad I made it this far
(so glad)
And
Nothin' gonna bring me back down
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
Don't want nobody to think
It was easy for me
It took a while just to get down
Too many people just didn't believe
I'm remembering the sacrifices that I had to make
I would cry myself to sleep and say that it would be ok
But I knew
That if I prayed
That I would be on my way someday
Some times
All I wanted
Was to hear my father say
He would say
"Baby...
You're gonna make it
And I don't care what people say"
So I'm
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
And I'm
So glad I made it this far
And
Nothin' gonna bring me back down
(Bring me back down)
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
(Turn me around)
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
And I'm
So glad I made it this far
And
Nothin' gonna bring me back down
(Bring me back down)
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
(Turn me around
Oh I want the world to see
Everything that's happened to me
I went from goin' out my mind
To always on time
And I am no longer a fool
Since my days are cold without you
And I'm so
(I'm so)
Happy
(Happy)
Baby baby babe
Said I'm so
(I'm so)
Happy
(Happy)
Baby baby babe
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
And I'm
So glad I made it this far
(So glad)
And
Nothin' gonna bring me back down
(Nothing)
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
(And oooooooh)
And I been livin' my life for quite some time
And I'm so glad I made it this far
(Yeah yeah)
And
Nothin' gonna bring me back down
(Bring me back down)
And
Nothin' gonna turn me around
(Turn me around)

song performed by by Ashanti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talk About The Good Times

(words & music by jerry reed hubbard)
Well I remember when I was as children
The time the people used to treat the neighbor like a fellow man
And all their singin and big prayer meetins
When a man was proud to walk up and shake his neighbors hand
Oh you talk about the good times,
Talk about the good times
Oh if you ever needed help a friend was there
Some good neighbor
Help lift your burden
Mmm, and the simple joys of life a friend would share
Times are harder and the people are changin
Now most folks couldnt tell you who their neighbors are
All their guns are loaded, the front doors are bolted
Aint this ol world takin hate and fear just a little too far
Oh you talk about the good times,
Talk about the good times
I wish I could go back to the days Im speakin of
When a friend would meet you
And a smile would greet you
What this ol world needs now is a little old fashioned love
My granddaddy God rest his soul now
Well we had a big long talk together the day he died
Said son this world is full of hate and venom
An I cant wait to leave this ol place and rest on the other side
Oh you talk about the good times, talk about the good times
Talk about the good times
Im gonna see all the friends I knew in the good ol days
Well have a big hand shakin
An sit and talk together
Sit down by the river jordan and sing our blues away
Oh you talk about the good times, talk about the good times
Talk about the good times
Im gonna see all the friends I knew in the good ol days
Well have a big hand shakin
An sit and talk together
Sit down by the river jordan and sing our blues away
Oh you talk about the good times, talk about the good times
Talk about the good times
Im gonna see all the friends I knew in the good ol days
Well have a big hand shakin
An sit and talk together
Sit down by the river jordan and sing our blues away

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jim's Girl

''Oo is that girl,' sez Digger Smith,
That never seems to bother with
No blokes: the bint with curly 'air?
I've often seen 'er over there
Talkin' to Missus Flood, an' she
Seems like a reel ripe peach to me.

'Not that I'm askin'' ... 'Ere 'is eyes
Goes sort uv swiv'ly, an' 'e sighs.
'Not that I'm askin' with idears
Uv love an' marridge; 'ave no fears.
I've chucked the matrimony plan,'
'E sez. 'I'm only 'arf a man.'

This Digger Smith 'as fairly got
Me rampin' with 'is ''arf a man' rot.
'E 'as a timber leg, it's true;
But 'e can do the work uv two.
Besides, the things 'e's done Out There
Makes 'im one man an' some to spare.

I knoo 'is question was jist kid.
'E'd met this girl; I know 'e did.
'E knoo Jim Flood an' 'er was booked
For double when the 'Un was cooked.
But, seein' 'er, it used to start
'Im thinkin' of another tart.

'Oh, 'er?' sez I. 'She is a pearl.
I've 'eard she used to be Jim's girl;
But she was jist a child when Jim

Got out. She 'as forgotten 'im.'
I knows jist wot is in 'is mind,
An' sez, 'Wade in, if you're inclined.'

'E give me such a narsty look
I thought 'e meant to answer crook;
But, 'I ain't out for jokes,' sez 'e
'Yeh needn't sling that stuff to me.
I only was jist thinkin' - p'r'aps...
There's some,' 'e sez, 'that sticks to chaps.

'Some girls,' sez 'e, 'keeps true to chaps,
An' wed 'em when they've done with scraps,
An' come 'ome whole. Yeh don't ixpec'
No tart to tie up with a wreck?
Besides,' 'e sez ... 'Well, any'ow,
That girl's all right; I know it now.

