En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Bush Veteran

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hundredth Year

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As Between Pensioners

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bird - Seed

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Roads' End

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cherry

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

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

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

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

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

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Christmas At The Pearly Gates

Three men die on Christmas day
And then arrive at the pearly gates
St Peter starts to turn them away
Since his records say they’re reprobates

But since it was Christmas …well
He might let them in
If they had any symbol
of Christmas with them

The first had an ornament in his pocket
St Peter ushered him in
The second had pine needles on his shirt
St Peter bade him within

The third gentleman with a look of chagrin
Pulled out a pair of panties of green and red
“How do these represent Christmas? ”
Astounded, St Peter said

“Well Pete, I know you are familiar
With beautiful, Christmas carols
And these skimpies might seem to you
Simply as risqué apparel.”

“Well…These are Carol’s, ”
the man said with a grin
Saint Peter rolled his eyes…
And then let him in

poem by David Whalen
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The Ballad Of Peter Pumpkinhead

Peter pumpkinhead came to town
Spreading wisdom and cash around
Fed the starving and housed the poor
Showed the vatican what golds for
But he made too many enemies
Of the people who would keep us on our knees
Hooray for peter pumpkin
Wholl pray for peter pumpkinhead?
Oh my!
Peter pumpkinhead pulled them all
Emptied churches and shopping malls
Where he spoke, it would raise the roof
Peter pumpkinhead told the truth
But he made too many enemies...
Peter pumpkinhead put to shame
Governments who would slur his name
Plots and sex scandals failed outright
Peter merely said
Any kind of love is alright
But he made too many enemies...
Peter pumpkinhead was too good
Had him nailed to a chunk of wood
He died grinning on live tv
Hanging there he looked a lot like you
And an awful lot like me!
But he made too many enemies...
Hooray for peter pumpkin
Wholl pray for peter pumpkin
Hooray for peter pumpkinhead
Oh my oh my oh!
Doesnt it make you want to cry oh?

song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I heard my name associated with the Peter Pan syndrome more than once. But really, what's so wrong with Peter Pan? Peter Pan flies. He is a metaphor for dreams and faith.

quote by Mark Burnett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How we backed the Favourite

'Sure thing,' said the grocer; 'as far as I know, sir,
This horse, Peter Pan, is the safest of certs.'
'I see by the paper,' commanded the draper,
'He's tipped and he carries my whole weight of shirts.'
The butcher said, 'Well, now, it's easy to tell now
There's nothing else in it except Peter Pan.'
And so the baker, the barman, bookmaker,
The old lady char and the saveloy man.

'You stick to my tip, man,' admonished the grip-man,
'Play up Peter Pan; he's a stayer with speed.'
And the newspaper vendor, the ancient road mender,
And even the cop at the corner agreed.
The barber said, 'Win it? There's nothing else in it.
I backed Peter Pan with the last that I had.'
'Too right,' said the liftman. 'The horse is a gift, man.'
The old jobbing gardener said, 'Peter Pan, lad!'

I know nought of racing. The task I was facing,
It filled me with pain and unreasoning dread.
They all seemed so certain. And yet a dark curtain
Of doubt dulled my mind… But I must keep my head!
I went to the races, and I watched all their faces.
I saw Peter Pan's; there was little he lacked.
And as he seemed willing, I planked on my shilling
And triumphed! And that's how the favorite was backed.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Washing up

'Grab a hold of that dish-cloth our Peter,
And give me a lift with these dishes;
We don't have a genie in this house
To help us, by giving three wishes.

It's manual labour our Peter,
A straightforward job in the sink;
A mountain of mucky old dishes
And then we can go for a drink.

Our Ena is ever so fussy though,
The glasses, they MUST be done first;
The cups and the plates are then easy,
The large greasy pans are the worst.'

'Put plenty of 'fairy' in Peter'
Said Fred, 'it will save you from scrubbing;
We'll soon have them spotless and shining
And then me and you can go clubbing.'

