Get Work
On one fine but fatal morning in the early Eocene,
Lo, a brawny Bloke set out to dig a hole:
First of men to put a puncture in the tertiary green
Was this early, neolithic, human mole.
Gladsomely the toiler hefted his ungainly wooden spade,
As he scarified the bosom of old earth;
And our Progress forthwith started when his first spade-thrust was made,
While the cult of Work, or Graft, was given birth.
Oh, he flung the clods about him with a gay and prideful jerk,
Did this bright and early anthropoidal Bloke.
With the crowd that gathered, goggle-eyed, to watch him at his work
He would crack a pleasant, prehistoric joke.
And they gazed at him in wonder; for the custom of the mob,
When not occupied in inter-tribal strife,
Hitherto had been to eat, and sleep, and hunt, and cheat, and rob
Quite a simple and uncomplicated life.
Wherefore being new and novel, he was treated with respect,
This inventor of the job of shifting sand:
And with fresh-killed meat and fruit and furs his cave the tribesmen decked.
While his praises sounded high on ev'ry hand.
And the chieftain bade his artists in crude pictures to inscribe
On the shin-bone of a Dinosauromyth:
'Lo, the gods have sent a thing called Graft to bless this happy tribe,
And a scheme of Public Works will start forthwith.'
Ev'ry day, from early dawn till dark, the delver labored on
Till the tribesmen grew accustomed to the sight;
And the hunters, on their way to slay the mud-fat mastodon,
Would delay to say he wasn't doing right.
And the loafers from the Lower Caves, who lived by stealing meat,
All the day around the contract used to lurk;
And, when'er he paused to wipe his brow or took time off to eat,
They would yell at him in chorus: 'Aw, git work!'
Fat and lazy fur-skin-traders - wealthy men of such a size
That it took five hides to make them each a vest -
On their way to cheat their neighbors, paused awhile to criticise;
Calling, 'Loafer!' ev'ry time he stopped to rest.
They no longer stocked his larder with the trophies of the chase,
Or the neolithic substitute for beer:
For the chief said: 'He's a worker; we must keep him in his place!'
And the bloated fur-skin-traders cried, 'Hear, hear!'
And he soon became the scapegoat and the butt of all the tribe,
And he dwelt within the smallest, meanest cave,
While the rich and idle troglodytes were readiest to gibe,
Till they worried him into an early grave.
Then the minstrel (And I wot he was a wise prophetic bard,
And an anthropoid philosopher of note),
Took another mammoth shin-bone and scatched it with his shard
In his picture-script; and this is what he wrote:-
'Here lies the simple silly coot who first discovered Toil.
Him who started progress onward on her way;
Though he didn't get much fun from it, he moved some tons of soil;
But, 'tis said, he never fairly eanred his pay.
Lo, this thing called Work is blessed, for it shifts a lot of sand!
And this progress eases him who lives by tricks.
But the Bloke who lumps the Bundle, down through ev'ry age and land,
Shall be paid for harder work with harder kicks.'
Now that Paleolithic prophet on some sandstone stratum lies, With his shin-bones of the Dinosauromyth,
But the Bloke who shoves the shovel still his thankless calling plies,
And his name is Michael Burke or Peter Smith.
In the highway doth he labor, in the searching public gaze,
And he dare not pause, his aching back to rest,
Lest he cause a howl of protest from the trader of these days
With the large gold chain across his convex chest.
Lest he cause a howl of protest from 'Pro Bono Publico.'
And lest 'Constant Reader' cry his shame aloud,
He must keep his shovel moving - and he moves it all too slow
For the critics in the great White-handed crowd.
Till they get a patent navvy with a dynamo for head,
Or a petrol-tank for stomach, take my word,
He'll be ever up against it who shifts sand to earn his bread,
And the howling of the traders will be heard.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
The March
In early, prehistoric days, before the reign of Man,
When neolithic Nature fashioned things upon a plan
That was large as it was rugged, and, in truth, a trifle crude,
There arose a dusky human who was positively rude.
