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Narcissus

A man's a mug. I've worked the 'ole thing out
To-day, down in the orchard where I sat
Runnin' the wheels red-'ot beneath me 'at,
An' wras'lin' fervud with a sudden doubt
A doubt wot's plugged me fair bang on the point
An' jolted all me glad dreams out uv joint.

It's been a pearlin' day. The birds above
Up in the trees sung fit to break their 'earts.
It seemed, some'ow, the 'ole world's makin' love,
Ixceptin' me. An' then an' there I starts
To think things out an' git me bearin's straight,
Becoz - Well, I ain't been meself uv late.

I've flopped. It was the parson put me wise,
Before 'e left. I 'ad been full uv skite.
I was the 'ero uv the piece all right.
Me chest was out, me 'ead was twice the size
It used to be. I felt I was king-pin.
Did n't the papers 'ave me photer in?

I was that puffed with pride I never stopped
To search me soul fer signs uv wear an' tear.
I loved meself so much I never dropped
To any blot or blemish anywhere.
The Lord 'Igh Muck-a-muck, wot done the trick,
An' dug the Murray with 'is little pick.

When I think back on it I go all 'ot.
I was that blind I never even seen,
Nor looked to see no changes in Doreen.
I was content to 'ave 'er on the spot
Dodgin' about the 'ouse in 'er calm way,
To chirp, 'Yes, Bill,' to everything I say.

The parson punchered me. 'E's alwiz 'ad
A trick uv callin' me by fancy names.
In town 'e christened me 'Sir Gally'ad,'
'Oo was, it seems, a knight wot rescued dames,
But never spoke out uv 'is turn to none,
Becoz 'is 'eart was pure. 'E took the bun.

But now 'Narcissy' is the moniker
'E wishes on me; an' I arst fer light.
'Narcissy?' I remarks. 'Don't sound perlite.
'Oo was this bird? There looks to be a slur
Or somethin' sly about that cissy touch.'
'A bloke,' 'e sez, ''oo liked 'imself too much.'
I looks quick fer that twinkle in 'is eye
Wot tells me if 'e's kiddin' me or not.
But it ain't there. 'Fair dinkum,' I reply,
'You don't mean - You ain't 'intin' that I've got -'
'I mean,' 'e sez, 'you should give thanks through life
That you 'ave been so lucky in your wife.'

'E don't 'arp on the toon; but turns away.
'Your daffydils,' 'e sez, 'makes quite a show.'
An' latter, when it came 'is time to go,
'E shakes me 'and reel arty, twinklin' gay…
But, 'lucky in me wife?' Where did I 'ear
Somethin' like that before? It sounds dead queer.

I seeks the orchard, with a sickly grin,
To sort meself out straight an' git a grip.
Them 'ints the parson drops give me the pip.
I don't quite see where daffvdils comes in;
But, 'lucky in me wife!' Why, spare me days,
Yeh'd think I beat 'er, by the things 'e says!

I tries to kid meself: to back me skite,
An' 'old that wad uv self-content I 'ad.
It ain't no use. I know the parson's right:
Clean through the piece I 'ave been actin' bad.
I've been so full uv Me, I've treated 'er
Like she was - well, a bit uv furnicher.

Yet, 'furnicher' don't seem to put it good.
Nothin' so wooden don't describe Doreen.
All through the game, some'ow, she's alwiz been
Well, somewhere 'andy, 'elpin' where she could,
An' manidgin', an'… Bli'me! Now I see!
Wot she did manidge was the block'ead - me!…

Well, I'm the goat. I s'pose I should 'ave seen
I was n't 'ead an' tail uv all the show.
A bit uv putty in 'er 'ands I been!
An' so bullheaded that I did n't know.
Only fer 'er things might 'ave - Spare me days!
I never will git used to women's ways.

Only fer 'er Rose might… But wot's the use?
Shakespeare 'as said it right: the world's a stage;
An' all us 'uman ducks an' dames ingage
In actin' parts. Mostly the men cut loose,
An' fights, an' throws their weight about a lot.
But, listen. It's the women weave the plot.

The women… Well, it's been a bonnie day.
Blue-bonnets, dodgin' in an' out the ferns,
Looks like blue chips uv sky come down to play.
An' down the valley, where the creek track turns,
I see Rose, arm-in-arm with Wally Free.
The 'ole world's makin' love, ixceptin' me.

Huh! Women!… Yes; a man's a mug, all right…
I sees the sof' clouds sailin' in the sky,
An' bits uv thistledown go driftin' by.
'Jist like men's lives,' I think. An' then I sight,
Fair in me cabbages, ole Wally's cow.
That fence - But them plants ain't worth savin', now.

Women… I wonder 'oo Narcissy was…
Green trees agin blue 'ills don't look 'arf bad…
I s'pose 'e got the cissy part becoz
'Is ways was womanish. Well, serve 'im glad
That cow uv Wally's ort to milk a treat
With plenty good young cabbage plants to cat.

Women is often 'elpful - in a sense…
Lord, it's a lazy day! Before it fails,
I better git a 'ammer an' some nails
An' dodge acrost an' mend that bit uv fence.
It's up to me to try an' put things right,
An' - well, I'll 'elp Doreen wash up tonight.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Also-Ran

I know I'm dull. I know I got a brain
That's only fit fer fertilizin' 'air.
I don't arst for bokays: I ain't that vain;
But fair is fair.
An' when yeh think yer somethin' uv a man,
It 'urts to find yerself a also-ran.

'Urts like one thing. To git sent to the pack
When you 'ave 'ad idears you're ace an' king
An' all the pitcher cards down to the jack
Is like to sting
Yer vanity. I thort I was some use,
An' now I'm valyid as a 'umble dooce.

Don't mind my sulks. I s'pose I 'as swelled 'ead;
But gittin' snouted ain't wot I expeck.
Aw, they can 'ave it on their own! I'm full
Up to the neck!
Never no more! I chuck good works right 'ere. . .
But lets start frum the start an' git it clear.

I own I used me nut. Fer marriage brings
Experience to stop yeh actin' rash.
I've missed the step before through rushin' things,
An' come a crash.
I planned it out all careful frum the start;
Me taticks was a reel fine work uv art.

Me problem's this: The noos 'as to be broke
Concernin' Rose. Doreen 'as to he told.
The 'ow an' when that bit uv noos is spoke
I've learnt uv old.
I'm shrood. I wait. I watch me chance to act.
The trick's to know the time an' place exact.

You blokes unmarrid ain't got no idear
Uv 'ow successful 'usbands works their 'eads.
It's like a feller strugglin' to keep clear
A thousand threads.
Once let 'em tangle, an' you take the blame.
You're up to putty; an' yeh've lost the game.

I picks a nice, calm, cozy, peaceful night.
The suppper things is washed; the kid's in bed
(I 'elped to wipe the plates) the fire burns bright;
An' then I led
The tork around to tales uv Ginger Mick,
Cunnin' an' crafty like, an' not too quick.

'Funny,' I sez, 'that we should mention Mick.
In town I met that girl - (Wot's 'er name? Rose)
By accident. Poor thing looks orful sick. . . .
Well, I suppose
She 'as 'er worries. . . . Lost 'er job, yeh know.'
Doreen don't take much int'rest. She sez, 'Oh?'

'Yes,' I goes on; 'a bit uv country air
Is wot she needs. She's very sick - an' low.
She seemed - well - sort uv - 'opeless with.... despair.'
Doreen sez, 'Oh?'
It's 'eavy goin'; but I sticks it, grim.
Poor Mick!' I sez. 'I often think uv 'im.

'Poor Mick!' I sez. (Well, any'ow, I mean
Them words) 'If you 'ad seen that girl, my dear,
You'd arst 'er up to stay.' 'Why,' sez Doreen,
'She's comin' 'ere
On Choosday next.' (I jist choke back a shout)
'That's why I got the spare room tidied out.'

'She's wot?' . . . I can't say more. 'Well,' sez me wife,
'Seein' you arst 'er, why all this su'prise?'
Seein' you 'ad a fight, an' risked yer life,
An' got black eyes,
An' played the 'ero, as the parson says,
You ort to know. I've knowed,' she sez, 'fer days.'

Snowy! To think that parson cove would go
An' let me down to flounder in the mud,
An' scheme, an' lie, an' work the game reel low,
To come a thud!
'Yeh mean to say,' I arsts, mad as can be,
'Yeh've fixed all this without consultin' me?

'Yeh mean to say I 'ave n't got the right
To know wot's goin' on in my own 'ouse?
Yeh mean to say - 'There, Bill,' she sez, 'keep quite.
Why should you rouse?
You told me nothin'. Parson wrote to me;
An' we fixed things without yer 'elp,' sez she.

Women! She sits an' tells me this dead cold!
To think I've worked an' worried till I'm tired,
An' squeezed me brain a treat, jist to be told
i ain't required!
'You was too modest, Bill, to let me 'ear
About that fight,' she sez. 'Now, were n't you, dear?'

Modest? Aw, well. I s'pose I am - a bit.
A feller can't go skitin' all 'is days.
But, spite uv 'er nice way uv takin' it,
An' all 'er praise
An' that, I got to own I'm feelin' 'urt
Fer to git treated like a bit uv dirt.

Nex' mornin' I ain't feelin' none too good:
That snub still 'urt. I potter round about;
Then go across to where 'e's choppin' wood
To 'ave it out
With Wally Free about 'is thievin' cow.
But that pie-faced galoot won't 'ave a row.

I'll 'ave the lor on 'im, I tells ' im straight.
Me fence 'er out? 'E's got to fence 'er in!
The lor sez that. But all the lors I state
Jist gits a grin.
That's all. 'E grins a sight too much, that bloke.
Clean through the piece, I seem to be the joke.

I know I'm dull. I know me brain's jist meant
To nourish 'air-roots. But I 'ave me pride.
An' when I toils an' frets, an' then gits sent
To stand aside,
I know me place: I don't need to be shown.
I'm done! An' they can 'ave it on their own.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Woman's Way

Women is strange. You take my tip; I'm wise.
I know enough to know I'll never know
The 'uman female mind, or wot su'prise
They 'as in store to bring yer boastin' low.
They keep yeh guessin' wot they're up to nex',
An' then, odds on, it's wot yeh least expecks.

Take me. I know me wife can twist me round
'Er little finger. I don't mind that none.
Wot worries me is that I've never found
Which way I'm gittin' twisted, till it's done.
Women is strange. An' yet, I've got to own
I'd make a orful 'ash uv it, alone.

There's this affair uv Rose. I tells yeh straight,
Suspicious don't describe me state uv mind.
The calm way that Doreen 'as fixed the date
An' all, looks like there's somethin' else be'ind.
Somethin' - not spite or meanness; don't think that.
Me wife purrs sometimes, but she ain't a cat.

But somethin'. I've got far too wise a nob
To be took in by 'er airs uv repose.
I know I said I'd chuck the 'ole darn job
An' leave 'er an' the parson deal with Rose.
But now me mind's uneasy, that's a fack.
I've got to manage things with speshul tack.

That's 'ow I feel - uneasy - when I drive
Down to the train. I'm thinkin' as I goes,
There ain't two women, that I know, alive
More difrint than them two - Doreen an' Rose.
'Ow they will mix together I dunno.
It all depends on 'ow I run the show.