'Grab a hold of that towel our Freddie,
This mountain is now just a hill;
Just two more, then a colander Freddie,
And then I'll be on to the grill.'

Soon the hill was as flat as a pancake,
The dishes were done and all dry;
Fred and Peter were happy as sandboys,
To the boozer their feet would soon fly.

'Hey Ena! they're done, we have finished,
I told you we wouldn't get vexed; '
'Hey Peter, and Fred! no you haven't,
I told you, the ironing is next.'

(Written Jan 1996)

poem by John Carter Brown
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Auntie Emmaline for Friend Leslie

Auntie Emmaline.

My cousin Peter was a prig.
A precious little Mamas boy.
Who thought it rather infra dig
a little mischief to enjoy.

He combed his hair and shined his shoes
and was polite to every one
I was quite pleased to hear the news
that he had just up and gone.

To live with a girl, Elsie Ma.
Who was no better than a whore.
It made me glad I have to say.
He’s not my rival anymore.

Nobody says that should I should be
just like Peter. Dear me no.
The rotten apple on the tree.
But what the family do not know.

Is that I arranged for them to meet.
I knew she would lead him astray
He had no chance at all poor Pete.
I don’t regret it in any way.

I’m sure that Peter has more fun.
Than if he had stayed safe at home.
Today he’s just another one
Who felt that it was time to roam.

Far from his mothers eagle eye
escape from under mothers thumb.
They were some things he had to try
and realised their time had come.

He was disowned immediately.
His name is never mentioned now.
Sometimes I meet him on the sly
I like him better now somehow.

Now that he’s not held up to be
the Icon I should emulate
To tell the truth he’s just like me
Although he found out rather late.

Though I appear respectable.
I have a wild streak which I hide.
My aunt finds me acceptable.
I think she would horrified

to know that I both smoke and drink
and chase young ladies ardently.
But things are seldom as you think.
I find that fooling her pleases me.

A good God fearing lady who
still believes whole heartedly.
That there are things one does not do
Quite blind to life’s reality.

29/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Long Doze

The Long Doze

God woke up
he had slept since world war one.
He was in good mood
On his desk two stacks of papers
one for the righteous people
one for atheists
He called St. Peter and said:
“Let them all in.”
“Are you sure Peter muttered?
“Peter, just do as I say.”
“I like to see
how happy the good will be”
God giggled
“But, most of all the astonishment
In the faces of non believers. “

poem by Oskar Hansen
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St. Peter At The Golden Gate

St. Peter at the Golden Gate
Explained, for me it’s much too late
That Heaven’s gate, without a doubt
Was built right there to keep me out

It’s common knowledge, I’m no Saint
But a real bad guy, I surely ain’t
Heaven knows, I’ve done some wrong
But it doesn’t mean I don’t belong

I know I’m not the most devout
But pray, St. Peter, don’t fence me out
I promise I won’t cause chagrin
To those in Heaven, all fenced in

I’ll run a casino for all to enjoy
I’ll run it as pure as an altar boy
And dear St. Peter, I give you this pledge
At Heaven’s casino, I’ll give you an edge

So you see, St. Peter, Heaven can’t wait
What’s needed in Heaven, is me, your soul mate
Do what you can to unlock the key
So together we’ll be, St. Peter and me…

poem by Stanley Cooper
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Menemsha

(carly simon/peter wood)
Peters on the loose
Id like to see him again
I remember when
We made love
On the jetty in the rain.
When the fishing boats would
Come back in
At the end of the day
Hed run up the hill to my cabin
With a swordfish and hed say:
girl I want you all over again?
All over again
Chorus:
In menemsha, menemsha
Menemsha, menemsha
The sunset on the sound
Were almost too much to take
We would dance on the hill
With our friends
til the morning would break
Everybody drank too much beer
In those days
Thank God it wasnt whisky
Or wed all be dead
And peter and me wed pull the shades
Everyone was interested
In peter and me
Chorus

song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never, Never Land

Peter Pan, that marvelous boy
always young, oh the joy!
Flying and escaping into the air
to a place that's never, never there.