Now, this was in the days when lived the monster kangaroo;
When the mammoth bunyip gambolled in the hills of Beetaloo;
They'd owned the land for centuries, and reckoned it their own;
For might was right, and such a thing as 'law' was quite unknown.
But this dusky old reformer in the ages long ago,
One morning in the Eocene discovered how to 'throw';
He studied well and practised hard until he learned the art;
Then, having planned his Great Campaign, went forth to make a start.
'See here,' he said - and hurled a piece of tertiary rock,
That struck a Tory bunyip with a most unpleasant shock -
'See here, my name is Progress, and your methods are too slow,
This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!'
They gazed at him in wonder, then they slowly backed away;
For 'throwing' things was novel in that neolithic day;
'Twas the prehistoric 'argument,' the first faint gleam of 'art.'
Yet those mammoths seemed to take it in exceedingly bad part.
Then a hoary, agéd bunyip rose, and spluttered loud and long;
He said the balck man's arguments were very, very wrong;
'You forget,' he said, indignantly 'the land is ours by right,
And to seek to wrest it from us would be - well, most impolite.'
But the savage shook his woolly head and smiled a savage smile,
And went on hurling prehistoric missiles all the while,
Till the bunyip and the others couldn't bear the argument,
And they said, 'You are a Socialist.' But, all the same - they went.
Some centuries - or, maybe, it was aeons - later on,
When the bunyip and the mammoth kangaroo had passed and gone;
While the black man slowly profited by what his fathers saw,
While he learned to fashion weapons and establish tribal law.
There came a band of pale-faced men in ships, from oversea,
Who viewed the land, then shook their heads and sadly said, 'Dear me!'
Then they landed with some rum and Bibles and a gun or two,
And started out to 'civilize,' as whites are apt to do.
They interviewed the black man and remarked, 'It's very sad,
But the use you make of this great land is postively bad;
Why, you haven't got a sheep or cow about the blessed place!
Considering the price of wool, it's simply a disgrace!'
Then they started with the Bibles and the rum - also the guns;
And some began to look for gold and others 'took up runs,'
For, they said, 'This land must be cut up it's simply useless so:
Our name is Progress, and you're out of date, so you must go!'
But the black was most indignant, and he said it was a shame;
For he'd been full and satisfied before the white man came,
And he used that awful word, 'Bowowgong,' in his argument,
Which is native for 'A blanky Socialist.' And yet - he went.
It's the same old 'march unceasing.' We are getting down the list,
And yesterday's 'Reformer' is tomorrow's 'Monopolist,'
For Hist'ry will repeat itself in this annoying way:
Who stood for 'Progress' yesterday is 'Retrograde' to-day.
To-day we view the land, as did those men for oversea,
And, like them, slowly shake our heads and sadly say, 'Dear me!
This land will have to be cut up; your methods are too slow;
Our name is Progress; you are out of date, so you must go.'
They mutter Tory Platitudes, and call the land their land;
For, like the bunyip and the black, they do not understand.
Like bunyip and like black they hark to days of long ago;
And, like them, murmur 'Socialist!' But, all the same - they'll go.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cool Water
Day by day ... whistle while you work ... our
Backs are breaking ... up from hollow earth ...
From end to end ... the noise begins ... in the
Human battle stations ... and the big ones
Coming in
Work, work, work, work ... work till holes are
Filled ... work, work, work, work ... bags of
Bone and skin ... lovers hold hands ... tossing
Their heads ... tangled in hair ... tied to earth
... with skin and glue
But their skin is the same as yours
Coming in for the world to see
They can sit at the table, too
The same blood as you and me
Speak very softly .. hold my hand ... someone is
Sleeping ... in my bed ... priests pass by ...
Worms crawl in ... one dreams to be ... one dream
For all
His skin is the same as yours
Is he not made the same as you?