Rose looks dead pale. She ain't got much to say
('Er few poor bits uv luggage make no load)
She smiles when we shake 'ands, an' sez Goodday
Shy like an' strange; an' as we take the road
Back to the farm, I see 'er look around
Big-eyed, like it's some queer new land she's found.

I springs a joke or two. I'm none too bright
Meself; but it's a slap-up sort uv day.
Spring's workin' overtime; to left an' right
Blackwood an' wattle trees is bloomin' gay,
Botchin' the bonzer green with golden dust;
An' magpies in 'em singin' fit to bust.

I sneak a glance at Rose. I can't look long.
'Er lips is trem'lin'; tears is in 'er eye.
Then, glad with life, a thrush beefs out a song
'Longside the road as we go drivin' by.
'Oh, Gawd A'mighty! 'Ark!' I 'ear 'er say,
'An' Spadgers Lane not fifty mile away!'

Not fifty mile away: the frowsy Lane,
Where only dirt an' dreariness 'as sway,
Where every second tale's a tale uv pain,
An' devil's doin's blots the night an' day.
But 'ere is thrushes tootin' songs uv praise.
An' golden blossoms lightin' up our ways.

I speaks a piece to boost this bonzer spot;
Tellin' 'er 'ow the neighbourhood 'as grown,
An' 'ow Dave Brown, jist up the road, 'as got
Ten ton uv spuds per acre, usin' bone.
She don't seem to be list'nin'. She jist stares,
Like someone dreamin' dreams, or thinkin' pray'rs.

Me yap's a dud. No matter 'ow I try,
Me conversation ain't the dinkum brand.
I'm 'opin' that she don't bust out an' cry:
It makes me nervis. But I understand.
Over an' over I can 'ear 'er say,
'An' Spadgers less than fifty mile away!'

We're 'ome at last. Doreen is at the gate.
I hitch the reins, an' quite the eager pup;
Then 'elp Rose down, an' stand aside an' wait
To see 'ow them two size each other up.
But quick - like that - two arms 'as greeted warm
The sobbin' girl… Doreen's run true to form.

''Ome on the bit!' I thinks. But as I turn,
'Ere's Wally Free 'as got to poke 'is dile
Above the fence, where 'e's been cuttin' fern.
The missus spots 'im, an' I seen 'er smile.
An' then she calls to 'im: 'Oh, Mister Free,
Come in,' she sez, 'an' 'ave a cup uv tea.'

There's tack! A woman dunno wot it means.
What does that blighter want with cups uv tea?
A privit, fambly meet - an' 'ere Doreen's
Muckin' it all by draggin' in this Free.
She might 'ave knowed that Rose ain't feelin' prime,
An' don't want no strange comp'ny at the time.

Free an' 'is thievin' cow! But, all the same,
'Is yap did seem to cheer Rose up a lot.
An' after, when 'e'd bunged 'is lanky frame
Back to 'is job, Doreen sez, 'Ain't you got
No work at all to do outside to-day?
Us two must 'ave a tork; so run away.'

I went… I went becoz, if I 'ad stayed,
Me few remarks might 'ave been pretty 'or.
Gawbli'me! 'Oo is 'ead uv this parade?
Did I plan out the scheme, or did I not?
I've worked fer this, I've worried night an' day;
An' now it's fixed, I'm tole to 'run away.'

Women is strange. I s'pose I oughter be
Contented; though I never understands.
But when I score, it 'urts me dignerty
To 'ave the credit grabbed out uv me 'ands.
I shouldn't look fer credit, p'raps; an' then,
Women is strange. But bli'me! So is men!

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

'Ah, wot's the use?' she sez. 'Lea' me alone!
Why can't I go to 'ell in my own way?
I never arst you 'ere to mag an' moan.
Nor yet,' she sez, 'to pray.
I'll take wot's comin', an' whine no excuse.
So wot's the use?

'Me life's me own!' she sez. 'You got a nerve
You two - to interfere in my affairs.
Git out an' give advise where it may serve:
Stay 'ome an' bleat yer pray'rs.
Did I come pleadin' for yer pity? No!
Well, why not go?'

Pride! Dilly pride an' down-an'-out despair:
When them two meet there's somethin' got to break.
I got that way, to see 'er sittin' there,
I felt like I could take
That 'arf-starved frame uv 'er's by might an' main,
An' shake 'er sane.

That's 'ow it is when me an' parson roam
Down to the paradise wot Spadgers knows,
To find the 'ovel that she calls 'er 'ome,
An' 'ave a word with Rose.
Imgagin' 'igh-strung cliners in dispute
Ain't my long suit.

'Huh! Rescue work!' she sneers. 'Er eyes is bright;
'Er voice is 'ard. 'I'm a deservin' case.
Me? Fancy! Don't I look a pretty sight
To come to savin' grace?
Pity the sinner - Aw, don't come that trick!
It makes me sick!'

'Isterical she was, or nearly so:
Too little grub, an' too much time to fret
Ingrowin' grouch sich as few women know,
Or want to know - an' yet,
When I glance at the parson, there I see
Raw misery.

I've knowed ole Snowy since the days uv old;
Yet never 'ad I got so close to see
A world-wise man 'oo's 'cart is all pure gold
An' 'uman charity.
For, all that girl was suff'rln', well I knoo,
'E suffered too.

'My child,' 'e sez, 'I don't come 'ere to preach.
You're a good girl; an' when -' 'Oo sez I ain't?
'Oo sez I ain't?' 'Er voice is near a screech.
'I'm no hymn-singin' saint;
But you're a bit too previous givin' me
This third degree.'

An' then she starts to laugh. I'd 'ate to see
A woman laugh or look like that again.
She's in the dinkum 'igh-strikes now; to me
That's showin' pretty plain.
She's like a torchered thing - 'arf crazy - wild ....
'Take thort, my child.

'Take thort,' the parson sez. 'I only ask
Before you risk all for a life uv crime
You'll 'esitate. Is that too 'ard to task?
May there not come a time -'
'Time? Yes,' I chips. 'You'll git that fer yer pains.
Ar, brush yer brains!'

The parson sighs. 'This man,' 'E sez, 'this Wegg
'Oo dazzles you with tork uv gains frum sin
Is 'e dependable? Think well, I beg -'
'Beg nothin',' I chips in.
'To beg decoy ducks ain't the proper tack.
She wants a smack!'

The parson groans. 'I've offered you,' 'e starts.
'Offer 'er nothin'! Can't you pick 'er like?
No dinkum 'elp is any good to tarts
'0o'd fall fer sich as Spike.
She's short uv grit to battle on 'er own,
An' stand alone.'

That done it. If I'd let the parson gone
An' come the mild an' gentle, sure enough,
She'd 'ad the willies. When the dames take on,
The game's to treat 'em rough.
That's wot I've 'card. It woke Rose up, all right,
An' full uv fight.

'Alone?' she sez. 'I've stood alone, Gawd knows!
Alone an' honest, battlin' on the square.
An' now - Oh, damn your charity! I've chose!
I'm down; an' I don't care.
I'm fer the easy life an' pretty clo'es.
That's that!' sez Rose.

The cause looks blue. Wot more was to be said?
An' then, all on me own, I weaves right there
The bright idear wot after bowed me 'ead
In sorrer an' despair.
I didn't ort to be let out alone.
That much I own.

'Ah, well,' I sez, resigned, 'if that's the life,
It's no use sayin' wot I come to say.
Which was,' I sez, 'a message frum me wife
Arstin' you 'ome to stay.'
'Your wife?' I nods. 'If you 'ad cared to come.'
She seems struck dumb.

'Your wife?' she sez. 'Wot does she know uv me?'
Then pride an' 'er suspicions makes 'er flare:
'Is this more pretty schemes fer charity?
Why should she arst me there?'
'Why? Well, you ort to know,' I answer, quick.
'Account uv Mick.'

Down on 'er folded arms 'er 'ead went, flop.
At larst our 'oly cause is won, I know.
She sobbed until I thort she'd never stop:
It 'urt to see 'er so;
Yet I felt glad the way I'd worked me nob
An' let 'er sob,

'That's tore it,' I remarks be'ind me 'and.
The parson nods. 'E's smilin' now all gay.
Ten minutes later, an' the 'ole thing's planned
Fer Rose's 'oliday.
We put the acid on, an' scold an' tease
Till she agrees.

Once we're outside the parson takes me 'and.
'Without your 'elp, your wit, we would 'ave failed.'
'Aw, easy work,' I answer, feelin' grand,
Like some ole knight, tin-mailed.
Then, sudden, like a load uv punchered tyres,
Me pride ixpires.

'Young friend,' 'e starts...... 'No, not too young; but old
Old with the cares,' I sez, 'uv fambly life.
This might 'ave been dead right when knights was bold;
But wot about me wife?
She don't know nothin'! I 'ave done me dash
Through actin' rash.'

'A trifle!' sez 'is rev'rince. 'Tut!' sez 'e.
'I'll promise you fair sailin' with Doreen.'
''Tain't that so much,' I sez, 'wot troubles me.'
'Trouble? Wot you mean?'
I grins at 'im. 'Me conscience,' I reply.
'I've tole a lie!'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Listeners Luck

'My sort,' she sez, 'don't meet no fairy prince.'
I can't 'elp 'earin' part uv wot was said
While I am sortin' taters in the shed.
They've 'ad these secret confabs ever since
Rose came. 'Er an' Doreen's been 'eart to 'eart,
'Oldin' pow-wows in which I got no part.
'My sort,' sez Rose, 'don't meet no fairy prince.'
'Er voice seems sort uv lonely like an' sad.
'Ah well,' she sez, 'there's jobs still to be 'ad
Down in the fact'ries. I ain't one to wince
Frum all the knocks I've 'ad - an' will 'ave. Still,
Sometimes I git fed-up against me will.

'Some women 'ave the luck,' she sez; 'like you.
Their lives seem made fer love an' joy an' sport,
But I'm jist one uv the unlucky sort.
I've give up dreamin' dreams: they don't come true.
There ain't no love or joy or sport fer me.
Life's made me 'ard; an' 'ard I got to be.'

'Oh, rubbidge!' sez Doreen. 'You've got the blues,
We all 'ave bad luck some times, but it mends.
An' you're still young, my dear; you 'ave your friends.
Why should you think that you must alwiz lose?
The sun's still shinin'; birds still sing, an' court;
An' men still marry.' Rose sez, 'Not my sort.

An' then - Aw, well, I thort I knoo me wife,
'Ow she can be so gentle an' so kind,
An' all the tenderness that's in 'er mind;
As I've 'ad cause to know through married life.
But never 'ave I 'Eard 'er wisdom speak
Sich words before. It left me wond'rin' - meek.

Yes, meek I felt - an' proud, all in the one:
Proud fer to know 'ow fine my wife can be;
Meek fer to think she cares fer sich as me.
''Ope lasts,' I 'ear 'er say, 'till life is done.
An' life can bring us joy, I know it can.
I know; fer I've been lucky in my man.'

There's a wife for yeh! Green! Think in the 'ead!
To think she'd go an' tork be'ind me back,
Gossip, an' paint me character that black!
I'm glad I can't 'ear more uv wot was said.
They wander off, down by the creek somewhere.
Green! Well, I said that women talk 'ot air.

I thinks uv Danny Dunn, an' wot I've planned.
Doreen don't know wot I got up me sleeve;
An' Rose don't know that she won't 'ave to leave,
Not once I come to light an' take a 'and.
Block'ead won't be the name they'll call me then.
Women can tork; but action needs us men.