A fantasy world that lives with us
but is far beyond our reach
has become a fairytale children love
but Peter what does it teach?

That forever young can only live
in a place called your heart.
Every palpable place we live
has torn our youth apart.

Peter Pan, you marvelous boy,
let the old and young beware
your escapades and wild dreams
are not found anywhere.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Relativity

To leave John and move towards Peter,
I must hate John or love Peter more.
John must ignore, or Peter must lure.
Relations thrive in relativity.

(17.05.2011)

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Ballad of Father Gilligan

The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day
For half his flock were in their beds
Or under green sods lay.

Once, while he nodded in a chair
At the moth-hour of the eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die;
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake not I!'

He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind
And God covered the world with shade
And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.

'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
While I slept in the chair.'
He roused his horse out of its sleep
And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door,
'Father! you come again!'

'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.

'When you were gone, he turned and died,
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.

'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of this great angels down,
To help me in my need.

'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Hungry Pity Pete, Five Days Long

'Pity' Pete, as hungry as he can be
Shot a patridge on a pear tree
And took home the fowl to roast
With rum he bought for a toast
It was winter and Peter had no coat
Nor a cosy home, but a shant by the dry moat
On his right arm were woods for fire
And in his left bills of hungry looking Peter
With a ransom on him alive
To any who catches him before the guards arrive
For Pete at every christmas is a menace
That made his Majesty wear all day a grimace
'Tis'' said Pete, ' an excellent meal
For one lonely soul down the cold dale
The meat such a sweet delight
With fire and rum to keep me warm all night
Then by morrow, straight to the castle for mercy
Will i go before his Majesty'
But what had 'Pity Pete' done, if you may ask
That all, the king now must task
To bring him to face so cruel a book
For his deeds in every shady nook
Lo! On the fifth day to christmas, i was told
Did Pete stole five gold rings, which he sold
Two for a new pair of boot, and for firewood
The rest, traded he for rum and food
On the forth day, when farmers were on their beds
Went Pity Pete to steal their birds
And on the third day, stole he more french fowls
Amidst the famers mounting growls
That made the king on the second day
Summoned both lords and commons without delay
To vote what punishment they must dole
Yet, that day still, two turtle doves he stole
Then on the last day to christmas, hungry as he can be
Shot a patridge on a pear tree
That made the kids, every christmas sing this song-
Hungry Pity Pete, five days long
Stole five gold rings
Four famers birds
Three french hens
Two turtle doves
And on christmas eve, shot he
A patridge on a pear tree!

poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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Mr. Peter & my sister

Mr. Peter & my sister

This poem goes out to Mr. Peter
Who is a friend of my sister
And blow out my cover

In order to hide
I wrote my name backward
Until…the same day
My sister who is smart like Holmes
And Mr. Peter who is a genius
Discovered my disguise
And ruined my surprise.

July 9,2005

poem by Konjit Berhane
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Its Midnight Cinderella

Its midnight cinderella but dont you worry none
cause Im peter peter the pumpkin eater
And the partys just begun.
I guess your prince charming
Wasnt after all
cause he sure seemed different right after the ball.
I guess more than horses are turnin into rats
And by the way hes walkin
I can guess where your slippers at.
(chorus)
Its midnight cinderella time that you should know
Theres gonna be some changes in the way this story goes
Its midnight cinderella but dont you worry none
cause Im peter peter the pumkin eater
And the partys just begun.
Im gonna help you get over
Bein under that spell
Youre gonna learn to love midnight
Inside this pumpkin shell
I gotta few new magic tricks
Your godmother cant do
Ill show you what it means to
Bip, bip, bip, bip, boppity boo.
*chorus*
Im peter peter the pumpkin eater
And the party has now begun

song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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