And some have fallen down
And blood spilled on the ground
Work, work,work
Till his life is doneu
The old man .. is at our door ... and hes
Knocking ... knocking ... as his neighbors weep
... each day repeats ... are we nothing in your
Eyes? ... someone answer, someone answer ... this
Rusted garden gate ... can barely even stand ...
Their work is over now ... and rest will be at
Hand
Is their skin not the same as yours?
Can they sit at the table to drink
Cool water
Cool wateru
And his lungs are filled with rain...
And the waters rushing in...
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hit It
1st verse
Somebody said what are you doin down there
Trying to make me a living
All I want is to get my fair share
Im pleading but nobodys giving
Maybe Im wrong, and I dont see things clear
But I know how I feel after all the these years
Ill keep fighting the pain and the heartache and tears
Chorus
Then Ill push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Im going to push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Im going to push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
2nd verse
Looking up cause Ive got time to spare
Today the sun aint shining
Im still searching everywhere
For my cloud with the silver lining
People say that enough is enough
Turn my back on this thing put it down to bad luck
But the day I do that, then my life will be up
Chorus
So Ill push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Im going to push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
Im going to push it, going to work it
Keep right on till I hit it
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Early To Be Over
Music by richard marx
Lyrics by fee waybill
With another day another life slips away
And floats above the crowd
You can only stay ahead of time when time co-operates
Instead of heading south
Cards are dealt
You play what you hold
You cant tell me the storys been told
Its too early to be over
And its way past when
It could be starting again
Its too early to be over
Good hearted joe is the last one to know
Run down run around biting my tongue
Hardly my sad tale
But the rolling in and steppin out
Nothing but fun
I finally had to bail
Nothing worse than trying too hard
This aint this fools first walk in the park
Its too early to be over
I dont feel a thing from the bone to the skin
Its too early to be over
Good hearted joe is the last one to know
Somewhere out there it all evens out
So they would have you believe
But that dont get me
That wont set me free
Its too early to be over
And its way past when it could be starting over
Its too early to be over
Always the fave but I already gave
Its too early to be over
Dont feel a thing from the bone to the skin
Its too early to be over
Good hearted joe is the last one to know
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work To-Day
Youth's the time; Youth's the season!
Learn and labor while you may,
Hear the voice of age and reason,-
Work to-day.
Labor hard in morning's prime,
Hasten on without delay,
Make the most of early time-
Work to-day.
Up betimes, nor let the sun
Find you sleeping or at play,
Sleep enough when life is done-
Work to-day.
Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower,
Seize the moments while you may,
Nor idly pass one sunny hour-
Work to-day.
poem by James McCauley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grade 9 English Project - What it Means to Toil, or Work
If someone asks you why you work
You’d say that he was quite a quirk
All he says he does all day
Is sit around and drink Perrier
He says that you are quite a bloke
But you think: at least I am never broke
He wonders why you labor so
And end up covered in dirt from head to toe
And when the work is said and done
You don’t go out and have some fun
You back home and read some lore
Have some diner and work some more!
He said to you on that fine day
Look at me I’ve got it made
I can’t believe you crazy fools
Would do physical slog using tools!
Why don’t you leave that work for grunts?
Have some fun, go on some hunts.
At this weird comment I laughed and said
Do you have anything inside your head?
If I don’t work then I’ll have no money
And that would not be remotely funny
If I did not work I’ll say this too
I would end up looking like you!
poem by Matt Rappolt
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Early Mornin'
Early mornin'
All right, I was out real late last night
Got a little messy
Early morning
Can't be like that anymore, oh
I was shaking my ass in the streets this morning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, bump till the break of dawn and
It don't stop till the early morning
Passed out on the couch I'm yawning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, bump till the break of dawn and
It don't stop till the early morning
Wanna talk to
When he walked up someone grabbed him
But I liked him to come here
Kinda cool
Baby, we can make plans
Where ya live
Does your mama live there
We can hook up at the hotel
Hands down so
I told him, let's go
But waht happened next, guess?
