En.Citatepedia^®.ro

As Between Pensioners

''Tis precious stuff,' said old George Jones
'When men sore needs a fall;
Tho' how or why it comes, I owns
I ain't got clear at all.
Some sez that in the sun, a spot
Controls it in some way.'
'It's this 'ere wireless, like as not,'
Said old Pete Parraday.

'Wireless,' scoffed grey-haired Joey Park.
'Wot wireless did they use
When ole man Noah sailed the ark?
It's them black cockytoos.
Last week I seen more than a few,
An' then wot did I say '
''Tis wireless - I'm tellin' you!'
Said old Pete Parraday.

'Cockies? Sun-spots?' said Daddy Shore,
'Jist foolish talk an' vain.
It's this 'ere Abbysinian war
An' guns as causes rain.
Ain't it been proved by natcharil laws
Time an' again, the way '
'It's this 'ere wireless is the cause,'
Said old Pete Parraday.

Said old George Jones, 'Ain't you ashamed
To talk the way you do?
It's providence gits mostly blamed
When things is lookin' blue.
Ain't the rain now due? For ain't we got
O'er all this world full sway?'
'Too right. But wireless helps a lot,'
Said old Pete Parraday.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Hundredth Year

Not that I'd quarrel with the way
They celebrates their hundredth year
In town (said old Pete Parraday),
But that don't suit us bush blokes here.
So let bells ring and whistles blare
And fill the town with mighty sound,
Let motor noises tear the air
An' bonfires light the hills around.
When I'm five score I want some say
In things (said old Peter Parraday).

I've lived me life here in the bush
(Said Pete) since I was but a boy;
An' all this city noise an' push
Ain't my idea of showin' joy.
Me ears ain't tooned to sich like noise,
And fire is like to wake our fear.
Them ain't the things that we enjoys
When celebratin' birthdays here;
So, if I live so long, I pray
For peace (said old Peter Parraday).

A hundred year's a long, long spell
To hang about this mad ole earth,
And when man nears his century - well
He don't crave much of noisy mirth -
Not for himself, with life near run
Its length, such comes for others yet;
Not for himself; for he is done,
With all life's hectic fuss an' fret.
So let me have my foolish way
In this (said old Pete Parraday).

I ask but this, an' nothin' more,
When comes my hundredth natal day;
Let me sit here beside my door
And dream (said old Pete Parraday).
While bush birds sing the songs I know,
And bush sounds that I love the best,
Wake memories of the long ago,
Let me sit here a while and rest.
Aye, rest, and sleep and, who shall say?
Sleep sound (said old Pete Parraday).

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bush Veteran

Old Pete Parraday, he toddles up the road,
'Dangin'' things and 'darn in'' things and hefting of his load
For yesterday was pension day, Peter has his goods:
Butcher's meat and groceries and all sorts of foods;
A bit of plug 'tobaker' and a tin of 'jelly Jam,'
'Termatter' sauce and yellow soap, a knuckle-end of ham,
And a little flask of 'special stuff' discreetly tucked away.
'I takes it for me rheumatiz,' says Peter Parraday.

Old Pete Parraday, he lives all on his own.
People say he's getting old and shouldn't be alone.
They talk of institutions where he'd have most kindly care.
'Wot? Me?' says Peter Parraday. 'An' wot would I do there?
Lose me independence, an' be 'umble when they scold,
Eat an' sleep an' dress an' smoke just when an' how I'm told?
Shove ME in an Old Man's 'Ome to rust me life away?
I'd like to see 'em try it on!' says Peter Parraday.

Old Pete Parraday has little time to spare
For a bush hut and a garden are a common source of care.
There's wood to cut and meals to cook - a thousand things to plan
In the little kitchen-garden that 'do fair absorb a man.'
Green peas and radishes, brussels sprouts and beans,
Silver beet and lettuces - all sorts of green.
'Waterin' an' weedin' 'em, the hours they melts away,
An' days ain't halfways long enough,' says Peter Parraday.

Old Peter Parraday, he sits beside his door
To smoke a pipe at day's-end when fussy toil is o'er.
'This world it changes fast like,' says he, 'as time drifts by;
For old days was easy days when I was young an' spry;
An' cash was easy come by, with fortunes flowin' free,
An' many a man growed wealthy wot toed the mark with me.
But me? I seemed to miss the bus. Fair lost me chance, ses they,
Yet that don't seem to grieve me some,' grins Peter Parraday.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Roads' End

Old Ben, the pensioner, is going down to die.
Huddled in the mail-car, he turns a wistful eye
On this familiar forest scene, the wooded mountain wall;
And nought could lure him from it save the last stern call.
He has loved it with a fierce love no reason comprehends;
The great gums, the green ways, the rough bush friends.
But doctor says his tough old heart at last has let him down;
So he's off to be 'patched up a bit' in hospital in town.

