Care Free Bloke's Cigar
There's a little spark and a wisp of smoke
By the road where the tall gums are;
And a mile away a care-free bloke
Speeds onward in his car.
No thought of evil mars his day,
And he's well a hundred miles away
And safe at home, as skies grow grey,
With another fine cigar.
There's a spurt of flame in the breathless night
And a crackling in the scrub;
There's a withered mint-bush burning bright,
And a kindling dog-wood shrub.
For yards about the bush glows red
But the care-free bloke, his paper read,
Says, 'Bonzer day. And now for bed
After a bite of grub.'
There's a sickening roar as the fire sweeps down
From the mountainside aflame
On the helpless little forest town,
And one knew how it came.
Ten miles of blackened hills gape wide
And a stricken home on the mountain side ...
But the care-free bloke toils on in pride.
He saw no spark by the bush roadside,
So how is he to blame?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
To Noel Who Has George Bush Senior As His Hero
He say George Bush his hero but with him I don't agree
For George Bush bombers killed thousands just to set Kuwait free
And Saddam been defeated and two Countries been destroyed
And George Bush and John Major in allied victory take pride.
Noel say that I'm for Saddam but he has got it wrong
For on side of one who kill and maim I don't feel I belong
And Hussein is a killer and all who kill are bad
And George Bush just as bad as him which makes it all more sad.
Two hundred thousand Iraqis in Kuwait desert died
And the sands of Kuwait desert the shame of George Bush hide
And the Kuwait oil wells burning and blood's been shed for oil
And Kuwait now free Country but was it all worth while? .
And the sky o'er Kuwait desert from smoke as black as coal
And George Bush, Noel Johnson's hero, you can have your hero Noel
You applaud the allied bombers and condemn the I.R.A.
But they all throw bombs on people though you don't see it that way.
He say George Bush is his hero, George Bush who felt no shame
In murdering Iraqi people just to earn himself a name,
George Bush who bombed and murdered just to prove his country great
And whose crimes and shame lay covered by the white sands of Kuwait.
poem by Francis Duggan
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That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Indian Myna
Gimme the town an' its clamour an' clutter;
I ain't very fond of the bush;
For my cobbers are coves of the gardens and gutter-
A tough metropolitan push.
I ain't never too keen on the countryfield life;
It's the hustle an' bustle for me an' me wife.
So I swagger an' strut an' I cuss an' I swagger;
I'm wise to the city's hard way.
A bit of a bloke an' a bit of a bragger;
I've always got plenty to say.
Learned thro' knockin' about since my people came out
From the land at the back of Bombay.
When out in the bush I am never a ranger;
There never ain't nothin' to see.
Besides, them bush birds got no time for a stranger;
So town an' the traffic for me.
I sleep in the gardens an' loaf in the street,
An' sling off all day at the fellers I meet.
An' I swagger an' scold an' strut an' I swagger,
An' pick up me fun where I can,
Or tell off me wife, who's a bit of a nagger,
Or scrap with the sparrers for scran.
A bonzer at bluffin', I give you my word,
For, between you an' me, I'm a pretty tough bird.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Five Hundred Miles Away From Home
(bobby bare, charlie williams, hedy west)
Tear drops fell on mamas note
When I read the things she wrote
She said, we miss you girl
We love you come on home
Well I didnt have to pack
I had it all right on my back
Now Im five hundred miles away from home
Chorus:
Away from home, away from home
Cold and tired and all alone
Yes, Im five hundred miles away from home
Its hard to tell the state Im in
Where Im going, where Ive been
But theres a dream Ive been following so long
If mama knew the things Ive done
Shed forgive them everyone
But Im still five hundred miles away from home
Repeat chorus
Cant remember when I ate its just thumb and walk and wait
And Im still five hundred miles away from home
If my luck had been just right Id be with them all tonight
But Im still five hundred miles away from home
Repeat chorus
Lord, Im still five hundred miles away from home
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Splitter
IN THE MORN when the keen blade bites the tree,
And the chips on the dead leaves dance,
And the bush echoes back right merrily
Blow for blow as the sunbeams glance
From the axe when it sweeps in circles true,
Then the splitter at heart is gay;
He exults in the work he’s set to do,
And he feels like a boy at play.