'I know,' sez Smith. 'I got it right.
Jim used to talk to me at night
About a little girl 'e tracked.
Er name is Flo. Ain't that a fact?
That's 'er. I know she writes to 'im
Each mail. She ain't forgotten Jim.

'I'd like to swap my luck for Jim's
If 'e comes 'ome with all 'is limbs.
An' if 'e don't - well, I dunno.
I've taken notice uv this Flo,
An' wonder if' - 'e stares at me
'If there is more like 'er' sez 'e.

Now, Digger Smith as learned a lot
Out fightin' there, but 'e ain't got
The cunnin' for to 'ide 'is 'eart.
'E's too damn honest, for a start;
'Is mind's dead simple to a friend.
I've read 'im through from end to end.

I've learned from things 'e 'asn't said
Jist wot's been running in 'is 'ead.
I know there is a girl, somewhere:
Some one 'oo 'ad the 'eart to care
For 'im when 'e went to the war.
I know all that, an' somethin' more.

I know that since 'e came back 'ere
'E 'asn't seen that girl for fear
She'd turn 'im down - give 'im the bird,
An' 'and 'im out the frozen word,
Because 'e's left a leg in France;
An' 'e's afraid to take the chance.

Well, not afraid, p'r'aps, but - shook.
It's jist the form 'is nerves 'ave took.
Now 'e's been watchin' Flo an' seen
'Er style, an' 'ow she's always keen
For news uv Jim. Then 'e starts out
To 'ope, an' 'esitate, an' doubt.

'E wonders if 'is own girl spoke
Jist this same way about 'er bloke.
'E wonders if in 'is girl's eyes
That same look came; an' then 'e sighs,
An' dulls 'is senses with that dope
That 'arf a man ain't got no 'ope.

'E makes me tired. But, all the same,
I tries to work a little game.
'Look 'ere,' I sez. 'About this Flo.
Jim mightn't come back 'ome, yeh know.
You 'ave a fly; yeh're sure to score;
Besides, all's fair in love an'war.'

'Sling that!' 'e sez; but I goes on:
'Ole Jim won't blame yeh when she's gone.
'E knows, the same as me an' you,
These silly tarts, they can't keep true.'
I piles it on, until I've got
'Im where I want 'im - jumpin' 'ot.

An' then 'e says, ''Ere, sling that talk!
I might be groggy in me walk;
But if yeh say them things to me
I'm man enough to crack yeh; see?'
'Righto,' sez I. 'That was me plan.
Now wot about this 'arf a man?'

'E stares at me, an' then sez, slow,
'Wot is yer game? Wot do yeh know?'
'Nothin',' I tells 'im, 'only this:
When there's a waitin' tart to kiss
Yeh're only 'arf a man; but when
There's blokes to fight, yeh're twenty men.'

'Wot tart?' 'e asks. 'Yeh mean this Flo?'
'P'r'aps not,' I sez. 'You ought to know.'...
I waits an' lets me words sink in.
An' then- 'e beats me with that grin.
'Match-makin', Bill?' 'e laughs. 'Oh, 'Ell!
You take up knittin' for a spell.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Possum Trot

I 've journeyed 'roun' consid'able, a-seein' men an' things,
An' I 've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings;
But in spite of all my travelling an' of all I think I know,
I 've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go;
An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot
Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot.

I know you 've never heerd the name, it ain't a famous place,
An' I reckon ef you 'd search the map you could n't find a trace
Of any sich locality as this I 've named to you;
But never mind, I know the place, an' I love it dearly too.
It don't make no pretensions to bein' great or fine,
The circuses don't come that way, they ain't no railroad line.
It ain't no great big city, where the schemers plan an' plot,
But jest a little settlement, this place called Possum Trot.

But don't you think the folks that lived in that outlandish place
Were ignorant of all the things that go for sense or grace.
Why, there was Hannah Dyer, you may search this teemin' earth
An' never find a sweeter girl, er one o' greater worth;
An' Uncle Abner Williams, a-leanin' on his staff,
It seems like I kin hear him talk, an' hear his hearty laugh.
His heart was big an' cheery as a sunny acre lot,
Why, that's the kind o' folks we had down there at Possum Trot.

Good times? Well, now, to suit my taste,--an' I 'm some hard to suit,--
There ain't been no sich pleasure sence, an' won't be none to boot,
With huskin' bees in Harvest time, an' dances later on,
An' singin' school, an taffy pulls, an' fun from night till dawn.
Revivals come in winter time, baptizin's in the spring,
You 'd ought to seen those people shout, an' heerd 'em pray an' sing;
You 'd ought to 've heard ole Parson Brown a-throwin' gospel shot
Among the saints an' sinners in the days of Possum Trot.

We live up in the city now, my wife was bound to come;
I hear aroun' me day by day the endless stir an' hum.
I reckon that it done me good, an' yet it done me harm,
That oil was found so plentiful down there on my ole farm.
We 've got a new-styled preacher, our church is new-styled too,
An' I 've come down from what I knowed to rent a cushioned pew.
But often when I 'm settin' there, it's foolish, like as not,
To think of them ol' benches in the church at Possum Trot.