'Patched up a bit'. . . He'd heard that talk when they took Badger Jack,
And Charlie Clem, and Lame Mick. But none of these came back.
Was it Mick went first? Or Charlie? (Lordy, Lord! How men forget.)
And now they're taking Ben away; and Ben not eighty yet.
The youngest, he, of six old hulks; and three have gone away;
Till now there's only George Jones left, and old Pete Parraday -
His oldest friend, Pete Parraday, who has his dog to mind.
The cruellest break of all, that was - leaving his dog behind.

Old Ben, the pensioner, sits huddled in the car;
And his filmed eyes seek the skyline where the timbered ranges are -
This kind, green place of singing bards, of tree and scrubland dense.
He hears their words of forced good cheer and jovial pretence:
Says old George Jones, 'In hospital you'll get real proper care.'
'An' mind,' says Pete, 'no sparkin' with them pretty nurses there.
Why, man, you'll be a two-year-old when you come back agen.'
'You keep your eye on my ole dawg, an' feed 'im good,' pipes Ben.

Then, 'All aboard!' the mailman shouts 'Now, Ben, mind them old bones!'
A hand-clasp from Pete Parraday, a pat from old George Jones,
And Ben, the pensioner, goes off on his last pilgrimage…
'Broke up reel fast,' growls old George Jones, 'considerin' his age.
Hey! Don't let that dawg foller him! Here, Rover, you behave.'
They watch the sick man turn about, and feebly try to wave.
Swiftly the car speeds round the bend; the echoes die away…
'Me next? Or maybe you, George,' says old Pete Parraday.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bird - Seed

Old Pete Parraday, he isn't very wise
Or so the local gossips say - They love to criticise
His crazy views and values, and the things he counts worth while.
'Better had he saved his money,' say his critics, with a smile;
'And not become a pensioner with all his silly chat
Of finches, wrens and robins, and such trivial thngs as that.
It's livin' lonely all these years has filched his brains away.'
'An' left me kind o' peacefuller,' grins old Pete Parraday.

Old Pete Parraday, he sits beside the road
Resting from the hefting of his week-end load:
Bread and meat and groceries to serve his simple need,
And a tiny paper packet with the tag, 'Bird Seed.'
'I allus gits three-pennyworth - I've never needed more
For them there little Pommy-birds wot hops about me door
Goldfinches, starlings an' stranger-folk like they
Wot ain't brung up to grubs an' things,' says old Pete Parraday.

'The robins likes their meal-worms; the blue-wrens tackles grubs;
Grey thrushes goes for take-alls like the boozers goes for pubs;
But the little vegetarians for food has far to roam;
An' so I buys 'em bird-seed to make 'em feel at 'ome
Goldfinches, sichlike, them little stranger-folk . . .
I know 'ow people counts me soft an' reckons I'm a joke
When I talks about me bird friends. I've seed 'em nudge an' wink.
But I valyers them there mates o' mine. Cos why? They makes me think.

'They makes me think of beauty, of the glory of the earth,
An' they leads me on to dreamin'. An' wot is dreamin' worth?
Some folk might call it crazy; but it's heaven's gift to me.
Aye, vision sich as never is or was by land or sea.
Man cannot live by bread alone, nor dreams be put in words;
An', if I'm mad, I'm happy mad, an' talkin' to me birds.
Three-pennyworth o' bird-seed counts more to me that way
Then all the wealth of Sheba's queen,' says old Pete Parraday.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Wires

Wires

I was fourteen
when our literature teacher said:
‘For today’s homework
you have to write a poem about your arms’.
The next day I stood up before the class and recited:
‘My arms are like very, very long wires
with which I can embrace the whole world.'
The teacher said: ‘Very good, great metaphor’.
He died peacefully
just a few years before the Wireless Era.
Lucky for him, he escaped the struggle
of all these wireless things,
even wireless loves.
Meanwhile, I mourn for the death of my first great metaphor.

poem by Ndrek Gjini
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Cherry

'Some I got with amber stems an' some with silver bands,
Bent ones an' straight ones an' all sorts o' brands.
A lot of pipes, sez you, for one old pensioner to own;
But, folks, as soon as Christmas comes, they won't leave me alone.
'We'll give old Pete a pipe,' they sez, forgetful in their way,
It's wot they gives me every year,' said old Pete Parraday.
'Bent ones an' straight ones, some must ha' cost real dear -
More than I'd smoke if I should live for two hundred year.

''We'll give ole Pete a pipe,' they sez. (People is awful good
Here in the bush! 'He sucks,' they sez, 'at that ole cherrywood
All bound with bits of wire an' stuff, an' cracked an' caked up too!'
But, lordy, none of 'em don't know that pipe the way I do.
I've had him over seven year, an' I just likes him fine;
For, cracked an' all, an' caked an' all, he's a good ole mate o' mine.
'Cherry,' I calls him, just for short. I own he smells no end,
But, if I was to lose him now, I'd feel I'd lost a friend.