But you don't wanna know
I was shaking my ass in the streets this morning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, bump till the break of dawn and
It don't stop till the early morning
Passed out on the couch I'm yawning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, bump till the break of dawn and
It don't stop till the early morning
Oh, in love
So I approached him
We gotta give him his friends
There's something bout him that show
So I said, what the hell
Let's go
Got up, got on the dance floor
Hooked up with a guy named Joe
When the music was fast and slow
But waht happened next, guess?
But you don't wanna know
I was shaking my ass in the streets this morning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, bump till the break of dawn and
It don't stop till the early morning
Passed out on the couch I'm yawning
Just walked in and it's early morning
Bump, b
song performed by by Britney Spears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work or Reflection
Now, I always have preserved a certain attitude
Quite definite in reference to Work
('Tis futility concealing
That I have the Weary Feeling
And tendency perennial to shirk)
Still, I always strive to recognise the principle
That earnest, steady toil is ever best;
So that, having recognised it,
Not to say idealised it,
I would fain lay down my pen and take a rest.
For, you understand, to recognise a principle
Is patently a virtue in itself.
After that you have the option,
Of its strenuous adoption,'
Or the placing of it gently on a shelf.
For myself, I'm forced to own that though my theory's
A thing of beauty, even in the rough,
Dearth of cash supplies good reasons,
With the Passing of the seasons,
That this simple recognition's not enough.
For it's Work - Toil - Graft
It's accomplishment that matters in the end;
And the act of recognition,
Even by a politician,
Has not ever yet been known to make or mend.
And the man who holds a lamp-post up without much fret or fuss,
He may 'recognise a principle', and feel quite virtuous.
We have read about the lives, in ancient history,
Of the Doers back in ev'ry age and clime;
And their method of reforming
Was reflecting and performing,
More especially the latter, every time.
But the man who sat and recognised the principles,
And calmly left accomplishment to Fate,
May have won a reputation,
As a saviour of the nation,
But his name has been suppressed, at any rate.
This has clearly been the rule since far antiquity:
Before a thing is done a man must act;
And all progress lay in knowing
What to do, and straightway going
And just working till reform became a fact.
But to stand on distant nodding terms with principle
Has been a most unprofitable trick.
You may scan historic pages,
And right down throughout the ages
Mere reflection never laid a single brick.
For it's Graft - Toil - Work,
It's performance that is needed in the land.
Recognition, by the student,
Of the principle is prudent,
But it never yet has shifted any sand.
And Hell is full of futile folk who scorned the verb 'to do,'
Who 'recognised the principle' but failed to see it through.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poker Face
Someone must have told him years ago that smiling is a crime
And I've never once heard him to laugh though I've known him for some time
He always wears a serious look they call him poker face
It would seem that in his sad heart for joy there isn't space.
He is not the type of person that one could talk to at length
But one thing he has going for him his silence is his strength
A batchelor in his fortieth year and that's how he will stay
In female company he seems lost and stuck for words to say.
He is one who doesn't work to live he lives for to work only
And he is one without a friend he must be very lonely
He doesn't smoke or drink or talk of sports his work his sole interest
But we all are different one must suppose we like what suits us best.
He always has a serious look he never laugh or smile
But he is an honest sort of a bloke free of conceit or guile
Apart from his job a hobby he doesn't have, a book he's never read
He rises before dawn for work and he goes early to bed.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bosses
Ted Jones our supervisor a quiet bloke he doesn't have much to say
But he makes sure we do our work or so 'twould seem that way
For he's often with our foreman Tim and on us they keep an eye
The word from them if you keep working the time so quickly fly.
I work because I have to work though work I don't enjoy
And it's never easy cutting branches when you are way up high
It's scary on cherry picker bucket when you look towards the ground
But we must keep on working on with Tim and Ted around.
Ted to me seems a gentle sort but the system's got to him
And then of course I never could see eye to eye with Tim
For if you dare complain to Tim he'll tell you where to go to
He'll say there's plenty out of work and better men than you.