Swinging free with a stroke that’s straight and strong
To the heart of the messmate sent,
He is cheered by the magpie’s morning song
With the ring of the metal blent,
But the birds in their terror scatter high
When she falls with a rush and bound,
And the quivering saplings split and fly,
And the ranges all roar around.
Who is lord when the axeman mounts his spar,
And the breeze on his brown breast blows,
When the scent of the new wood floats afar,
And the gum from its red wounds flows?
With the bush at his back he laughs at care,
With a pipe and a right good mate—
There is drink in the billy, grub to spare,
And a bunk in the ten-by-eight.
When the sun’s in the west, from nooks aloft
Where the stringy is straight and tall,
Come the strains of a chorus quaint and soft,
Or the clink of the wedge and maul;
From the gully a murmur of broken talk
Or the song that the crosscut sings;
For the bush is a-dream, and high the hawk
Hangs at rest on his cradling wings.
But at night, by the tent, when tea is done
And when euchre’s begun to flag—
In the bush he may hear a distant gun
Or the neigh of a lonely nag—
Then the splitter has thoughts no longer gay,
And sorrows he cannot drown,
For he dreams of a girl who’s far away,
Or the joys of a spree in town.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Cigar
Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar;
I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.
Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.
Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;
I care not. I'm at peace
So I have my cigar.
I never see the 'Post,'
I seldom read the 'Star;'
The 'Globe' I scarcely heed,
So I have my cigar.
Honors have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter - I can wait,
So I have my cigar.
Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.
I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar;
I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.
I do not seek for fame,
A general with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar,
The deuce may take them all
So I have my cigar.
Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar;
I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.
The ardent flame of love,
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.
They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. R.;
The jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.
poem by Thomas Hood
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A Fair Warning
Let 'em come, by gum! That's all I say.
Let me see one of 'em up this way,
With their sacks a-back an' their walkin' boots
Low neck, short-panted hikin' coots
Flingin' their fags in the brambles here,
Same as that other one done last year.
He might just once; but he won't no more.
I'll nail his hide to the cow-shed door.
A mile o' fencin' and two good hust
All thro' them an' their lighted butts.
Patronisin'? You're too dead right.
These city fellers is awful bright
Three good huts an' a mile o' fence!
'Tisn't so much me own expense;
Three mile o' forest gone up in smoke!
Well, ain't it enough to nark a bloke?
The worst they done was in ninety-five.
Poor ole Ben Bray, he'd still be alive
It if wasn't for that camp-fire they left.
But a burnt-out-home an' the kids bereft
Of their dad. Yes; that was the toll that day;
An' the fellers what done it miles away.
Oh, there's fools in the forest as well as town.
I ain't lettin' none o' me neighbors down.
There's fools in the forests, as well I knows;
Chancin' a burn when the north wind blows.
An' they oughter be pinched . . . But them city skites,
Suckin' their fags an' strikin' their lights!
Just let me catch 'em! Vindictive? Me?
Ropeable, am I? Well, wouldn't you be
If you suffered the same from their smokin' butts?
Three mile o' fencin' an' four good huts!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Going Home
Writers: leo sayer & alan tarney
No crying no sighing Im going home
Im leaving no grieving Im going home
And theres no one here
And theres nothing here gonna turn me around
Been a lifetime here full of doubt and fear
Been the talk of the town
Im going home
Im going home
Im going home
Im smiling Im flying Im going home
No sad face no suitcase Im going home
And Im thinking back
To the girl I left is she waiting for me
When I left my heart wasnt in my hands
Is she waiting home for me
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
I know my friends will be there
And they will welcome me
Ill wash away these memories
From these dirty streets
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
When I get home
Im dreaming Im scheming Im going home
Im racing times wasting Im going home
And I see my home and I see my dream
I see everyone there
Going right back down to when I was free
And I hadnt a care
Im going home
Im going home
Im going home
And in my babys eyes
I see joy and pride
Uncover all those lies
That I left behind
When I get home
And I see my home and I see my dream
I see everyone there
Going right back down to when I was free
And I hadnt a care
When I get home
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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King Billy Chips In
Boss Oberseer, Dat BULLUMTIN! Goo' day, boss Plurry 'ot!
Bloke tell me writum BULLUMTIN, bin plenty bacca got.
'You Billy, makum writin'-yabber,' bloke he say to me;
'Him quick bin pay fer writin' - plenty tsugar plenty tea.'
S'pose mine write it pretty good, you gib it two t'ree poun'?