Yet, I dunno. Some ways it ain't so fine.
Spite uv 'is money, Danny ain't much catch.
It seems a pity Rose can't make a match
That's reel romantic, like Doreen's an' mine;
But then again, although 'e's old an' plain,
Danny's a kinder fate than Spadgers Lane.

Bit later on I see Rose standin' by
That bridge frum where Mick waved 'is last farewell
When 'e went smilin' to the war, an' fell.
'Ow diffrint if 'e 'ad n't come to die,
I thinks. Life's orful sad, some ways.
Though it's 'ard to be sad on these Spring days.

Doreen 'as left, fer reasons uv 'er own;
An' Rose is gazin' down into the stream,
Lost, like it seems, in some un'appy dream.
She looks perthetic standin' there alone.
Wis'ful she looks. But when I've turned away
I git a shock to 'ear 'er larfin' gay.

It's that coot Wally Free; 'e's with 'er now.
Funny 'ow 'is fool chatter makes 'er smile,
An' shove 'er troubles under fer a while.
(Pity 'e don't pay more 'eed to 'is cow
Instid uv loafin' there. 'E's got no sense.
I'm sick uv tellin' 'im to mend that fence.)

'Er sort don't meet no fairy prince… Ar, well.
Fairy gawdfathers, p'raps, wot once was knights,
Might take a turn at puttin' things to rights.
Green? Block'ead, am I? You can't alwiz tell.
Wait till I wave me magic mit at Rose,
An' turn 'er into 'Mrs. Stone-the-crows.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Termarter Sorce

It wasn't kid stakes. I 'ad no crook lurk
To act deceivin', or to treat 'er mean.
I'm old enough to know them games don't work
Not with Doreen.
Besides, deceit ain't in me bag uv tricks.
I got a few; but there is some that sticks.

Sticks in me gizzard. Some blokes sees no wrong
In workin' points, an' thinks it bonzer sport
To trifle with a wife's belief, so long
As they ain't cort.
But, when yeh play the game on dead straight lines,
It 'urts to be accused uv base designs.

It starts this mornin'. I wake with a tooth
That's squirmin' like a basketful uv snakes.
Per'aps I groan a bit, to tell the truth;
An' then she wakes,
An' arsts me wot I'm makin' faces for.
I glare at 'er, an' nurse me achin' jor.

That was no very 'appy mornin' song.
I ain't excusin' my end uv the joke;
But, after that, things seem to go all wrong.
She never spoke
One narsty word; but, while the chops she serves,
'Er shrieks uv silence fair got on me nerves.

She might 'ave arst wot ailed me. Spare me days I
She seen that I was crook. She seen me face
Swelled like a poisoned pup's. She only says,
'Please to say grace.'
I mumbles ... Then, in tones that wakes brute force,
She twitters, 'Will yeh take termarter sorce?'

I could n't eat no breakfast. Just the sight
Uv sweet things give me tooth a new, worse ache.
Sez she: 'You seem to lost yer apetite.
'Ave some seed cake.'
Seed cake! Gawstruth! I'm there in agerny,
An' she, 'oo swore to love, sits mockin' me.

At last, when our small son gits orf to school,
I goes an' sits down sulkin' on a couch.
''Ave you a toothache, Bill?' sez she, quite cool,
'Or jist plain grouch?
Yer face looks funny. P'raps yer gittin' fat.'
I glare at 'er an' answer, 'Huh!' . . like that.

That one word, 'Huh,' said in a certain way,
'Eart-felt an' with intention-it can well
Make the beginnin's uv a perfick day
A perfick 'ell.
So I sez 'Huh! ...... an' then done my ole trick
(A low-down lurk) uv gittin' orf-stage quick.

It was a slap-up day. The wattle's gold
'Ad jist began to peep among the green;
An' dafferdils, commencin' to unfold,
They make the scene
A pitcher that - 'Struth! 'Ow that tooth did ache!
An', cravin' symperthy, I git - seed cake!

It was a bonzer day! The thrush's song
Rose like a nymn. A touch uv queer remorse
Gits me fer 'arf-a-mo', then goes all wrong.
Ter-marter sorce!
Women don't understand, it's all too plain.
Termarter sorce, she sez, an' me in pain!

I dunno 'ow the mornin' muddled through.
That naggin' tooth was gittin' reel red-'ot.
I 'ad a 'arf a dozen things to do,
An' slummed the lot.
Then, jist before I goes fer mornin' tea,
I start another row with Wally Free.

I tells 'im if that fence ain't mended - now
I'll summons 'im. But 'e jist stands an' grins.
'E's always grinnin'. Silly lookin' cow I
An' fer two pins
I'd go acrost an' give 'is eye a poke.
'E's far too 'appy - fer a single bloke.

While I am boilin' 'ot, Doreen conies out
To call me fer me mornin' cup o' tea.
I turn an' answer with a savage shout.
'Dear me!' sez she.
'You seem to be put out this mornin', Bill.
'E'll mend the fence, all right. I'm sure 'e will.'

'Aw! It ain't that,' I sez .... Then I let go,
When once we git inside, an' ease me mind
By tellin' 'er some things she ought to know.
I seemed to find
A lot uv things that 'elped to make me sore;
An' they remind me uv a 'ole lot more.

I tells 'er that no wife, 'oo was n't blind,
Would treat 'er 'usban' like a block uv wood.
I sez I could n't understand 'er mind
Blowed if I could!
I tells 'er that no woman with a brain
An' 'eart would smile to see a man in pain.

I sez some wives - some sorts uv wives, uv course,
If you was lyin' dead, no more to wake,
Would arst yeh if yeh liked termarter sorse,
Or else seed cake.
I sez I don't look for no fond caress,
But symperthy, an' un'erstandin'? Yes!

I sez, sarcastic, that I 'ave no doubt
Some wives might think termarters an' seed cake
Was 'andy sorts uv things to 'ave about
To stop toothache.
But wot I liked in wives, once in a while,
Was commin-sense. (An' 'ere, I seen 'er smile).

An' then I sez: 'Gorbli' me! Ain't I worked
Me fingers to the bone, an' toiled an' slaved?
Some fellers, if their wives 'ad smiled an' sn-drked
An' so be'aved' ......
(She pours the tea, an' 'ands acrost my cup)
'Would lose their tempers, yes, an' smash things up!'

I sez - 0h, other things in that same strain.
I ain't got any fancy to recall.
(That tooth jist 'ad me jumpin' mad with pain)
But through it all,
With them fool speeches bubblin' in me throat,
I saw meself a bleatin', babblin' goat.

I gulps me tea; already 'arf ashamed
Uv more than 'arf I'd said. But is me wife
All 'umble, like a woman 'oo's been blamed?
Not on yer life!
She answers me as if she was me mar.
'There, there,' she sez. 'Wot a big kid you are!'

I gulps more tea; an' tells 'er, anyway,
Me toothache ain't a thing to joke about;
An' I will 'ave to go to town to-day
An' 'ave it out.
At that, she looks at me with 'er calm eyes
Searchin' me through an' through 'fore she replies.

Then, 'Bill,' sez she, 'tell me the honest truth:
Does your tooth ache, or is this an excuse?
Why, yesterd'y you 'ad no achin' tooth .......
Aw, wot's the use!
'Excuse! Wot for?' I yells. But she sez, 'Oh,
If it's that bad I s'pose you'll 'aye to go.'

'Excuse!' I sez. 'I know wot's in yer mind.
Yeh think I can't read wonien's thoughts, I s'pose.
Yeh think that I planned this so I could find
Wot's 'appened Rose.
Yeh think I've come the double, lied an' schemed
About a thing I never even dreamed!

'Yeh think -' 'There, there!' she sez to me again,
Soothin' an' soft, still like a patient mar.
'It's plain you'll never understand, you men,
Wot women are,
Their thorts, their feelin's, 'ow they fear an' doubt.
Why, Bill, it's only you I think about.'

I knoo. Somewhere inside me silly nob
I knoo wot thort it is she won't explain.
She feared, if I got with the old, crook mob
In Spadgers Lane
That I might miss the step. I've never queered
The pitch in eight long years; an' yet she feared.

'I'll promise you - ' I starts. But she sez, 'Don't!
Don't promise wot you might regret some day.
I trust you, Bill; an' well I know you won't
Choose the wrong way.
Women are silly sometimes. Let's ferget
All that was said .... Is that tooth achin' yet?'

I gives it up! ... It's fairly got me beat,
The twists an' turin' uv a wonian's mind.
Nex' thing, she's smilin' up at me so sweet,
So soft an' kind
That I - with things still in me mind to tell -
I melts - jist like I always do. Ah, well!

It was a snodger day! . . . The apple trees
Was white with bloom. All things seemed good to me
(Except that tooth). Then by the fence I sees
Poor Wally Free,
Pretendin' to be happy with 'is plough.
Poor lonely coot! I pity 'im, some'ow.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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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The Faltering Knight

It knocks me can in, this ere game uv life,
A bloke gets born, grows up, looks round fer fun,
Dreams dilly dreams, then wakes to find a wife
An' fambly round 'im - all 'is young days done.
An', gazin' back, sees in 'is youth a man
Scarce reckernised. It fair knocks in me can!

Ther's me. I never seemed to mark no change
As I mooched on through life frum year to year;
An' yet, at times it seems to me dead strange
That me, uv old, is me, 'oo's sittin' 'ere.
Per'aps it ain't. 'E was a crook young coot,
While I'm a sturdy farmer, growin' froot.

But, all the same, 'e wouldn't back an' fill,
An' argue with 'imself, an' 'esitate,
Once 'e 'ad seen the way. 'E'd find the will
To go an' do the thing 'e 'ad to, straight.
That's 'ow I was; an' now-Ar, strike a light!
Life gits so mixed I can't git nothin' right.

But wot's the use? A bloke 'as got to own,
When once 'e 'as responsibility,
Ther's certin games is better left alone
Wot might be done if 'e was only free.
Ther's certin things - Oh, wot's the flamin' good?
A 'usband alwiz gits misun'erstood!

It's no use hintin'. If yeh want it straight,
Me an' me wife ain't seenin' eye to eye:
All ain't been peace an' 'armony uv late,
An' clouds is comin' up in our clear sky.
I ain't to blame, an' yet, no more's Doreen.
It's jist 'ard Fate 'as shoved 'is oar between.

All marrid blokes will understand me well.
I ain't addressin' no remarks to those
'0o've learnt but 'arf uv life. The things I tell
Is fer the ears uv fellermen that knows:
Them symperthetic 'usbands 'oo 'ave 'eard
The fog-'orn soundin' in the wifely word.

Fer when stern jooty grips a 'usband's 'eart
(That's me) an' eggs 'im on to start a scene
That's like to tear two 'appy lives apart,
In spite uv all 'er carin' (That's Doreen)
Why, there you 'ave a story that would make
A bonzer movie - with a bit uv fake.

But 'ere's the plot. When my pal, Ginger Mick,
Chucked in 'is alley in this war we won,
'E left things tangled; fer 'e went too quick
Fer makin' last requests uv anyone.
'E jist sez to the world, when last 'e spoke,
'Look after Rose!' . . . 'E was a trustful bloke.

Rose lives in Spadgers Lane. She lived, them days,
Fer Mick's returnin'. When 'e never came,
If she lost 'old, an' took to careless ways,
Well, I ain't sayin' she was much to blame.
An' I don't worry, till I 'ear she's took,
Or thinks uv takin' on to ways that's crook.