'Yes, he knows me an' I knows him - a cranky coot some ways:
Got to be youmered, like a man; he has his sulky days.
Goes stubborn an' won't dror at all if I packs him too tight;
An', if I cuts the baccy coarse, the cow won't stay alight!
But on long winter evenin's, there by the blazin' log,
The three of us gits yarnin' - him an' me an' my ole dog -
But, lordy, if I told you all about ole Cherry here,
You'd say me brain was softnin'; you'd say; 'Ole Pete's gone queer.'

'He lost his self last winter down there along the creek,
An' a pretty dance he led me with his crazy hide an' seek.
That's how I catched pnoomonier. The doctor sez, 'Yer mad!
Risk death for that old stikin' pipe!' But I sez, 'Listen, lad,
Ole Cherry does me far more good than all your doctor's stuff!'
But he jist stands an' grins at me; he knowed it sure enough.
'Cherry,' I sez, 'has been my mate -'. But he sez, 'Hold yer row!
You tough ole hunk o' hide!' he sez. 'Sit up an' drink this now.'

'Some I got with amber stems an' some with silver bands,
Bent ones an' straight ones - all sorts o' brands.
If you came into my bush hut you'd see a brave array -
Pipes of every shape an' cut,' said old Pete Parraday.
'But don't you say you seen 'em, 'cos folks is awful good.
'We'll give ole Pete a pipe,' they sez. 'Pooh! That ole cherrywood!'
Yes; folks is kind at Christmas time; but, now an' then, I grants,
I wish they'd stand a man a short, or p'raps a pair o' pants.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In The Days Before Rock n Roll

Justin, gentler than a man
I am down on my knees
At the wireless knobs
I am down on my knees
At those wireless knobs
Telefunken, telefunken
And Im searching for
Luxembourg, luxembourg,
Athlone, budapest, afn,
Hilversum, helvetia
In the days before rock n roll
In the days before rock n roll
In the days before rock n roll
When we let, then we bet
On lester piggott when we met
We let the goldfish go
In the days before rock n roll
Fats did not come in
Without those wireless knobs
Fats did not come in
Without those wireless knobs
Elvis did not come in
Without those wireless knobs
Nor fats, nor elvis
Nor sonny, nor lightning
Nor muddy, nor john lee
In the days before rock n roll
In the days before rock n roll
When we let and we bet
On lester piggott 10/1
And we let the goldfish go
Down the stream
Before rock n roll
We went over the wavebands
Wed get luxembourg,
Luxembourg and athlone
Afm stars of jazz
Come in, come in, come in, ray charles
Come in, the high priest
In the days before rock n roll
In the days before rock n roll
When we let and we bet
On lester piggott 10 to 1
And we let the goldfish go
And then the killer came along
The killer, jerry lee lewis
A whole lotta shakin goin on,
Great balls of fire
Little richard
Justin, gentler than a man
Justin, justin, where is justin now?
Whats justin doing now?
Just, where is justin now?
Come aboard

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cosmic Comic Relief

Sadly sobbing, sadly sobbing,
Rolls the restless wireless sea,
Where the wireless waves go bobbing
Up and down so dolefully.
And nothing there the gloom assails,
Depression to undo,
Till some merry little static
In a manner most erratic
Till statics dropp their little tails
And split themselves in two.

Just to watch their comic wriggling
Moves the stratosphere to mirth,
And a giddy urge to giggling
Trails a titter round the earth.
When wireless humor flops and fails
And nought can raise a laugh,
Then some artful atmospheric
Sends the other half hysteric
Gay atmospherics dropp their tails
And split themselves in half.

Once again the world grows weary;
Sadly superheterodyne
Wax the wireless waves, and dreary,
Doleful frequencies repine!
Until, once more, loud laughter hails
The comic cosmic crew.
As some little stunting static,
Most absurdly acrobatic
Till statics dropp their little tails
And split themselves in two.

There is art in every antic,
So, when sitting at your set,
Rage no more with fury frantic
O'er the statics that you get.
For, far beyond your ken, great gales
Of laughter loud, with cosmic chaff
Hilarious and quite Homeric,
Sounds, as some impish atmospheric
Calls on his crowd to dropp their tails
And split themselves in half.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dad on the Test

I reckon (said Dad) that the country's pests
Is this here wireless an' these here Tests.
Up to the house and around the door,
Stretchin' their ears for to catch the score,
Leavin' the horses down in the crop.
Can you wonder that a farmer goes off pop?

I'm yellin' at Jim or I'm cursin' at Joe
All hours of the day; but it ain't no go -
Leavin' their work and hangin' around
When they think I'm down at the fallow ground;
Sneaking away when I start to rouse,
An' as soon as me back's turned, back to the house.