I know that I 'm ungrateful, an' sich thoughts must be a sin,
But I find myself a wishin' that the times was back agin.
With the huskin's an' the frolics, an' the joys' I used to know,
When I lived at the settlement, a dozen years ago.
I don't feel this way often, I 'm scarcely ever glum,
For life has taught me how to take her chances as they come.
But now an' then my mind goes back to that ol' buryin' plot,
That holds the dust of some I loved, down there at Possum Trot.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Ever Marry, I'll Marry A Maid

If ever I marry, I'll marry a maid;
To marry a widow, I am sore afraid:
For maids they are simple, and never will grutch,
But widows full oft, as they say, know too much.

A maid is so sweet, and so gentle of kind,
That a maid is the wife I will choose to my mind
A widow is froward, and never will yield;
Or if such there be, you will meet them but seeld.

A maid ne'er complaineth, do what so you will;
But what you mean well, a widow takes ill:
A widow will make you a drudge and a slave,
And, cost ne'er so much, she will ever go brave.

A maid is so modest, she seemeth a rose
When it first beginneth the bud to unclose;
But a widow full-blowen full often deceives,
And the next wind that bloweth shakes down all her leaves.

The widows be lovely, I never gainsay,
But too well all their beauty they know to display;
But a maid hath so great hidden beauty in store,
She can spare to a widow, yet never be poor.

Then, if ever I marry, give me a fresh maid,
If to marry with any I be not afraid;
But to marry with any, it asketh much care;
And some bachelors hold they are best as they are.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sawin' Wood

I wondered wot was doin'. First I seen
Ole Missus Flood wave signals to Doreen.
I'm in the paddick slashin' down some ferns;
She's comin' up the road; an' if she turns
An 'andspring I won't be su'prised a bit,
The way she's caperin', an' goin' it.

She yells out some remark when she gets near,
Which I don't catch, I'm too fur off to 'ear.
An' then Doreen comes prancin' to our door,
An' Missus Flood she sprints, an' yells some more;
My wife runs to the gate an' waves 'er arms...
But I lays low; I'm used to these alarms.

A married bloke, in time, 'e learns a bit;
An' 'e ain't over keen to throw a fit
Each time the women calls the fire-reel out.
It's jist a trifle 'e'll know all about
When things get normal. That's a point I learn;
So I saws wood, an' keeps on cutting fern.

At least, I cut a few. I got to give
Reel fac's, an' own I was inquisitive;
An' these 'ere fireworks gets me fair perplexed.
I watch the 'ouse to see wot 'appens next;
But nothin's doin'. They jist goes in,
An' leaves me wonderin' wot's caused the din.

I stands it for a full 'arf-hour or more;
Then gets dead sick uv starin' at the door.
I goes down to the 'ouse an' 'unts about
To find some 'baccer, which I 'ave no doubt
Is in me trousers pocket all the while.
When I goes in, the talk stops, an' they smile.

I sez I've lost me smoke, an' search a bit,
An' ask Doreen wot 'as become uv it,
An' turns the mantelshelf all upside-down,
An' looks inside the teapot, with a frown;
Then gives it up, an' owns I'd like a drink;
When Missus Flood sez, 'Bill, wot do you think?'

Now, ain't that like a woman? Spare me days,
I'll never get resigned to all their ways.
When they 'as news to tell they smile, an' wink,
An' bottle it, an' ask yeh wot yeh think.
It's jist a silly game uv theirs, an' so,
I gives the countersign: 'Wot? I dunno.'

'Then guess,' she sez. Well, I'm a patient bloke,
So I sits down an' starts to cut a smoke.
(To play this game yeh've got to persevere.)
'Couldn't,' I sez, 'if I guessed for a year';
Then lights me pipe, an' waits for 'er to speak.
At last she says, 'Jim's comin' back next week!'

'Go on,' sez I; an' puffs away awhile
Quite unconcerned. But for to see 'er smile
Was jist a treat: 'er eyes was shinin' bright,
An' she grow'd ten years younger in a night.
Jist 'ere, Doreen she sez to me, 'Good Lor,
Wot do yeh want two plugs uv 'baccer for?'

I takes me pipe out uv me mouth an' stares,
An' stammers, 'Must 'ave found a piece - somewheres.'
But, by the way she smiles - so extra sweet
I know she twigs me game, an' I am beat.
'Fancy,' she sez. 'Yeh're absent-minded, dear.
Sure there was nothin' else yeh wanted 'ere?'

'Nothin',' I sez, an' feels a first-prize fool;
An' goes outside, an' grabs the nearest tool.
It was the crosscut; so I works like mad
To keep me self-respeck from goin' bad.
'This game,' I tells meself, 'will do yeh good.
You ain't proficient, yet, at sawin' wood.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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