I'm slave to Southern Travel Towers of trimming trees constantly
And living stress and repetitive work has made an old man of me
And the Company Directors have Ted and Tim to make sure I earn my pay
You start from the work yard every morning and finish there each day.
If Ted Jones had his own way the job would be okay
At least he doesn't keep watching us like Tim does every day
But Tim more than makes up for him and Ted now must feel sure
That with Southern Travel Towers leading hand in charge his job must be secure.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Bloke from Mullumbimby
You won’t know this fella, till I get on with me prose.
But I’ll tell ya this my friends, I think he’s one of those.
Now before you howl me down and question my social status.
My job here blokes is to tell a story, not just how johnfarls rates us.
They stuck him in the navy, he used to box for sport.
Adds were placed upon his soles you would see these adds quite often, with the gloves my friends he wasn’t good, he should have stuck to golfin.
Milkin cows he tried, roamin from wide and far, his hands will bear the evidence,5 thirty shows the scar.
He has a friend, and, boy is she a cutie, beats me folks how a bloke like him ends with such a beauty.
So that’s a little yarn about this bloke, and not much have you gleans. His place in life aren’t nothing much, that’s as a bloke I means.
But let me tell just how much he makes the AUSSIE bloke, yeah golf’s the go, he didn’t have a clue, played off 87, his goals were for the dough.
Well Bruce and me were average, Ross was good at golf, THE BLOKE had a problem though, his putting, well, was off.
His wallet bulged with ego and one day he laid the claim, you and Bruce and Ross and me will play the noble game.
Let me dwell upon the rules, sheep stations were the scene. A beer a beer a beer and two bob, you lose, Ok vent your spleen.
The game was in the best of jest, we practiced the art of discourse. But if you lose old friend, two bob thanks and that has got no recourse.
The BLOKE my friends would not lay down his courage was divine, we lived of his wagers, all night we wined and dined.
Somehow Bruce and me felt time was grown’ thin’, lets have a triathlon we suggested, best of three to win.
Really not the Olympics but a contest just the same, the aim was winnen’, two out three the aim.
Darts, Euchre, Golf were the games we competed, glory for the victor let the loser please stay seated.
One last thing about our bloke, it concerns that Euchre game, with one spade he goes alone his partner Ross is shamed.
The BLOKE was hopeless in all these sports but never would he yield, then my friends the town soon found out he had a special field.
One day we all run last you see, and thinking with a smile, the BLOKE writes some prose, recites some stuff and leaves us for a mile.
You see my friends, please forgive my comments oh so rude, RAY you beaut, we re-vere you in gratitude.
We enjoy your yarns, we’re infected, you’re the peoples choice, an Aussie yarn has impetus simply by your voice.
Mullumbimby bred a BLOKE, BUT Bruce and Ross and ME we bred HIM too,
THE MULLUMBIMBY BLOKE is out there folks he belongs to me and you.
poem by John D. Farley
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The Disillusioned Fuse
Beneath a lamp in Spring-street, on a recent calm spring night,
I came unwittingly upon a most pathetic sight;
A sorry spectacle of woe - a limp, despondent Bloke
Who leaned against a post and sobbed and said his heart was broke!
'I've lorst me trust in 'uman men; I've done me dash ter-day;
Fer my own cobber's done me in, and guv me game away!'
'Nay, nay,' said I, 'cheer up, good Bloke. The prospect may look blue;
But Fate is wont to deal hard knocks to folk like me and you.
Remember, men have fought and won an uphill fight before,
Pray, tell me what's befallen you that you should grieve so sore.
Say, has your wife deserted you, or have you lost your tin?'
But still the Bloke said bitterly: 'Me cobber's done me in!'
'Me moniker's Deakook,' he said, 'but blokes calls me 'The Fuse.'
(Oh, 'struth! I nearly dropped me bundle when I 'eard the noos!)