Although I'm vegetatin' on a farm,
I gets a city whisper now an' then.
An' when I 'ear she's like to come to 'arm
Amongst a push uv naughty spieler men,
I gets the wind up. This is all I see:
Mick was my cobber; so it's up to me.

That's all I see, quite clear, with my two eyes.
But marrid blokes will understand once more,
When I remarks that marrid blokes is wise
'Oo 'ave the sense to take a squint through four.
Four eyes is needed in reviewin' plans -
Their vision's broader than a single man's.

But when them four eyes sees two ways at once
Gets crossed - Ar, well, ther's things in marrid life
For which a hint's enough fer any dunce.
Ther's certin things between a man an' wife
That can't be quite - But take this fer a fack:
Don't start things uv a mornin'. It ain't tack.

That was me first bad break. I should 'ave seen
The supper things washed up, an' 'elped a bit,
An' then 'ave broke it gently to Doreen,
Promiscus, like I jist 'ad thought uv it.
But I done worse. I blurts wot I'd to say
Upon the mornin' uv a washin' day!

There's gumption fer yeh. eight years I been hitched
Eight years uv trainin', an' I fall down flat!
Like some poor, love-sick softy 'oo gets switched
Fer tellin' 'sweetie' 'e don't like 'er 'at,
When she's jist come frum 'avin' rows no end
About it's trimmin' with 'er dearest friend.

I owns me ta'tic's crook. But, all the same,
Ther' weren't no need fer certin things she said.
Wantin' to do good acts don't call fer blame,
Even on tackless 'usban's, eight years wed.
A bloke 'oo jist suggests a 'armless plan
Don't need remindin' 'e's a marrid man.

'Struth! Don't I know it? Can I well ferget
While I still 'ave two 'ealthy ears to 'ark?
Not that she torks an' mags a lot; but yet
Ther's somethin' in 'er choice uv a remark
That gets there, worse than yappin' all day long,
An' makes me pure intentions look dead wrong.

It seems it ain't right fer a marrid bloke
To rescue maids. I starts to answer back;
But got took up before I 'ardly spoke,
An' innercent designs is painted black.
I calls attention to the knights uv old;
But tin knights an' romance iist leaves 'er cold.

I read 'er meanin' plain in 'er cool eye.
Aw, strike! I ain't admirin' Rose!… Wot?… Me!
But when 'er look sez 'Rats!' where's the reply
A man can give, an' keep 'is dignity?
It can't be done. When they git on that lay,
Wise coves adjourns the meet, an' fades away.

That's wot I done. I gits out uv the 'ouse
All dignified. An', jist to show 'er 'ow
Reel unconcerned I am, I starts to rouse
Me neighbour, Wally Free, about 'is cow
Wot's got in to me cabbages, an' et
Close on a row uv 'em. I'll shoot 'er yet!

(A batchelor 'e is, this Wally Free
A soljer bloke that come this way last year
An' took the little farm nex' door to me.)
When I gets mad, 'e grins frum ear to ear,
An' sez, 'Cool orf,' 'e sez. 'It's plain your wool
'As been pulled 'ard this mornin'.' 'E's a fool!

If 'e don't mend that fence . . . Ar, wot's the good?
I lets 'im go, an' sneaks be'ind the shed,
An' sits there broodin' on a pile uv wood…
Ther's certin things she might 'ave left unsaid.
Ther' wasn't nothin' fer to make 'er go
An' dig up chance remarks uv years ago.

Me problem's this: Either I 'urts Doreen,
By doin' things with which she don't agree,
Or lets Rose slide, an' treats me cobber mean
Ole Ginger Mick, 'oo 'ad no friend but me.
I ain't a ringtail; but, by gum, it's tough.
I loves me wife too much to treat 'er rough.

If I was single . . . 'Struth! 'Oo wants to be?
Fool batchelors can larf their silly larf,
An' kid theirselves they got a pull on me.
I'm out uv sorts, that's all; an' more than 'arf
Inclined to give some coot a crack, right now
Fer pref'rince, some insultin' single cow!

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stone the Crows

'Why stone the crows!' 'e sez. 'I like 'er style,
But alwiz, some'ow, women 'ave appeared
Set fer to 'old me orf a 'arf a mile.
I dunno wot's agin me: p'raps me beard.
But, some'ow, when I speak 'em soft they run.
I ain't no ladies' man,' sez Danny Dunn.

'I like 'er style,' 'e sez. 'Wot's 'er name? Rose.
The neatest filly that I ever see.
She'd run in double splendid. But I s'pose,
She'd never 'arness with the likes uv me.
Wot age you tell me? Risin' twenty-nine?
Well, stone the flamin' crows! She'd do me fine.

'I wonder can she milk? Don't look that kind.
But even if she don't I would n't care
Not much. Stone all the crows! I'd 'arf a mind
To 'ave a shave an' 'ang me 'at up there.
But I ain't got the knack uv it, yeh know,
Or I'd been spliced this twenty year ago.'

Ole Danny Dunn 'as been to pay 'is call
An' tell us 'e'll be settlin' down 'ere soon.
'E lobbed in on us sudden, ziff an' all,
An' ain't done nothin' all the afternoon
But lap up tea an' stare pop-eyed at Rose,
'E ain't said nothin' much but 'Stone the crows!'

Now, as I sees 'im orf, down by the gate,
'E's chirpin' love-songs like a nestin' thrush.
Rose 'as 'im by the w'iskers, sure as fate;
Fer Spring 'as sent 'im soft all uv a rush.
'E's got the beans; an' so she's fixed fer life,
If Danny's game to arst 'er fer 'is wife.

An' so me scheme works out all on its own.
I grabbed the notion that day in the train,
When Danny tole me that 'e lived alone.
I reckoned, then, I'd 'ave to use me brain;
But 'ere 'e is, stonin' the crows a treat,
An' keen to sling is pile at Rose's feet.

I'll show 'em! Them 'oo thinks I got no brains
Will crash when Rose is Mrs. Danny Dunn.
Doreen don't need to go to too much pains
To show me that she thinks I've nex' to none,
When I take on a job I don't let go
Until I've fixed it, all sirgarneo.

'Listen,' sez Danny. 'Do yeh think a man
'As any chance? I know I don't dress neat.'
'Sling it!' I sez. 'Don't be a also-ran.
Go in bald-'eaded! Rush 'er orf 'er feet!
They don't know wot they want: women ain't got
No minds, till some strong man shows wot is wot.

'I'll 'elp,' I tells 'im, 'if you play the game.
Don't give 'er time to think. Take 'er be storm.
Many's the lover's bowed 'is 'ead in shame
Becoz 'e was afraid to woo too warm.
Be masterful! Show 'er 'oo's boss! 'Ave grit!
That's wot I done, an' come 'ome on the bit.

'Look at me now. I got a wife wot 'eeds
My lightest wish. Uv course, I ain't unkind;
But I'm boss uv the show, becoz she needs
A man to lean upon, an' guide 'er mind.'
'By gum!' sez Danny; 'but that must be fine.
That's 'ow I'd like to 'ave a wife uv mine.'

I tells 'im there's a dance on Fridee night;
'E must be there, tricked out in nobby clo'es
An' all spruced up. I'll see it fixed up right
So 'e can make the goin' good with Rose.
'I don't dance much,' 'e sez. 'But p'raps me luck's
Changed round; an' stone the crows! I'll chance the ducks!'

So far, ribuck. I'm no back number yet;
Although they treats me as brainless yob.
I may be slow to start; but, don't ferget,
I still got some idears back uv me nob.
An' once I've got Rose wed an' fixed fer life
I might su'prise respeck out uv me wife.

I might, but - Listen. Can you tell me this:
Why am I takin' all these speshul pains,
An' worried lest me plans will go amiss?
Why am I so dead set to use me brains?
Dunno; no more than you; fer, spare me days!
A man's a puzzle to 'imself, some ways.

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

'Heirlums,' 'e sez. 'I've 'ad the trousiz pressed.
Me father married in 'em, that 'e did.
See this 'ere fancy vest?
See this 'ere lid?
Me gran'dad brought that frum 'is native land
In forty-two-an' then 'twas second-'and.'

Clobber? Oh, 'el! Pants uv wild shepherd's plaid,
A coat that might 'ave knocked the cliners flat
When father was a lad,
A tall, pot 'at
That caught the mange back in the diggin's days,
A fancy vest that called fer loud 'oorays.

But loud 'oorays don't 'arf ixpress my rage
When Danny comes upholstered fer the jig.
I've seen it on the stage,
Rat comic rig;
But never at a country dance before
'Ave I seen sich crook duds as Danny wore.

'You want to crool my scheme,' I sez, 'with rags
Like that? This ain't no fancy dress affair.
Wot sort uv tile an' bags
Is them to wear?
But 'e don't tumble; )e's as pleased as pie.
'By gum,' 'e sez, 'this ort to catch 'er eye.'

'You posin' fer a comic film, or wot?'
I arsts 'im -' with noorotic togs like those!
Jazz clobber! Ain't you got
No decent clo'es?'
But 'e's too tickled with 'imself to 'eed.
'This orter catch 'er eye,' 'e sez, 'this tweed.'

It caught 'er eye, all right, an' many more.
They starts to come before the daylight fades;
An', fer a hour before
The crowd parades,
Ole Danny 'eld the centre uv the stage,
While I stood orf an' chewed me silent rage.

That's 'ow it alwiz is: I try to show
'Ow I can use me bean in deep-laid lurks;
An' then some fool must go
An' bust the works.
'Ere, I 'ave planned a coop in slap-up-style,
An' Danny spikes me guns with gran'pa's tile.

Rose never seemed so free frum ugly dreams,
Not since she came, as that night at the dance;
But my matchmakin' schemes
Makes no advance;
Fer every time I gits a chance to score,
Doreen butts in, an' crools me pitch once more.

Reel thortless, women is. She ort to seen
I 'ad intents - in spite uv Danny's clo'es
An' that 'e was reel keen.
Concernin' Rose.
Not 'er. She larfs, an' chatters with the push,
As if rich 'usbands grew on every bush.

Once, f'rinstance, I gits busy when I seen
Rose sittin' out; an' brings Dan on the run.
'Why, mercy!' sez Doreen.
''Ere's Mister Dunn
Perlite enough to arst me fer a dance.
'E knows us marrid ones don't git much chance.'

An' there she grabs 'im, fair out uv me 'ands!
An' lets young Wally Free git off with Rose;
While like a fool I stands,
Kickin' me toes
An' cursin' all the fool things women do.
I'd think 'twas done apurpis, less I knoo.

That's 'ow it was all night. I schemed a treat,
Workin' shrood points, an' sweatin' blood, almost;
But every time I'm beat
Right on the post.
All me matchrnakin's bust - the task uv days
Through Danny's duds an' my wife's tackless ways.

Nice chaperong she is! While Free an' Rose
Dance 'arf the night Doreen jist sits an' beams.
When I seen that, up goes
My 'opes an' schemes.
But all that Danny sez is, 'Stone the crows!
Yeh'd think I'd took 'er eye, with them good clo'es.'

When we git 'ome that night I shows me spleen
By 'intin' Rose will be left on the shelf.
An' then I see Doreen
Smile to 'erself.
'I would n't be su'prised,' she sez, 'to see
Rose marrid, some fine day, to Wally Free.'

