The Happy Gardeners
We were storemen, clerks and packers on
an ammunition dump
Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods
we had to hump
They were bombs as big as water-butts, and
cartridges in tons,
Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and
a line in traction-guns.
We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing
with the stocks.
It was, “Sign here, Mr. Eddie!” “Clarkson,
forward to the socks!”
Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle
like a peach,
And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping
kind of speech.
We were off at eight to business, we were free
for lunch at one,
And we talked of new Spring fashions, and the
brisk trade being done.
After five we sought our dugouts lying snug
beneath the hill,
Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums
on the sill.
Singing “Home, Sweet home,” we swept,
and scrubbed, and dusted up the place,
Then smoked out on the doorstep in the twi-
light's tender grace.
After which with spade and rake we sought
our special garden plot,
And we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink-
ing young shallot.
So long lived we unmolested that this seemed
indeed “the life.”
Set apart from mirk and worry and the inci-
dence of strife;
And we trimmed our Kitchen Eden, swapping
vegetable lore,
Whi1e the whole demented world beside was
muddled up with war.
There was little talk of Boches and of bloody
battle scenes,
But a deal about Bill's spuds and Billy
Carkeek's butter-beans;
Porky specialised on onion and he had a sort
of gift
For a cabbage plump and tender that it took
two men to lift.
In the pleasant Sabbath morning, when the
sun lit on our “street,”
And illumed the happy dugout with effulgence
kind and sweet,
It was fine to see us forking, raking, picking
off the bugs,
Treading flat the snails and woodlice and
demolishing the slugs.
Then one day old Fritz got going. He had
a hint of us,
And the shell the blighter posted was as roomy
as a 'bus;
He was groping round the dump, and kind of
pecking after it;
When he plugged the hill the world heeled up,
the dome of heaven split.
Then, 0 Gott and consternation! Swooped a
shell a and stuck her nose
In Carkeek's beans. Those beans came up!
A cry of grief arose!
As we watched them—plunk! another shell
cut loose, and everywhere
Flew the spuds of Billy Murphy. There were
turnips in the air.
Bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land-
scape. With it burst
Tommy's carrots, and we watched them, and
in whispers prayed and cursed.
Then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. Boomed
in Porky's cabbage plot
A detestable concussion. Porky's cabbages
were not!
There the Breaking strain was reached, for
Porky fetched an awful cry,
And he rushed away and armed himself.
With loathing in his eye,
Up and over went the hero. He was savage
Through and through,
And he tore across the distance like a mad-
dened kangaroo.
They had left a woeful sight indeed—frail cab-
bages all rent,
Turnips mangled, little carrots all in one red
burial blent,
Parsnips ruined, lettuce shattered, torn and
wilted beet and bean,
And a black and grinning gap where once our
garden flourished green.
Five and fifty hours had passed when came a
German in his shirt.
On his back he carried Porky black with
blood, and smoke and dirt.
“I sniped six of 'em,” said Porky, “an' me
pris'ner here,” he sez-
“I done in the crooel swine what strafed me
helpless cabba-ges.”
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Related quotes
Peter Percival Pattersons Pet Pig Porky
Peter percival patterson had a pet pig named porky
This pet pig named porky loved pie
He loved pizza pie, pumpkin pie, pineapple pie, pizza pie, mints tarts
And peter percival pattersons pet pig porky loved
Pie for breakefast, pie for lunch, pie in the afternoon and pie before he
Went to bed.
Peter percival pattersons pet pig porky ate soo much pie,
Do you know what he did?
He popped.
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Black Eye Pea Stew
Did I mention,
My black eye pea stew to you?
Well...
This is what you do.
Boil your water,
Add sliced smoked turkey butt.
With seasons you prefer.
I like to mix in olive oil with butter first.
Before adding apple vinegar...
With Old Bay and a bit of salt,
Then soy sauce...
To allow my taste buds to burst.
Add your black eye peas.
Speckled butter lima beans.
Kidney and black beans too!
I also enjoy cooking with onions...
Green peppers, carrots and celery.
For a flavored taste,
You simply can not refuse!
Well...
You can 'try' making attempts.
But licking your lips,
Is not too convincing of a defense.
'May I get some more? '
You sure can!
After I get to taste it myself!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Slug City
There once was a family of slugs
That lived in a cabbage patch town
They went out every nite to eat
Found a cabbage and began to munch down
All through the night they could reduce
A cabbage to a stalk in the ground
All night they would munch and munch
But you would never here them, not nary a sound
But Mrs H was becoming fed up
Her patch the proudest around
With malace, blood red, she schemed
She vowed to eliminate those clowns
She purchased the best poison they had
She tried every trick she read
But the slugs just kept on coming
Every nite long after it was bed
Then a local wino he said
Out of the garden he could take
These inconsiderate gluttonous
Stylommatophora pulmonates
So he began by opening a beer
Placing some into a sphere
Putting them by each cabbage head
he said, 'This will make these slugs disappear.'
But by morning the cabbage was gone
Worse yet so was the beer
And if you looked even more closely
Tiny signs saying, 'Next time make it import you here.'
poem by Midnights Voice
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Eternal Eden
Under a splendid sky of orange and grey,
Awakened a dawn as lovely as the foremost day,
And there beneath the rainbow and blueberry hills,
More beautiful than a proud peacock’s quills,
A place called Eden with endless delights,
A lush garden by day with Arcadian nights.