I gets a job o' work to do - a real soft cop it wus,
With no foreman over me ter see 'ow much I does,
Excep' some coves they calls the Press - a noisy sorter crew
Thet allus nags an' growls at yer no matter watcher do.
'Some wanted this, some wanted that, an' uvers wanted bofe.
Thinks I, 'Between 'em all it's up ter me ter do a loaf.'
So I jus' took ter sittin' round all day an' crackin' jokes,
An' dealin' out a bit o' stoush ter Opposition blokes.
There wus a press cove called the HAGE took ter me frum the first;
But blimey' - (Here the poor Bloke sobbed as though his heart would burst.)
'Yuss, frum the first 'e took ter me, an' we wus goin' fine,
Until I come ter look on 'im as quite a pal o' mine.
Fer when 'e sez, 'You'll 'ave ter graft on this 'ere job, yer know,'
I winks an' murmurs 'Dicken,' an' 'e winks an' sez 'Righto!'
An' when I jus' perten's ter graft 'e cracks 'e doesn't see;
So I jus' grins an' winks at 'im, an' 'e jus' winks at me.
'O, blimey! Them was golding days, wif not a stroke ter do
Excep' ter line up ev'ry week an' dror me bloomin' screw.
O' course, ther's some thet chips at me an' bellers in a rage;
But I jus' grins an' tips the wink ter 'im they calls the HAGE.
An' 'e speaks up quite serious: ''Ow kin I work,' sez 'e,
'When these 'ere Opposition blokes are all obstructin' me?'
'My oath, it wus an orlright cop! I thort I'd struck it rich.
'Ow could I know' (again he sobbed) 'thet 'e would crool me pitch?
One day 'e sez, quite sudding like, 'This job must be put thro','
An' I jus' winks an' murmurs, 'Dicken,' like I useter do.
But strike! You could 'ave outed me in one, when, 'fore I knowed,
'E turns around on me and sez, quite narsty, 'You be blowed!'
''You'll 'ave ter get ter work,' 'e sez, 'on this 'ere job, or leave.
Fer w'y,' 'e sez, 'I'm sick o' this 'ere game o' make-believe.
Yer jus' perten' ter work,' 'e sez. 'Yer're loafin' day an' night.
Don't grin an' wink at me,' 'e sez, 'yer blanky hippercryte!
Wot are yer 'ere fer anny way? Wot did we pay yer for?
We wants more solid graft,' 'e sez, 'an' less infernal jore!'
'An' that wus 'im I called me pal - me cobber staunch an' true!
'E turns around on me like that an' gives me graft ter do!
Graft, w'ich was the mean sorter thing I allays 'ad despised.
Oh, 'ow wus I ter know 'e wus a sorter John disguised?
'E let me loaf fer munce and munce, an' sets me workin' now.
An', blimey, Mister, I would work, but, 'struth, I dunno 'ow!
'I dunno 'ow ter do the work; an' spare me, if I did,
I couldn't go ter do it, 'cos me doctor 'as forbid.
'E sez that I'm worn out in ev'ry part excep' me cheek;
An' if I start ter graft I'll go ter pieces in a week.
An' if I lose me job I'll 'ave no tucker, bed or roof.
For w'y? Me cobber's done me in! 'E's gone and told the troof.'
I tried to soothe the stricken Bloke, and still his mournful din;
But yet he murmured brokenly, 'Me cobber's done me in!'
And if you roam in Spring-street when the House adjourns at night,
You'll probably encounter this most pitiable sight.
He leans against his post and sobs, prostrated by the news
The Bloke whose cobber did him in, the disillusioned Fuse.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Guido Sebaldi
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Worked at a house of stone:
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Sand at his work alone.
Till a stranger, he said unto him
As he hammer'd the stone one day'
'Guido Sebaldi the mason,
Hark to the words I say!'
'Leave thou this work, fit only
For oxen that draw the plough:
No longer Sebaldi the mason,
Guido the sculptor thou!'
Then Guido Sebaldi the mason
Look'd on his work in shame.