'Who got Wyatt? Is Sutcliffe out?'
Wot do they care if I rave an' shout?
Bribin' young Bill for to leave his job
To twiddle the switches an' twist the knob.
'Has he made his century? Who's in now?'…
And I bought that machine for the price of a cow!

There's a standin' crop, an' the rain's not far,
An' the price is rotten, but there you are:
As soon as these cricketin' games begin
The farm goes dilly on listenin' in;
Not only the boys an' the harvester crew,
But Mum an' the girls gits dotty too.
An' I reckon (says Dad) that a man's worst pests
Is this here wireless and these here Tests.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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To be happy in this world, first you need a cell phone and then you need an airplane. Then you're truly wireless.

quote by Ted Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where is the harm in the wireless industry?

quote by Steve Largent
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People are very interested in having access to wireless data while they are on a plane.

quote by Steve Largent
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You Thought It Was Bad

Smart paper
wireless reports
your letter home,
computer misinterpretation
plans for world conquest.

poem by David Howerton
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Then as the years went on and my listening became more deliberate, I would climb up on an arm of our big sofa to get my ear closer to the wireless speaker.

quote by Seamus Heaney
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Dialogue Part I

Terry: Are you optimistic 'bout the way that things are going?
Pete: No, I never ever think of it at all.
Terry: Don't you ever worry when you see what's going down?
Pete: Well, I try to mind my business, that is, no business at all.
Terry: When it's time to function as a feeling human being, will your Bachelor
of Arts help you get by?
Pete: I hope to study further, a few more years or so.
I also hope to keep a steady high.
Terry: Will you try to change things, use the power that you have,
The power of a million new ideas?
Pete: What is this power you speak of and the need for things to change?
I always thought that ev'rything was fine, ev'rything is fine.
Terry: Don't you feel repression just closing in around?
Pete: No, the campus here is very very free.
Terry: Does it make you angry the way war is dragging on?
Pete: Well I hope the President knows what he's into, I don't know.
Oooh I just don't know.
Terry: Don't you see starvation in the city where you live,
all the needless hunger, all the needless pain?
Pete: I haven't been there lately, the country is so fine,
but my neighbors don't seem hungry 'cause they haven't got the time,
Haven't got the time.
Terry: Thank you for the talk, you know you really eased my mind,
I was troubled by the shapes of things to come.
Pete: Well, if you had my outlook, your feelings would be numb,
You'd always think that ev'rything was fine.
Ev'ry thing is fine.
We can make it better (x3) Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
We can change the world now (x3)
We can save the children (x3)
We can make it happen (x3)
-------------
Transcribed by
Don F. Pizarro
[email protected]

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As we have seen, the wireless and the airplane have made the world so small and nations so dependent on each other that the only alternative to war is the United States of the World.

quote by John Boyd Orr
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Life is very good. I'm the president and Chief Executive Officer of the Wireless trade association, the CTIA.

quote by Steve Largent
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Accorjins

Where have the old accorjins gone?
I was askin' the coves at the Show;
Matt from the Mallee an' Dandenong Don,
An' a score of the fellers I know
Ole fellers, like me - an' they're missin' 'em sore;
For this wireless, it never makes up
For the merry ole music we knowed of yore
When Brindle was a pup
As they puts it
An' Bravo collared the Cup.

Where are the old accorjins now
Like me father used to play?
Times when we rested from harrers an' ploughs
An' we made rare holiday.
Or Accorjin Alf, poor half-wit coot,
To the bush dance used to come
An' beat the time with his hobnail boot,
Like the top of an big bass drum
'Ladies' Chain!'
Keep time to the top o' the drum.

Pipe in the sou'-west side of his mouth,
Hat on the back of his head,
Alf 'ud be there, come flood, come drouth,
For the dance in the shearin' shed.
Leaky bellers an' keys all broke,
Reeds near wearin' away;
But they put the ginger into a bloke,
Them toons as he used to play.
Hum a couple.
Reel toons of an older day.

'Hie to the Weddin'' an' 'Belle Mahone,'
'Wait Till the Clouds Roll by' ...
An' me an' yer ma crep' out alone,
Out under the starlit sky
Aw, jazz an' the wireless, things like these
Is a wonder to men, alright.
But gimme that ole accorjin's wheeze,
An' the bush, and a starlit night.
Kin yeh hear it?
A mopoke's call in the night.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The wireless segment is approximately 50 percent of our business... we believe this is an industry-wide phenomenon and that we are, in fact, maintaining if not gaining market share.

quote by Antonio Perez
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As I have tried to show, science, in producing the airplane and the wireless, has created a new international political environment to which governments must adjust their foreign policies.

quote by John Boyd Orr
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