To Wally Free! Yeh could 'ave knocked me flat
With 'arf a brick. I seen it in a flash.
A grinnin' coot like that!
Without no cash!
Besides, a man 'oo'd keep a thievin' cow
Like 'is, won't make no 'usband any'ow.

I'm sick uv everything. It ain't no joke.
I've tried to do good works; an' now I've found
When you git 'elpin' folk
They jist turn round
An' bite the 'and that feeds 'em, so to speak.
An' yet they sez the strong should 'elp the weak.

Wot rot! ... I wisht I 'ad some reel ixcuse
To push some face in, jist to ease me mind.
Spike Wegg, 'e 'ad 'is use
'Im an' 'is kind.
If I could give me ole left-'ook one swing,
I might feel kinder like to everything.

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

My son! . . . Them words, jist like a blessed song,
Is singin' in me 'eart the 'ole day long;
Over an' over; while I'm scared I'll wake
Out of a dream, to find it all a fake.

My son! Two little words, that, yesterdee,
Wus jist two simple, senseless words to me;
An'now—no man, not since the world begun,
Made any better pray'r than that…. My son!

My son an' bloomin' 'eir . . . Ours! . . . 'Ers an' mine!
The finest kid in—Aw, the sun don't shine
Ther' ain't no joy fer me beneath the blue
Unless I'm gazin' lovin' at them two.

A little while ago it was jist 'me'
A lonely, longin' streak o' misery.
An' then 'twas ''er an' me'—Doreen, my wife!
An' now it's ''im an' us' an'—sich is life.

But 'struth! 'E is king-pin! The 'ead serang!
I mustn't tramp about, or talk no slang;
I mustn't pinch 'is nose, or make a face,
I mustn't—Strike! 'E seems to own the place!

Cunning? Yeh'd think, to look into 'is eyes,
'E knoo the game clean thro'; 'e seems that wise.
Wiv 'er 'an nurse 'e is the leadin' man,
An' poor ole dad's amongst the 'also ran.'

'Goog, goo,' 'e sez, and curls 'is cunnin' toes.
Yeh'd be su'prised the 'eaps o' things 'e knows.
I'll swear 'e tumbles I'm 'is father, too;
The way 'e squints at me, an' sez 'Goog, goo.'

Why! 'smornin' 'ere 'is lordship gits a grip
Fair on me finger—give it quite a nip!
An' when I tugs, 'e won't let go 'is hold!
'Angs on like that! An' 'im not three weeks old!

'Goog, goo,' 'e sez. I'll swear yeh never did
In all yer natcheril, see sich a kid.
The cunnin' ways 'e's got; the knowin' stare
Ther' ain't a youngster like 'im anywhere!

An', when 'e gits a little pain inside,
'Is dead straight griffin ain't to be denied.
I'm sent to talk sweet nuffin's to the fowls;
While nurse turns 'and-springs ev'ry time 'e 'owls.

But say, I tell yeh straight . . . I been thro'ell!
The things I thort I wouldn't dare to tell
Lest, in the tellin' I might feel again
One little part of all that fear an' pain.

It come so sudden that I lorst me block.
First, it was, 'Ell-fer-leather to the doc.,
'Oo took it all so calm 'e made me curse
An' then I sprints like mad to get the nurse.

By gum; that woman! But she beat me flat!
A man's jist putty in a game like that.
She owned me 'appy 'ome almost before
She fairly got 'er nose inside me door.

Sweatin' I was! but cold wiv fear inside
An' then, to think a man could be denied
'Is wife an' 'ome an' told to fade away
By jist one fat ole nurse 'oo's in 'is pay!

I wus too weak wiv funk to start an' rouse.
'Struth! Ain't a man the boss in 'is own 'ouse?
'You go an' chase yerself!' she tips me straight.
There's nothin' now fer you to do but—wait.'

Wait? . . . Gawd! . . . I never knoo wot waitin' meant.
In all me life till that day I was sent
To loaf around, while there inside—Aw, strike!
I couldn't tell yeh wot that hour was like!

Three times I comes to listen at the door;
Three times I drags meself away once more;
Arf dead wiv fear; 'arf dead wiv tremblin' joy . . .
An' then she beckons me, an' sez—'A boy!'

'A boy!' she sez. 'An' bofe is doin' well!'
I drops into a chair, an' jist sez—''Ell!'
It was a pray'r. I feels bofe crook an' glad….
An' that's the strength of bein' made a dad.

I thinks of church, when in that room I goes,
'Oldin' me breaf an' walkin' on me toes.
Fer 'arf a mo' I feared me nerve 'ud fail
To see 'er Iying there so still an' pale.

She looks so frail, at first, I dursn't stir.
An' then, I leans acrost an' kisses 'er;
An' all the room gits sorter blurred an' dim . . .
She smiles, an' moves 'er 'ead. 'Dear lad! Kiss 'im.'

Near smothered in a ton of snowy clothes,
First thing, I sees a bunch o' stubby toes,
Bald 'ead, termater face, an' two big eyes.
'Look, Kid,' she smiles at me. 'Ain't 'e a size?'

'E didn't seem no sorter size to me;
But yet, I speak no lie when I agree;
''E is,' I sez, an' smiles back at Doreen,
'The biggest nipper fer 'is age I've seen.'

She turns away; 'er eyes is brimmin' wet.
'Our little son!' she sez. 'Our precious pet!'
An' then, I seen a great big dropp roll down
An' fall—kersplosh!—fair on 'is nibs's crown.

An' still she smiles. 'A lucky sign,' she said.
'Somewhere, in some ole book, one time I read,
'The child will sure be blest all thro' the years
Who's christened wiv 'is mother's 'appy tears.''

'Kiss 'im,' she sez. I was afraid to take
Too big a mouthful of 'im, fear 'e'd break.
An' when 'e gits a fair look at me phiz
'E puckers up 'is nose, an' then—Geewhizz!

'Ow did 'e 'owl! In 'arf a second more
Nurse 'ad me 'ustled clean outside the door.
Scarce knowin' 'ow, I gits out in the yard,
An' leans agen the fence an' thinks reel 'ard.

A long, long time I looks at my two lands.
'They're all I got,' I thinks, 'they're all that stands
Twixt this 'ard world an' them I calls me own.
An' fer their sakes I'll work 'em to the bone.'

Them vows an' things sounds like a lot o' guff.
Maybe, it's foolish thinkin' all this stuff
Maybe, it's childish-like to scheme an' plan;
But—I dunno—it's that way wiv a man.

I only know that kid belongs to me!
We ain't decided yet wot 'e's to be.
Doreen, she sez 'e's got a poit's eyes;
But I ain't got much use fer them soft guys.

I think we ort to make 'im something great
A bookie, or a champeen 'eavy-weight:
Some callin' that'll give 'im room to spread.
A fool could see 'e's got a clever 'ead.

I know 'e's good an' honest; for 'is eyes
Is jist like 'ers; so big an' lovin'-wise;
They carries peace an' trust where e'er they goes
An', say, the nurse she sez 'e's got my nose!

Dead ring fer me ole conk, she sez it is.
More like a blob of putty on 'is phiz,
I think. But 'e's a fair 'ard case, all right.
I'll swear I thort 'e wunk at me last night!

My wife an' fam'ly! Don't it sound all right!
That's wot I whispers to meself at night.
Some day, I s'pose, I'll learn to say it loud
An' careless; kiddin' that I don't feel proud.

My son! . . . If there's a Gawd 'Oos leanin' near
To watch our dilly little lives down 'ere,
'E smiles, I guess, if 'E's a lovin' one
Smiles, friendly-like, to 'ear them words—My son.

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

Jist 'ere it gripped me, on a sudden, like a red-'ot knife.
I wus diggin' in the garden, talkin' pleasant to me wife,
When it got me good an' solid, an' I fetches out a yell,
An' curses soft down in me neck, an' breathes 'ard fer a spell.
Then, when I tries to straighten up, it stabs me ten times worse.
I thinks per'aps I'm dyin', an' chokes back a reel 'ot curse.

'I've worked too fast,' I tells Doreen. 'Me backbone's runnin' 'ot.
I'm sick! I've got-0o, 'oly wars! I dunno wot I've got!
Jist 'ere - Don't touch! - jist round back 'ere, a blazin' little pain.
Is clawin' up me spinal cord an' slidin' down again.'
'You come inside,' she sez. 'Per'aps it's stoopin' in the sun.
Does it 'urt much?' I sez, 'Oh, no; I'm 'avin' lots o' fun.'

Then, cooin' to me, woman-like, she pilots me inside.
It stabs me every step I takes; I thort I could 'a' died.
'There now,' she sez. 'Men can't stand pain, it's alwus understood.'
'Stand pain?' I owls. Then, Jumpin' Jakes! It gits me reely good!
So I gets to bed in sections, fer it give me beans to bend,
An' shuts me eyes, an' groans again, an' jist waits fer the end.

'Now, you lie still,' she orders me, 'until I think wot's best.
Per'aps 'ot bran, or poultices. You jist lie still, an' rest,'
Rest? 'Oly Gosh! I clinched me teeth, an' clawed the bloomin' bunk;
Fer a red-'ot poker jabbed me ev'ry time I much as wunk.
I couldn't corf, I couldn't move, I couldn't git me breath.
'Look after Bill,' I tells Doreen. 'I feels that… this is… death.'

'Death, fiddlesticks,' she laughs at me. 'You jist turn over now.'
I 'owls, ''Ere! Don't you touch me, or there'll be a blazin' row!
I want to die jist as I am.' She sez, 'Now, Bill, 'ave sense.
This 'as to go on while it's 'ot.' I groans, 'I've no defence.'
An' so she 'as 'er way wiv me. An', tho' I'm suff'rin' bad,
I couldn't 'elp but noticin' the gentle touch she 'ad.

That ev'nin', when the doctor come, sez 'e, 'Ah! 'Urtin' much?
Where is the trouble?' I sez, 'Where you ain't allowed to touch!'
'E mauls an' prods me while I 'owls to beat the bloomin' band.
Gawbli'me! I'd 'a' cracked 'im if I'd strength to lift me 'and.
'Discribe yer symtims now,' sez 'e. I fills meself wiv wind,
An' slung 'im out a catalog while 'e jist stood an' grinned.

'Ar, bar!' 'e sez. 'Sciatiker! Oh, we'll soon 'ave yeh well.'
'Sciatiker?' sez I. 'Yer sure yeh don't mean Jumpin' 'Ell?
It ain't no privit devil wiv a little jagged knife?'
'Tut, rut,' 'e grins. 'You'll soon be right. I leaves yeh to yer wife.'
I looks at 'er, she smiles at me, an' when I seen that smile:
'Aw, poultices!' I groans. An' she injoys it all the while!

But I'm marri'd to a woman; an', I gives yeh my straight tip,
It makes a man feel glad uv it when sickness gits a grip.
'Er looks is full uv tenderness, 'er ways is full uv love,
An' 'er touch is like a blessin' as she gently bends above.
'Er speech is firm, but motherin'; 'er manners strict, but mild:
Yer 'er 'usban', an' 'er patient, an' 'er little orphin child.

When yer marri'd to a woman an' yer feelin' well an' right;
When yer frame is full uv ginger an' yer mouth is full uv skite,
Then yeh tork about the 'missus' in an 'orf'and sort uv way;
She's 'andy in the 'ouse if she don't 'ave too much to say.
But when Ole Man Sciatiker, 'e does yeh up reel neat,
Then she's yer own reel mate, she is, an' all yer 'ands an' feet.