And 'Lo,' he said, 'I am lusty,
I will build me a noble name.'
Guido Sebaldi the sculptor
Toil'd till his heart grew sore.
Guido Sebaldi the sculptor
Sang at his work no more.
Vainly Sebaldi the mason
Hammer'd the senseless stone.
Vainly Sebaldi the mason
Sigh'd at his work alone.
His hands were ready and skillful,
And his days with toil were rife,
But the soul of the master was needed
To waken the stone to life.
Sadly Sebaldi the mason
Went back to the house of stone;
And his brow once more grew cheery
As he sat at his work alone.
But yet he was always thinking
Of hopes that were long since o'er;
And Guido Sebaldi the mason
Sang at his work no more.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Work
Andy was a catholic
The ethic ran through his bones
He lived alone with his mother
Collecting gossip and toys
Every sunday when he went to church
Hed kneel in his pew and say
Its work
All that matters is work
He was a lot of things
What I remember most hed say
Ive got to bring home the bacon
Someones got to bring home the roast
Hed get to the factory early
If youd ask him hed tell you straight out
Its work
No matter what I did it never seemed enough
He said I was lazy, I said I was young
He said, how many songs did you write
Id written zero, Id lied and said, ten
You wont be young forever
You should have written fifteen
Its work
You ought to make things big
People like it that way
And the songs with the dirty words
Make sure your record them that way
Andy liked to stir up trouble
He was funny that way
He said, its just work
Andy sat down to talk one day
He said decide what you want
Do you want to expand your parameters
Or play museums like some dilettante
I fired him on the spot
He got red and called me a rat
It was the worst word that he could think of
And Ive never seen him like that
Its work
I thought he said its just work
Andy said a lot of things
I stored them all away in my head
Sometimes when I cant decide what I should do
I think what would andy have said
Hed probably say you think too much
Thats cause theres work that you dont want to do
Its work
The most important thing is work
Its work
The most important thing is work
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The First Elective Ministry
In the neolithic age of our Australia, long ago,
There dwelt a wise old chieftain, as you probably don't know;
His royal tastes and habits I won't venture to describe,
But his plain horse-sense was noted and applauded by his tribe.
Now, this chief was not a despot, as you will, perhaps, conclude;
For, though debate was noisy and procedure somwhat crude,
There did exist a Parliament, elected in due form,
With a Premier and Ministry - which made things pretty warm.
For the style of Party Government, in vogue about that time,
Was inclined to lead to discord - not to mention down-right crime.
For boomerangs and waddies were used freely in debate;
And, as a rule, ex-Ministers were spoken of as 'late.'
For the salaries of Ministers were not to be despised;
And 'emoluments of office ' were, indeed, most highly prized.
The Premier got five 'possums and ten fat grubs a day,
While a snake and three gohannas were his colleagues' daily pay.
Then other perks and privileges happened such aa these;
The Minister controlling Rain and State Corroborees
Got all his ochre on the nod - in other words, his clothes.
So portfolios were coveted, as you may well suppose.
In consequence, the whole procedure of the House was 'fight.'
No Ministry created in the morning saw the night.
And all the posts were sinecures the shorthand writers filled;
For the press-reports read briefly: 'Sixteen wounded; seven killed.'
Now, the practical King Billy could not fail to recognise
That this bad old Party system was not either right or wise.
Public works were at a standstill, and the tribe was losing wealth.
Not to mention that the House's sittings menaced public health.
The Department of Smoke-Signalling was in a shocking state;
And Defence had been forgotten in the noise of the debate.
The Flint and Sandstone Bonus Bill was shelved time and again;
And the tribe was getting very short of able-bodied men.
The commoon-sensed old chief sat down and pondered hard and long;
And thought him out a simple scheme to right this crying wrong.
Then he dissolved the Parliament and called his tribe around,
And told his plan; and all agreed his arguments were sound.
'But then,' they said, 'it's most unconstitutional, you know.
Besides, we have no precedent; therefore you have no show.'