Bin teachum mishum station plenty good write yabber down.
Mine jes' bin readin' BULLUMTIN alonga scrub. Ma word!
Mine tink it Gub'mint yabber 'bout de bee' de kin I heard.
Mine tink it pitcher budgerry - dat Lin'say an' dat Hop.
Mine tink it dem corrob'ree songs been alla same up top.
Bin plenty good, dat lubra yabber; Red Page, berry fine;
Dat White Australia policy jes' same alonga mine.
But, tell you straight, boss, all dat talk 'bout 'possum, 'roo and snake,
Bin pull your leg, mine tink it. It bin all a plurry fake.
Mine s'pose dem blokes bin walkabout dat bush down Sydney way.
Bin talkum t'ro' dere ploomin' hat 'bout eberyting dey say!
Bin catchum snake, mine tink it, outer bottle, longa pub.
Too much dam lie about dem tings dey neber seen in scrub.
Ma wud! Mine plenty bin in bush; bin plenty much out back,
But neber meet dem pfellers anywhere alonga track.
Mine tink dey catchum too much corns dey walk alonga scrub,
Dey don't bin losum sight of bed an' plenty pfeller grub.
Mine neber meet dat 'Dandalup' or 'Wang,' or 'William Cann.'
Dat 'Quan,' mine tink, drive butcher cart, an' 'Snell' bin tramway man.
Mine tell you, boss, dem blokes no good; dey all bin habin' you.
Mine tink dat 'Chimmie Pannican' bin plurry chackeroo!
So boss, you listen longa me; you make quick catchum sack,
An' Billy him bin send you plenty yabber 'bout outback.
S'pose you gib it glasserrum, mine writum Wil' Cat too.
You gib it bottle rum, mine run whole plurry show for you.
Don' bin forgettum bacca, rum, when you bin writin' nex';
Mine wantum plenty bad; ma wud! Mine bin yours, BILLY REX.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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On Overhearing Two Arguing About Poverty
I over heard two fellows arguing about poverty
Whilst I sat in the cafe drinking coffee
And in truth I could not help but overhear them
As they sat at the next table to me.
The older of the two a silver gray haired fellow
Said to rid the World of want and poverty
We would need to depose every despotic leader
But the younger bloke with him did not agree.
He said in so called wealthy societies there's want and hunger
And where affluence is poverty too abound
From here you don't walk far to see poor people
For poverty is everywhere around.
The older bloke countered but this is a free Country
And those in poverty have themselves only to blame
And if hungry people in our midst are living
Do not expect me to feel any shame
The younger man again with him did differ
Saying want is caused by those who only care
For themselves alone and their own self interest
Many must grow poorer for to make one millionaire.
I left them there in the cafe to argue
And not for me to say who is wrong or right
For both of them looked well dressed and well fed fellows
And they won't go to bed hungry tonight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Observation
A tall bloke talks
A short bloke listens
And on his face
A question
A smudge
A blue tear
Below his eye
Tattooed
poem by Michael Oliver
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Progress
THEY’VE builded wooden timber tracks,
And a trolly with screaming brakes
Noses into the secret bush,
Into the birdless brooding bush,
And the tall old gums it takes.
And down in the sunny valley,
The snorting saw screams slow;
O bush that nursed my people,
O bush that cursed my people,
That flayed and made my people,
I weep to watch you go
poem by Frank Wilmot
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Self
Grass has been greater
Skies have been bluer
I know my soul is down in the sewer
You say that I am selfish
Well you know that that is true
I dont care what you say pretty mama
And I dont care what you do
I dont care about anyone except myself
I dont care about anyone except myself
In the land of the brave
And the home of the free
I dont care about anyone except for me
If you are unhappy and
You have not won your race
Well, there aint no mercy in this world
And there aint none out in space
So welcome to the nineties
I hope that you make it through
But if you get in trouble honey
This is what I say to you
I dont care about anyone except myself
I dont care about anyone except myself
In the land of the brave
And the home of the free
I dont care about anyone except for me
This is not the era of roses, peace and love
I must admit Im the only one
That Im thinking of
Well, I just make my honey
And I put it in the bank
I buy myself some presents
With no one but myself to thank
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Annunciation
'The lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed.'-EXODOUS iii.2.