An' so Doreen, she nurses me while I lie there an' grouch;
Fer I'm snarky when I tumble that it ain't me dyin' couch.
I barks at 'er, an' snarls at 'er, an' orders 'er about,
An' nearly wears the feet orf 'er wiv trottin' in an' out.
An' while Ole Man Sciatiker, 'e 'as me in 'is sway
Doreen, she jist gives in to me - an' alwus gits 'er way.

Three solid days I 'as uv it, an' then the pain lets out.
I'm feelin' fit fer graft again, an' wants to git about.
It's then she lets me see 'er 'and, an' orders, 'You stay there
Until yeh gits yer 'ealth an' strength to sit up in a chair.'
'But there's that stove-wood,' I begins. Sez she, 'Now, don't you fret.
I'm very sparin' wiv it, an' there's tons an' tons there yet.'

Tell yeh straight; I got to like it. It's a crook thing to confess,
But to 'ave 'er fussin' round me give me chunks uv 'appiness.
So I gits out in the garden wiv an arm-chair an' a rug,
An' I comes the floppin' invaleed, an' makes meself reel snug.
I droops me eyes an' 'angs me 'ands, an' looks dead crook an' ill;
An' wriggles ev'ry time she sez, 'Wot would yeh like now, Bill?'

An' then, one day, I 'ears the axe down there be'ind the 'ouse;
An' I sees meself a loafer, an' me conscience starts to rouse.
I 'eaves me frame out uv the chair, an' wanders down the yard.
She's beltin' at a knotty log, an' beltin' good an' 'ard.
I grabs the axe. 'Give up,' I sez. 'I ain't no shattered wreck.
This 'ere's my job.' An' then, Gawstruth! I gits it in the neck!

'Am I yer wife?' she asks me straight. 'Why can't yeh trust me, Bill?
Am I not fit to see to things when you are weak an' ill?'
I tries to say I'm possumin', an' reely well an' strong;
But ev'ry time I starts to tork she's got me in the wrong.
'Yeh can't deceive me, Bill,' she sez. 'Yer 'ealth is fur frum good.
Yeh jist can't trust yer wife to chop a little bit uv wood!

'Yeh got to come out in the cold,' she sez, 'wivout yer wraps.
An' now I'll 'ave yeh on me 'ands fer days wiv a relapse!'
'I been pretending,' I ixplains. She sez, 'Am I yer wife?
Yet sooner than yeh'd trust to me yeh go an' risk yer life.'
Well, I'm marri'd to a woman, an' - it might seem sort uv meek
goes back into bed again… an' 'ates it… fer a week!

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stror 'At Coot

Ar, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I've been!
I arsts meself, wot else could I ixpeck?
I done me block complete on this Doreen,
An' now me 'eart is broke, me life's a wreck!
The dreams I dreamed, the dilly thorts I thunk
Is up the pole, an' joy 'as done a bunk.

Wimmin! O strike! I orter known the game!
Their tricks is crook, their arts is all dead snide.
The 'ole world over tarts is all the same;
All soft an' smilin' wiv no 'eart inside.
But she fair doped me wiv 'er winnin' ways,
Then crooled me pitch fer all me mortal days.

They're all the same! A man 'as got to be
Stric' master if 'e wants to snare 'em sure.
'E 'as to take a stand an' let 'em see
That triflin' is a thing'e won't indure.
'E wants to show 'em that 'e 'olds command,
So they will smooge an' feed out of 'is 'and.

'E needs to make 'em feel 'e is the boss,
An' kid 'e's careless uv the joys they give.
'E 'as to make 'em think 'e'll feel no loss
To part wiv any tart 'e's trackin' wiv.
That all their pretty ways is crook pretence
Is plain to any bloke wiv common-sense.

But when the birds is nestin' in the spring,
An' when the soft green leaves is in the bud,
'E drops 'is bundle to some fluffy thing.
'E pays 'er 'omage—an' 'is name is Mud.
She plays wiv'im an' kids 'im on a treat,
Until she 'as 'im crawlin' at 'er feet.

An' then, when 'e's fair orf 'is top wiv love,
When she 'as got 'im good an' 'ad 'er fun,
She slings 'im over like a carst-orf glove,
To let the other tarts see wot she's done.
All vanity, deceit an' 'eartless kid!
I orter known; an', spare me days, I did!

I knoo. But when I looked into 'er eyes
Them shinin' eyes o' blue all soft wiv love
Wiv MIMIC love—they seemed to 'ipnertize.
I wus content to place 'er 'igh above.
I wus content to make of 'er a queen;
An' so she seemed them days…O, 'struth!…Doreen!

I knoo. But when I stroked 'er glossy 'air
Wiv rev'rint 'ands, 'er cheek pressed close to mine,
Me lonely life seemed robbed of all its care;
I dreams me dreams, an' 'ope begun to shine.
An' when she 'eld 'er lips fer me to kiss…
Ar, wot's the use? I'm done wiv all o' this!

Wimmin!…Oh, I ain't jealous! Spare me days!
Me? Jealous uv a knock-kneed coot like that!
'Im! Wiv 'is cute stror 'at an' pretty ways!
I'd be a mug to squeal or whip the cat.
I'm glad, I am—glad 'cos I know I'm free!
There ain't no call to tork o' jealousy.

I tells meself I'm well out o' the game;
Fer look, I mighter married 'er-an' then….
Ar strike! 'Er voice wus music when my name
Wus on 'er lips on them glad ev'nin's when
We useter meet. An' then to think she'd go…
No, I ain't jealous—but—Ar, I dunno!

I took a derry on this stror 'at coot
First time I seen 'im dodgin' round Doreen.
'Im, wiv 'is giddy tie an' Yankee soot,
Ferever yappin' like a tork-machine
About 'The Hoffis' where 'e 'ad a grip….
The way 'e smiled at 'er give me the pip!

She sez I stoushed 'im, when I promised fair
To chuck it, even to a friendly spar.
Stoushed 'im! I never roughed 'is pretty 'air!
I only spanked 'im gentle, fer 'is mar.
If I'd 'a' jabbed 'im once, there would 'a' been
An inquest; an' I sez so to Doreen.

I mighter took an' cracked 'im in the street,
When she was wiv 'im there lars' Fridee night.
But don't I keep me temper when we met?
An' don't I raise me lid an' act perlite?
I only jerks me elbow in 'is ribs,
To give the gentle office to 'is nibs.

Stoushed 'im! I owns I met 'im on the quiet,
An' worded 'im about a small affair;
An' when 'e won't put up 'is 'ands to fight
('E sez, 'Fer public brawls 'e didn't care')
I lays 'im 'cross me knee, the mother's joy,
An' smacks 'im 'earty, like a naughty boy.

An' now Doreen she sez I've broke me vow,
An' mags about this coot's pore, 'wounded pride.'
An' then, o' course, we 'as a ding-dong row,
Wiv 'ot an' stormy words on either side.
She sez I done it outer jealousy,
An' so, we parts fer ever—'er an' me.

Me jealous? Jealous of that cross-eyed cow!
I set 'im 'cos I couldn't sight 'is face.
'Is yappin' fair got on me nerves, some'ow.
I couldn't stand 'im 'angin' round 'er place.
A coot like that!…But it don't matter much,
She's welkim to 'im if she fancies such.

I swear I'll never track wiv 'er no more;
I'll never look on 'er side o' the street
Unless she comes an' begs me pardin for
Them things she said to me in angry 'eat.
She can't ixpeck fer me to smooge an' crawl.
I ain't at ANY woman's beck an' call.

Wimmin! I've took a tumble to their game.
I've got the 'ole bang tribe o' cliners set!
The 'ole world over they are all the same:
Crook to the core the bunch of 'em—an' yet
We could 'a' been that 'appy, 'er an' me…
But, wot's it matter? Ain't I glad I'm free?

A bloke wiv commin-sense 'as got to own
There's little 'appiness in married life.
The smoogin' game is better left alone,
Fer tarts is few that makes the ideel wife.
An' them's the sort that loves wivout disguise,
An' thinks the sun shines in their 'usban's' eyes.

But when the birds is matin' in the spring,
An' when the tender leaves begin to bud,
A feelin' comes—a dilly sorter thing
That seems to sorter swamp 'im like a flood.
An' when the fever 'ere inside 'im burns,
Then freedom ain't the thing fer wot 'e yearns.

But I 'ave chucked it all. An' yet—I own
I dreams me dreams when soft Spring breezes stirs;
An' often, when I'm moonin' 'ere alone,
A lispin' maid, wiv 'air an' eyes like 'ers,
'Oo calls me 'dad,' she climbs upon me knee,
An' yaps 'er pretty baby tork to me.

I sorter see a little 'ouse, it seems,
Wiv someone waitin' for me at the gate…
Ar, where's the sense in dreamin' barmy dreams,
I've dreamed before, and nearly woke too late.
Sich 'appiness could never last fer long,
We're strangers—'less she owns that she was wrong.

To call 'er back I'll never lift a 'and;
She'll never 'ear frum me by word or sign.
Per'aps, some day, she'll come to understand
The mess she's made o' this 'ere life o' mine.
Oh, I ain't much to look at, I admit.
But'im! The knock-kneed, swivel-eyed misfit?…

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pilot Cove

'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Young friend! Well, spare me days!
Yeh'd think I wus 'is own white 'eaded boy
The queer ole finger, wiv 'is gentle ways.
'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I wish't yeh bofe great joy.'
The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy
Fair tickles me. The way 'e bleats an' brays!
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Yes, my Doreen an' me
We're gettin' hitched, all straight an' on the square.
Fer when I torks about the registry
O 'oly wars! yeh should 'a' seen 'er stare;
'The registry?' she sez, 'I wouldn't dare!
I know a clergyman we'll go an' see . . .
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' then 'e chats me straight;
An' spouts o' death, an' 'ell, an' mortal sins.
'You reckernize this step you contemplate
Is grave?' 'e sez. An' I jist stan's an' grins;
Fer when I chips, Doreen she kicks me shins.
'Yes, very 'oly is the married state,
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' then 'e mags a lot
Of jooty an' the spitichuil life,
To which I didn't tumble worth a jot.
'I'm sure,' 'e sez, 'as you will 'ave a wife
'Oo'll 'ave a noble infl'ince on yer life.
'Oo is 'er gardjin?' I sez, ''Er ole pot'
'Young friend!' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. 'Oh fix yet thorts on 'igh!
Orl marridges is registered up there!
An' you must cleave unto 'er till yeh die,
An' cherish 'er wiv love an' tender care.
E'en in the days when she's no longer fair
She's still yet wife,' 'e sez. 'Ribuck,' sez I.
'Young friend!' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez - I sez, 'Now, listen 'ere:
This isn't one o' them impetchus leaps.
There ain't no tart a 'undreth part so dear
As 'er. She 'as me 'eart and' soul fer keeps!'
An' then Doreen, she turns away an' weeps;
But 'e jist smiles. 'Yer deep in love, 'tis clear
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez - an tears wus in 'is eyes
'Strive 'ard. Fer many, many years I've lived.
An' I kin but recall wiv tears an' sighs
The lives of some I've seen in marridge gived.'
'My Gawd!' I sez. 'I'll strive as no bloke strivved!
Fer don't I know I've copped a bonzer prize?'
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' in 'is gentle way,
'E pats the shoulder of my dear Doreen.
'I've solem'ized grand weddin's in me day,
But 'ere's the sweetest little maid I've seen.
She's fit fer any man, to be 'is queen;
An' you're more forchinit than you kin say,
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . A queer ole pilot bloke,
Wiv silver 'air. The gentle way 'e dealt
Wiv 'er, the soft an' kindly way 'e spoke
To my Doreen, 'ud make a starcher melt.
I tell yer, square an' all, I sorter felt
A kiddish kind o' feelin' like I'd choke . . .
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'you two on Choosday week,
Is to be joined in very 'oly bonds.
To break them vows I 'opes yeh'll never seek;
Fer I could curse them 'usbands 'oo absconds!'
'I'll love 'er till I snuff it,' I responds.
'Ah, that's the way I likes to 'ear yeh speak,
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez - and then me 'and 'e grips
'I wish't yeh luck, you an' yer lady fair.
Sweet maid.' An' sof'ly wiv 'is finger-tips,
'E takes and' strokes me cliner's shinin' 'air.
An' when I seen 'er standin' blushin' there,
I turns an' kisses 'er, fair on the lips.
'Young friend!' 'e sez.