But Bill dispensed with precedent and substituted sense -
Whereat the anger of the tribal Tories was immense.
'The nation's welfare,' said the chief, 'is what I have in mind;
And this bad old Party Government must all be left behind.
Henceforth I set my Parliament a task it may not shirk,
And members will, please, understand that fighting isn't work.
'We'll have Elective Ministries, and they shall rule unharmed
For forty moons; and members must attend the House unarmed.
Next election you may club them, should their actions prove unwise;
And for the second term the victors may enjoy the prize.'
They called it 'socialistic'; but King Billy had his way.
For forty moons each Minister enjoye dhis place and pay.
Since only once within that time the chance of office came,
The members took to making laws, and ceased to 'play the game.'
Peace and prosperity henceforth smiled on the chieftain's reign;
And, ere he died, he said, 'Behold, I have not ruled in vain.
Down through the future ages shall my Great reform descend.
Australia shall bless my Simple Notion till the end.'
But, if you study recent history, you'll note King Bill
Was most forlonly out of it; for they are at it still.
The daily fight for fatted grubs excites the same old gang;
And debate is mainly waddy, and division boomerang.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bob Says
Bob says the harder I work the luckier I seem to get
And do not tell me there is not money in the loss of human sweat
If I did not work as hard less money I would have for to spend
The wealthy one has lots of mates but the pauper does not have a friend.
Bob says my neighbour Freddy he does like to complain
He only works three days a week and though to him I try to explain
Had he got another part time job how much better off he would be
But he just likes to have his whinge he does not listen to me.
Hard work doesn't seem to bother Bob the harder I work he say
The more money I always make life seems to be that way
One would have to become very lucky to become a lotto millionaire
And those who come by money in the easy way to say the least are rare.
Bob says the harder I work the wealthier I seem to grow
Were I a lazy fellow I would not have much to show
For the opportunities I've been granted for the betterment of myself, my children and my wife
The work shy and lazy person never will succeed in life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Musclebound
Were building fires that will burn until morning
The smell of books and hot stone surround us
Tough is the leather that strapped to my skin
Strong are the bonds that we make
We feel the steam as it rises around us
Up from the soil that is cracking its back
Tough is the leather that strapped to my skin
Strong are the bonds that sing
Work till youre musclebound all night long
Work till youre musclebound all night long
Gotta work till youre musclebound all night long
Gotta work till youre musclebound all night long
Were building fires that will burn until morning
The smell of books and hot stone surround us
Tough is the leather that strapped to my skin
Strong are the bonds that we make
To hear a pulsing from chanter to mountain
Down through the vein and into the grain
Strong is the shoulder that moves to the time
Here is the land it can break
Work till youre musclebound all night long
Work till youre musclebound all night long
Gotta work till youre musclebound all night long
Gotta work till youre musclebound all night long
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Day
Well Im hiding my eyes from the morning sun
And I keep on working till the work is all done
But a voice in my head keeps ticking away
As the sweats hosed down from yet another day
Well he works hard
And he lives hard
And he breaks his back without nothing to gain
While the boss man sits around and drinks champagne
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Well Im peeling the blisters off my working hand
Is that what it takes to make you understand?
That its something you read, not something you meant
To be slaving away without a shred of integrity
He worked hard
And he lived hard
And he broke his back without nothing to say
While the man in control was just laughing away
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Was it something you read?
Was it something you meant?
Was it something you said?
Or was it heaven sent?
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
song performed by by Ministry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Start
we start
as usual and as
what they always tell us
and what we also do
from the beginning
like a lazy waking up
in the morning
and we stretch our arms
like a cat yawning
and we move through the
day till noontime
and we work so hard
earning our bread and butter
and leaving so many
other important things
behind us
until we reach this
darkness of our lives
where our flesh
surrenders
and the bone gets
lonelier each hour
and then we reach the
end when we ask
where are we
and why?
sadness
seals what we
once left open
locking in
everything we
should have done
that early morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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