When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven,
Upon the quiet mountainside untrod,
The sudden naked fire came down from heaven,
Burning you with the very breath of God,
Was the sun lost? Were all the sweet stars dim
While God raised round your head those walls of light?
Were you locked dumbly, terribly with Him,
Within that burning temple day and night?
What was it to have God there like a bird-
God like a great, gold flower upon your breast-
While He spake things that only one man heard,
Face down before that glory manifest?
When that strange flame went up the mountain side,
Were your forsaken lips so burned with gold
That the creatures of the wild stood off and cried,
And in your breast no blossom dared unfold?
Did you call back the startled birds to build,
And put forth all your simple buds again,
Forgetting how your branches once were filled,
In sweet embrace of passing sun and rain?
Or were all other birds forbidden sing
After those great, gold plumes had made their nest?
Was, in its strange and awful blossoming,
That great, gold flower the last upon your breast?
poem by Muriel Stuart
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The Bonfire
OH, let’s go up the hill and scare ourselves,
As reckless as the best of them to-night,
By setting fire to all the brush we piled
With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow.
Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it safe.
The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough
Down dark converging paths between the pines.
Let’s not care what we do with it to-night.
Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile
The way we piled it. And let’s be the talk
Of people brought to windows by a light
Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper.
Rouse them all, both the free and not so free
With saying what they’d like to do to us
For what they’d better wait till we have done.
Let’s all but bring to life this old volcano,
If that is what the mountain ever was—
And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will….”
“And scare you too?” the children said together.
“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire
Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know
That still, if I repent, I may recall it,
But in a moment not: a little spurt
Of burning fatness, and then nothing but
The fire itself can put it out, and that
By burning out, and before it burns out
It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,
And sweeping round it with a flaming sword,
Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle—
Done so much and I know not how much more
I mean it shall not do if I can bind it.
Well if it doesn’t with its draft bring on
A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter,
As once it did with me upon an April.
The breezes were so spent with winter blowing
They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
Short of the perch their languid flight was toward;
And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven
As I walked once round it in possession.
But the wind out of doors—you know the saying.
There came a gust. You used to think the trees
Made wind by fanning since you never knew
It blow but that you saw the trees in motion.
Something or someone watching made that gust.
It put the flame tip-down and dabbed the grass
Of over-winter with the least tip-touch
Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand.
The place it reached to blackened instantly.
The black was all there was by day-light,
That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke—
And a flame slender as the hepaticas,
Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now.
But the black spread like black death on the ground,
And I think the sky darkened with a cloud
Like winter and evening coming on together.
There were enough things to be thought of then.
Where the field stretches toward the north
And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it
To flames without twice thinking, where it verges
Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear
They might find fuel there, in withered brake,
Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod,
And alder and grape vine entanglement,
To leap the dusty deadline. For my own
I took what front there was beside. I knelt
And thrust hands in and held my face away.
Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating.
A board is the best weapon if you have it.
I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew,
And said out loud, I couldn’t bide the smother
And heat so close in; but the thought of all
The woods and town on fire by me, and all
The town turned out to fight for me—that held me.
I trusted the brook barrier, but feared
The road would fail; and on that side the fire
Died not without a noise of crackling wood—
Of something more than tinder-grass and weed—
That brought me to my feet to hold it back
By leaning back myself, as if the reins
Were round my neck and I was at the plough.
I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread
Another color over a tenth the space
That I spread coal-black over in the time
It took me. Neighbors coming home from town
Couldn’t believe that so much black had come there
While they had backs turned, that it hadn’t been there
When they had passed an hour or so before
Going the other way and they not seen it.
They looked about for someone to have done it.
But there was no one. I was somewhere wondering
Where all my weariness had gone and why
I walked so light on air in heavy shoes
In spite of a scorched Fourth-of-July feeling.
Why wouldn’t I be scared remembering that?”
“If it scares you, what will it do to us?”
“Scare you. But if you shrink from being scared,
What would you say to war if it should come?
That’s what for reasons I should like to know—
If you can comfort me by any answer.”
“Oh, but war’s not for children—it’s for men.”
“Now we are digging almost down to China.
My dears, my dears, you thought that—we all thought it.
So your mistake was ours. Haven’t you heard, though,
About the ships where war has found them out
At sea, about the towns where war has come
Through opening clouds at night with droning speed
Further o’erhead than all but stars and angels,—
And children in the ships and in the towns?