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

'Er name's Doreen…Well spare me bloomin' days!
You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up an' tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen….
'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
I backs me barrer in—the same ole way
An' sez, 'Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?'…Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorter look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
Wiv ANY tart.

An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't right,
An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
A thing yeh might call crook. Ter tell yeh true,
I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve—wiv 'er.
I felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
An' start to sling off chiack like I used…
Not INTRAJUICED!

Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job. I found'er lurk
Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
A game that—any'ow, that ain't the point.
Once more I tried ter chat 'er in the street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she tossed 'er 'cad an' swished 'er skirt!
Oh, it wus dirt!

A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen.
It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, 'I'm out er luck,'
An' done a duck

Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke,
I'd thort 'er jist a commin bit er fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get an 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an intro, if we've luck.
'E sez, 'Ribuck.'

O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An'—quite by accident, o' course—we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. 'This 'ere's the Kid.'
I dips me lid.

'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. I sez 'Good day.'
An', bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean done me block! I never been so shy.
Not since I was a tiny little cub,
An' run the rabbit to the corner pub
Wot time the Summer days wus dry an' 'ot
Fer me ole pot.

Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
But, 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair!…
Oh, gimme air!

I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
An' tried ter play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise that she give me fer the beach.
The bonzer peach!

Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
I dunno'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
When 'e's all out…She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash….
I've done me dash!

'Er name's Doreen….An' me-that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet some'ow…I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell WOT it is; but, all I know,
I've dropped me bundle—an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been….
'Er name's Doreen.

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

'Er name's Doreen ...Well, spare me bloomin' days!
You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up 'an tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen....
'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
I backs me barrer in - the same ole way --
An' sez, 'Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?' ... Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorta look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
Wiv any tart.

An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't right,
An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
A thing yeh might call croook. Ter tell yeh true,
I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve -- wiv 'er.
I felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
An' start to sling of chiack like I used...
Not intrajuiced!

Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job. I found 'er lurk
Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
A game that -- any'ow, that ain't the point.
Once more I tried to chat 'er in the street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she tossed 'er head an' swished 'er skirt!
Oh, it wus dirt!

A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen.
It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She jest sailed by an' lef me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, 'I'm out er luck,'
And done a duck.

Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke.
I'd thort 'er jist a common bit er fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get a 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an into, if we've luck.
'E sez, 'Ribuck.'

O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An' - quite by accident, o' course -- we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff --
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
'This ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. 'This 'ere's the Kid.'
I dips me lid.

'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. I sez 'Good day.'
An' bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean done me block! I never been so shy,
Not since I was a tiny little cub,
An' run the rabbit to the corner pub --
Wot time the Summer days wus dry and 'ot --
Fer me ole pot.

Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
But 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair! ...
Oh, gimme air!

I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
An' tried to play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise she give me fer the beach.
The bonzer peach!

Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
I dunno 'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
When 'e's all out ... She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash....
I've done me dash!

'Er name's Doreen....An' me -- that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet some'ow ... I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell wot it is; but all I know,
I've dropped me bundle -- an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been....
'Er name's Doreen.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Holy War

'Young friend!' . . . I tries to duck, but miss the bus.
'E sees me first, an' 'as me by the 'and.
'Young friend!' 'e sez; an' starts to make a fuss
At meetin' me. 'Why, this,' 'e sez, 'is grand!
Events is workin' better than I planned.
It's Providence that I should meet you thus.
You're jist the man,' 'e sez, 'to make a stand,
An' strive for us.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'allow me to explain
But wot 'e 'as to say too well I knows.
I got the stren'th uv it in Spadgers Lane
Not 'arf an hour before'and, when I goes
To see if I could pick up news uv Rose,
After that dentist let me off the chain.
('Painless,' 'e's labelled. So 'e is, I s'pose.
I 'ad the pain.)

'Young friend,' 'e sez. I let 'im 'ave 'is say;
Though I'm already wise to all 'e said
The queer old parson, with 'is gentle way
('E tied Doreen an' me when we was wed)
I likes 'im, from 'is ole soft, snowy 'ead
Down to 'is boots. 'E ain't the sort to pray
When folks needs bread.

Yeh'd think that 'e was simple as a child;
An' so 'e is, some ways; but, by and by,
While 'e is talkin' churchy-like an' mild,
Yeh catch a tiny twinkle in 'is eye
Which gives the office that 'e's pretty fly
To cunnin' lurks. 'E ain't to be beguiled
With fairy tales. An' when I've seen 'em try
'E's only smiled.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I am beset by foes.
The Church,' 'e sez, 'is in a quandary.'
An' then 'e takes an' spills out all 'is woes,
An' 'ints that this 'ere job is up to me.
'Yer aid - per'aps yer strong right arm,' sez 'e,
'Is needed if we are to rescue Rose
From wot base schemes an' wot iniquity
Gawd only knows.'

This is the sorry tale. Rose, sick, an' low
In funds an' frien's, an' far too proud to beg,
Is gittin' sorely tempted fer to go
Into the spielin' trade by one Spike Wegg.
I knoo this Spike uv old; a reel bad egg,
'0o's easy livin' is to git in tow
Some country mug, an' pull 'is little leg
Fer all 'is dough.

A crooked crook is Spike amongst the crooks,
A rat, 'oo'd come the double on 'is friends;
Flash in 'is ways, but innercint in looks
Which 'e works well fer 'is un'oly ends.
'It's 'ard to know,' sez Snowy, 'why Fate sends
Sich men among us, or why justice brooks
Their evil ways, which they but seldom mends
Except in books.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'You're known in Spadgers Lane.
You know their ways. We must seek out this man.
With 'er, pray'r an' persuasion 'ave been vain.
I've pleaded, but she's bound to 'is vile plan.
I'd 'ave you treat 'im gently, if you can;
But if you can't, well - I need not explain.'
('E twinkles 'ere) 'I'm growin' partisan;
I must refrain.'

'Do you mean stoush?' I sez. 'Fer if yeh do
I warn yeh that a scrap might put me queer.'
'Young friend,' sez 'e, 'I leave the means to you.
Far be it from the Church to interfere
With noble works.' But I sez, 'Now, look 'ere,
I got a wife at 'ome; you know 'er, too.
Ther's certin things I never could make clear
If once she knoo.

'I got a wife,' I sez, 'an' loves 'er well,
Like I loves peace an' quite. An' if I goes
Down into Spadgers, raisin' merry 'ell,
Breakin' the peace an' things account uv Rose,
Where that might land me goodness only knows.
'Ow women sees these things no man can tell.
I've done with stoush,' I sez. ''Ard knocks an' blows
'Ave took a spell.

'I've done with stoush,' I sez. But in some place
Deep in me 'eart a voice begun to sing;
A lurin' little voice, with motives base…
It's ten long years since I was in a ring,
Ten years since I gave that left 'ook a swing.
Ten weary years since I pushed in a face;
An' 'ere's a chance to 'ave a little fling
With no disgrace.

'Stoush? Stoush, young friend?' 'e sez. 'Where 'ave I 'eard
That term? I gather it refers to strife.
But there,' 'e sez, 'why quarrel with a word?
As you 'ave said, indeed, I know yer wife;
An' should she 'ear you went where vice is rife
To battle fer the right - But it's absurd
To look fer gallantry in modrin life.
It's a rare bird.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' quicker than a wink
'Is twinklin' eyes grew sudden very grave.
'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I know jist wot yeh think
Uv 'ow us parsons blather an' be'ave.
But I 'ave 'ere a woman's soul to save
A lonely woman, tremblin' on the brink
Uv black perdition, blacker than the grave.
An' she must sink.

'Yes, she must sink,' 'e sez. 'For I 'ave done
All that a man uv my poor parts can do.
An' I 'ave failed! There was not anyone
That I could turn to, till I met with you.
But now that 'ope 'as gone - an' 'er 'ope too.'
''Old on,' I sez. 'Just let me think for one
Brief 'alf-a-mo. I'd love a crack or two
At this flash gun.'

'Righto,' I sez (an' turns me back on doubt)
'I'm with yeh, parson. I go down to-night
To Spadgers, an' jist looks this Spike Wegg out.'
'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'be sure you've chosen right.
Remember, I do not desire a fight.
But if - ' 'Now don't you fret,' I sez, 'about
No vi'lince. If I'm forced, it will be quite
A friendly clout.'

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'if you go, I go too.
Maybe, by counsel, I may yet injuce
This evil man - ' 'It ain't no game for you,'
I argues with 'im. But it ain't no use.
'I go!' 'e sez, an' won't take no ixcuse.
So that's all fixed. An' us crusaders two
Goes down to-night to Spadgers, to cut loose
Till all is blue.

'Ow can Doreen make trouble or git sore?
(Already I can 'ear 'er scold an' so
But this ain't stoushin'. It's a 'oly war!
The blessin' uv the Church is on the job.
I'm a church-worker, with full leave to lob
A sacrid left on Spike Wegg's wicked jor.
Jist let me! Once! An' after, s'elp me bob,
Never no more!

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

Wot's in a name? -- she sez . . . An' then she sighs,
An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes.
'A rose,' she sez, 'be any other name
Would smell the same.
Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir?
Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!'

Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show --
The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know.
A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;
A slap-up treat.
The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago,
About a barmy goat called Romeo.

'Lady, be yonder moon I swear!' sez 'e.
An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney;
An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words
Like two love-birds.
I nudge Doreen. She whispers, 'Ain't it grand!'
'Er eyes is shining an' I squeeze 'er 'and.

'Wot's in a name?' she sez. 'Struth, I dunno.
Billo is just as good as Romeo.
She may be Juli-er or Juli-et --
'E loves 'er yet.
If she's the tart 'e wants, then she's 'is queen,
Names never count ... But ar, I like 'Doreen!'

A sweeter, dearer sound I never 'eard;
Ther's music 'angs around that little word,
Doreen! ... But wot was this I starts to say
About the play?
I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love
'Is thorts turns 'er way, like a 'omin' dove.

This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew --
A dead tough crowd o' crooks -- called Montague.
'Is cliner's push -- wot's nicknamed Capulet --
They 'as 'em set.
Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks,
Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.

Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words?
They scraps in ole Verona wiv the'r swords,
An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance,
An' that's Romance.
But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots
In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.

Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day,
Is 'valler' if yer fur enough away.
Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick
Wiv Ginger Mick,
Of Spadger's Lane.
'E'll be a Romeo,
When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.

Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip.
Sez she: 'Don't sling that crowd o' mine no lip;
An' if you run agin a Capulet,
Jist do a get.'
'E swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean.
(Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)

They smooge some more at that. Ar, strike me blue!
It gimme Joes to sit an' watch them two! '
E'd break away an' start to say good-bye,
An' then she'd sigh
'Ow, Ro-me-o!' an' git a strangle-holt,
An' 'ang around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.

Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about
A secret weddin'; an' they plan it out.
'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched:
Then they git 'itched ...
Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip!
She's 'is for keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!

Ar! but 'e makes me sick! A fair gazob!
E's jist the glarsey on the soulful sob,
'E'll sigh and spruik, a' 'owl a love-sick vow --
(The silly cow!)
But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight
'E crools the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.

Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon
As 'e was wed, off on 'is 'oneymoon,
'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio,
They 'ave to go
An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets.
They look fer trouble; an' it's wot they gets.

A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)
Sprags 'em an' makes a start to sling off dirt.
Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go -—
'Arf round or so.
Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck,
'Ar rats!' 'e sez, an' passes in 'is check.

Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.
'It's me or you!' 'e 'owls, an' wiv a yell,
Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,
'Ow I ongcored!
'Put in the boot!' I sez. 'Put in the boot!'
''Ush!' sez Doreen ... 'Shame!' sez some silly coot.

Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.
The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,
An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk
An' does a bunk.
They wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.
'Ah, strike!' she sez. 'I wish that I could die!'

Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.
Sez 'e 'I'll dope yeh, so they'll think yer dead.'
(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo
A thing or two.)
She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:
They think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.

Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.
'Ere's Romeo comes back an' finds 'is girl
Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,
An' in a jiff,
'E swallows lysol, throws a fancy fit,
'Ead over turkey, an' 'is soul 'as flit.

Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,
Turns on the water-works an' tears 'er 'air,
'Dear love,' she sez, 'I cannot live alone!'
An' wiv a moan,
She grabs 'is pockit knife, an' ends 'er cares ...
'Peanuts or lollies!' sez a boy upstairs.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spike Wegg

Me photer's in the papers! 'Oly wars!
A 'ero, I've been called in big, black type.
I 'ad idears the time was close on ripe
Fer some applorse
To come my way, on top uv all me bumps.
Now it's come sudden, an' it's come in lumps.

I've given interviews, an' 'ad me dile
Bang on the front page torkin' to a 'tec'.
Limelight? I'm swimmin' in it to the neck!
Me sunny smile
Beams on the crowd. Misun'erstandin's past;
An' I 'ave come into me own, at last.

But all the spot-light ain't alone fer me;
'Arf, I am glad to say, is made to shine
Upon that firm an' trusted friend uv mine,
Ole Wally Free
A man, I've alwiz said, 'oo'd make 'is mark…
But, case you 'ave n't 'eard the story, 'ark:

Spike Wegg - Yes, 'im. I thort, the same as you,
That 'e was dished an' done fer in the Lane.
I don't ixpeck to cross 'is tracks again;
An' never knoo
That 'e 'ad swore to git me one uv those
Fine days, an' make 'is alley good with Rose.

Spike 'ad been aimin' 'igh in 'is profesh.
Bank robberies, an' sich, was 'is noo lurk;
An' one big job 'ad set the cops to work
To plan a fresh
Campaign agin this crook. They want 'im more
Than ever they 'ave wanted 'im before.

They yearn fer 'im, reel passionit, they do.
Press an' perlice both 'ankers fer 'im sore.
'Where is Spike Wegg?' the daily 'eadlines roar.
But no one knoo.
Or them that did 'ad fancies to be dumb.
The oysters uv the underworld was mum.

It was the big sensation uv the day.
Near 'arf the Force was nosin' fer the bloke
Wot done the deed; but Spike was well in smoke,
An' like to stay.
Shots 'ad been fired; an' one poor coot was plugged.
An' now the crowd arsts, 'Why ain't no one jugged?'

That's 'ow the land lies when, one day, I go
Down to the orchid paddick, where I see
A strange cove playin' spy be'ind a tree.
I seem to know
The shape uv that there sneakin', slinkin' frame,
An' walk across to git on to 'is game.

It was red-'ot! I grunt, an' break away
To 'old 'im orf. I'm battlin' fer me life
All-in, a cert; fer 'e's still got the knife.
An', by the way
'E looks, I know it's either 'im or me
'As an appointment at the cemet'ry.

I've often wondered 'ow a feller feels
When 'e is due to wave the world good-bye.
They say 'is past life flicks before 'is eye
Like movie reels.
My past life never troubled me a heap.
All that I want to do is go to sleep.

I'm gittin' weak; I'm coughin', chokey like;
Me legs is wobbly, an' I'm orful ill.
But I 'ave got some fight left in me still.
I look at Spike;
An' there I see the dirty look wot shows
'E's got me where 'e wants me - an' 'e knows.

I think that's where I fell. Nex' thing I see
Is Spike Wegg down, an' fair on top uv 'im
Some one that's breathin' ard an' fightin' grim.
It's Wally Free!
It's good old Wally! 'E 'as got Spike pinned,
Both 'ands, an' kneelin' 'eavy on 'is wind.

So fur so good. But I ain't outed yet.
On 'ands an' knees I crawls to reach 'em, slow.
(Spike's got the knife, an' Wally dare n't let go)
Then, as I get
Close up, I 'ear Rose screamin', then me wife.
I'm faint. I twist Spike's arm - an' grab the knife.

That's all. At least, as far as I'm concerned,
I took no further interest in the show.
The things wot 'appened subsekint I know
Frum wot I learned
When I come-to, tucked in me little bed,
Me chest on fire, an' cold packs on me 'ead.

I 'ear they tied Spike up with 'arness straps
An' bits uv 'ay-band, till the John 'Ops come;
An' watched 'im workin' out a mental sum
Free an' some chaps
Uv 'ow much time 'e'd git fer this last plot
An' other jobs. The answer was, a lot.

Then that nex' day! an' after, fer a week!
Yeh'd think I owned the winner uv a Cup.
Pressmen, perlice, the parson, all rush up;
An' I've to speak
Me piece, to be took down in black an' white,
In case I chuck a seven overnight.

The papers done us proud. Near every day
Some uv 'em printed photers uv me map
(Looked at some ways, I ain't too crook a chap)
But, anyway
I've 'ad enough. I wish they'd let me be.
I'm sick uv all this cheap publicity.

But sich is fame. Less than a month ago.
The whole thing started with a naggin' tooth.
Now I am famis; an', to tell the truth
Well, I dunno
I'd 'ardly like to bet yeh that I don't
Git arst to act in pitchers - but I won't.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beef Tea

She never nagged; she never said no word;
But sat an' looked at me an' never stirred.
I could 'a' bluffed it out if she 'ad been
Fair narked, an' let me 'ave it wiv 'er tongue;
It silence told me 'ow 'er 'eart wus wrung.
Poor 'urt Doreen!
Gorstruth! I'd sooner fight wiv fifty men
Than git one look like that frum 'er agen!

She never moved; she never spoke no word;
That 'urt look in 'er eyes, like some scared bird:
' 'Ere is the man I loved,' it seemed to say.
''E's mine, this crawlin' thing, an' I'm 'is wife;
Tied up fer good; an' orl me joy in life
Is chucked away!'
If she 'ad bashed me I'd 'a' felt no 'urt!
But 'ere she treats me like—like I wus dirt.

'Ow is a man to guard agen that look?
Fer other wimmin, when the'r blokes go crook,
An' lobs 'ome wiv the wages uv a jag,
They smashes things an' carries on a treat
An' 'owls an' scolds an' wakes the bloomin' street
Wiv noisy mag.
But 'er—she never speaks; she never stirs . . .
I drops me bundle . . . An' the game is 'ers.

Jist two months wed! Eight weeks uv married bliss
Wiv my Doreen, an' now it's come to this!
Wot wus I thinkin' uv? Gawd! I ain't fit
To kiss the place 'er little feet 'as been!
'Er that I called me wife, me own Doreen!
Fond dreams 'as flit;
Love's done a bunk, an' joy is up the pole;
An' shame an' sorrer's roostin' in me soul.

'Twus orl becors uv Ginger Mick—the cow!
(I wish't I 'ad 'im 'ere to deal wiv now!
I'd pass 'im one, I would! 'E ain't no man!)
I meets 'im Choosdee ev'nin' up the town.
'Wot O,' 'e chips me. 'Kin yeh keep one down?'
I sez I can.
We 'as a couple; then meets three er four
Flash coves I useter know, an' 'as some more.

''Ow are yeh on a little gamble, Kid?'
Sez Ginger Mick. 'Lars' night I'm on four quid.
Come 'round an' try yer luck at Steeny's school.
'No,' sez me conscience. Then I thinks, 'Why not?
An' buy 'er presents if I wins a pot?
A blazin' fool
I wus. Fer 'arf a mo' I 'as a fight;
Then conscience skies the wipe . . . Sez I 'Orright.'

Ten minutes later I was back once more,
Kip in me 'and, on Steeny Isaac's floor,
Me luck was in an' I wus 'eadin' good.
Yes, back agen amongst the same old crew!
An' orl the time down in me 'eart I knew
I never should . . .
Nex' thing I knows it's after two o'clock
Two in the morning! An' I've done me block!

'Wot odds?' I thinks. 'I'm in fer it orright.'
An' so I stops an' gambles orl the night;
An' bribes me conscience wiv the gilt I wins.
But when I comes out in the cold, 'ard dawn
I know I've crooled me pitch; me soul's in pawn.
My flamin' sins
They 'its me in a 'eap right where I live;
Fer I 'ave broke the solim vow I give.

She never magged; she never said no word.
An' when I speaks, it seems she never 'eard.
I could 'a' sung a nim, I feels so gay!
If she 'ad only roused I might 'a' smiled.
She jist seems 'urt an' crushed; not even riled.
I turns away,
An' yanks me carkis out into the yard,
Like some whipped pup; an' kicks meself reel 'ard.

An' then, I sneaks to bed, an' feels dead crook.
Fer golden quids I couldn't face that look
That trouble in the eyes uv my Doreen.
Aw, strike! Wot made me go an' do this thing?
I feel jist like a chewed up bit of string,
An' rotten mean!
Fer 'arf an hour I lies there feelin' cheap;
An' then I s'pose, I muster fell asleep….

' 'Ere, Kid, drink this' . . . I wakes, an' lifts me 'ead,
An' sees 'er standin' there beside the bed;
A basin in 'er 'ands; an' in 'er eyes
(Eyes that wiv unshed tears is shinin' wet)
The sorter look I never shall ferget,
Until I dies.
' 'Ere, Kid, drink this,' she sez, an' smiles at me.
I looks — an' spare me days! It was beef tea!

Beef tea! She treats me like a hinvaleed!
Me! that 'as caused 'er lovin' 'eart to bleed.
It 'urts me worse than maggin' fer a week!
'Er! 'oo 'ad right to turn dead sour on me,
Fergives like that, an' feeds me wiv beef tea . . .
I tries to speak;
An' then — I ain't ashamed o' wot I did
I 'ides me face . . . an' blubbers like a kid.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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