Haven’t you heard what we have lived to learn?
Nothing so new—something we had forgotten:
War is for everyone, for children too.
I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
The best way is to come up hill with me
And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.”
poem by Robert Frost
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A Road Is Just A Road
He pulled out in a cloud of dust
Layin' rubber and spewin' rust
And on any road he'd take
He'd have his foot on the pedal but my heart on the brake
Underneath the smooth tar curves
A road is only dust and dirt
On a lonely interchange
The signs all look the same
'Cause a road is just a road and a feelin's just a feelin'
No matter where you go
From Bakersfield to San Antone
A road is just a road when the one you love is leavin' on
And midnight's another dawn a hundred miles ago
He pulled out of sight of me
Believin' that I'd set him free
But I'd heard the voice of the prisoner
Sayin' he couldn't get enough of her
You can go by land, you can go by air
Go by sea, hell I don't care
You can go anyway you choose
Wearin' out the soles of your travelin' shoes
'Cause a road is just a road and a feelin's just a feelin'
No matter where you go
From Bakersfield to San Antone
A road is just a road when the one you love is leavin' on
And midnight's another dawn a hundred miles ago
(Bangor Maine to El Paso)
And every sleepless night I see him screamin' by the scenery
Not noticing another mile that's rolled on between him and me
'Cause a road is just a road and a feelin's just a feelin'
No matter where you go
From Bakersfield to San Antone
A road is just a road when the one you love is leavin' on
And midnight's another dawn a hundred miles ago
(Waterloo to San Bernardino)
(Washington to Amarillo
song performed by by Dixie Chicks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Night Train
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by?
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry;
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling – yet so warm, and yet so cold:
"I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old"?
Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange?
(Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold:
"I'm the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when you are old"?)
In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead:
"You have seen the seas and cities – all is cold to you, or dead –
All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold!
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you are old"?
poem by Henry Lawson
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Bush Hay
The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
And the bitter hard youth he had;
He thinks of a nearer and dearer past
In the bright land far away,
When the teams went up and the teams came down,
In the days when they made bush hay.
The fare was rough and the bush was grim
In the “years of his pilgrimage”,
But he gained the strength that is still with him
In his hale, late middle age.
He thinks of the girl at the halfway inn
They use as a barn to-day—
Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thin
In the days when they made bush hay.
The ration teams to the Bathurst Plains
Were often a fortnight full.
And they branched all ways in the early days
And back to the port with wool.
They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.
That flashed to the West away,
When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stage
In the days when they made bush hay.
He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,
And he goes by the morning train,
From the gold-field town in the sultry West
To his home by the sea again,
Where a bustling old body’s expecting him
Whose hair is scarcely grey,
And she was the girl of the halfway house
In the days when they made bush hay.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose Bush's Life
have you ever seen a rose bush
grow over a period of time
well it gets bigger and
a lot more complected,
as it grows and expands
it starts as a seed
and with the right care and time
it develops into a bush
but with the wrong amount the bush is not heathy
and may die
that’s the same with a baby
we start as a egg in our mothers tummy
with the right amount of care and 9mounts
we sprout into the world
young, healthy and a able body baby
but if we are not taken care of properly then
we may not live
a rose bush sprouts many different roses
during it’s life time
as if they are sections of there life
generations
of there life time
our lives look and act
like a rose bush
also it starts with one seed
you
then we sprout up and
make our own lives
with a family and
that spouts other things off of us
husband, wife, kids, and grand kids
our lives are like a
rose bushes life
for a rose bushes
are our lives
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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500 Miles Away From Home
I'm 500 Miles Away From Home
Teardrops fell on mama's note,
When I read the things she wrote
She said 'We miss you son, we love you, come on home'
Well I didn't have to apck I had it all right on my back
Now I'm 500 Miles Away From Home
Away from Home, away from home
Cold and tired and all alone
Yes I'm 500 Miles Away From Home
I know this is the same coat I took when I left home
But it sure looks different now
And I guess i look different too
But time changes everything
I wonder what they'll say
When they see their boy lookin' this way
Oh, I wonder what they'll say when I get home
Can't remember when I ate, its just thumb and walk an wait
And I'm still 500 miles away from home
If my love had been just right, I'd be with them all tonight
But I'm still 500 miles away from home
Oh, I'm still 500 miles away from home
poem by Christina Conseco
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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