The Creator is the only sovereign in this land,
On every hill and valley, you can see God’s hand.
He’s loved and praised with every creature’s breath,
For by His grace, we know not the sting of death.
There are many flower blooms to brighten all life.
The birds melodious songs soothe away strife.
There’s food for the stomach and thrills for the eye,
For all God’s creatures of land, water, and sky.
We have leaves for the butterfly and nectar for the bee,
And berries for the springbok and still plenty fruit for me.
The hippo has plenty green grass with grasshoppers for the snake,
And as many fat rabbits as the hungry lion can take.
We’ve got figs aloft left for the giraffe,
And honey for the bear that compels her to laugh.
The games we play in Eden keep our fervor rare,
Like shooting baskets with cabbage and tossing parsnips in the air,
Rolling lettuce into the cellar and turnips into the pot,
Squeezing tomatoes to make them sweet whether folly or not.
Don’t worry about the reverend, she outmatches the moon,
And dances in the garden with dessert and a spoon.
She’s chest-high in the berries and dressed only with a beam.
I sure hope God wants her to allow me a little ice cream.
‘Cause she’s a sensation for human vision, she has a vision too,
The preacher sees the Word in the air and inherent in the dew.
In my deepest inmost part, I feel life’s power surge.
God’s omnipresence warms and bids my moods to merge.
I love to watch the sun ascend to its cloudy throne,
And I listen to the sparrows sing in a respectful tone.
The birds of heaven now in place, wearing feathered robes aglow,
Harmonize with a melodious breeze that began to blow a billion years ago.
Grapes ripen and grow sweeter from vine to carafe
And await the pleasure of immortal lips that pucker and laugh.
Here our hearts are light as a leaf on an apple tree,
‘Cause every wish and desire and dream is crowned with victory.
In this region called Eden, life’s eternal green spring,
Rivers flow gently in majesty and God’s praises sparrows sing.
Along beside the trees good for food and pleasant to the sight,
There is ground to be tilled and, for man, to dress and keep right.
We will eat and drink the reward of our labors to our hearts’ content,
As long as we obey the God of this eternal surface and firmament.
Animals feast on the land while flowers dazzle in the light of day.
A meal fresh from the soil is a message that we are blessed in every way.
Robins and bluebirds visit daily and serenade us from on high
And leave us sweet memories when they fly away into the sky.
Watching the breezes waltz with the trees bring visions of romance.
The voyages of the hummingbirds put our blissful minds in a trance.
With the sun sending its beam from heaven, flowers extend above.
Through this interlude of beauty, God teaches us to think of love.
In this vast garden watered by rivers and running streams,
The nectar from its succulence fuels our sweet dreams.
To honor two prominent nymphs who reside in my conscience
And that fertilize my ego with their unselfish munificence,
I made two manors in the garden, by the grace from the Maker,
Naming one for Moms Mabley and the other for Josephine Baker.
In Mabley Manor there’s carrots, squash, cucumbers, and more,
A plenty sweet corn, yams, beans, and peppers galore.
Now Miss Baker’s Manor has beets, turnips, and tomatoes sweet,
And cabbage, onions, melons, and plenty more to eat.
Why this colossal pair, the whispering breeze may say?
Because of the many lives they enriched along the way.
This now is my eternal refuge and strong habitation,
Where I go daily to the Lord and ask for His consultation.
Let my mouth speak Thy praise and Thy honor each day,
And may Thy lavish wholeness in us wield sway.
The lips that seek my hurt are filled by the sweetness of the garden.
And from the rivers unto the ends of this realm, no heart can harden.
poem by Albert Price
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Let me say this, to all of the chattering class that so much focuses on those little tiny, yes, porky amendments - the American people really don't care.
quote by Charles Schumer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boogies
Beefsteak charlie says to porky the pig
"i can see the party lights
Someone's throwin' a bash and it sure looks big
Down at the slaughterhouse tonight."
Say, let's get together and hit the buffet
You might as well stuff yourself,
They'll only throw it away
Old colonel sanders says to elsie the cow
"golly, baby you're the one
Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce,
Pickle, cheese, onions on a sesame seed bun."
Say, we just got time for a roll in the hay
Might as well stuff yourself
They've come to take you away
I know where you're going, i can tell
Don't go looking for me down in hamburger hell
Don't misunderstand me, i wish you well
Don't go looking for me down in hamburger hell
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Garden
I know a garden like a child,
Clean and new-washed and reconciled.
It grows its own sweet way, yet still
Has guidance of some tender will
That clips, confines, its wilder mood
And makes it happy, being good.
Around the lordly mountains stand,
For this is an enchanted land,
As though their splendours stood to grace
This little lovely garden place,
Looking with wise and keeping eyes
Upon the garden sanctities.
Box borders edge each little bed,
Paths narrow for a child to tread
Divide the kitchen garden, dear
And sweet with musk and lavender,
And water-mints and beans in bloom.
Be sure the honeybee's at home.
How should I tell in a sweet list
Of beauties, rose and amethyst;
The little water-garden cool
On sultry days, and beautiful
The wall-garden, the shade, the sun,
Since they are lovely, every one.
Hot honey of the pines is sweet,
And when the day's at three o'clock heat
A winding walk will you invite
To a new garden out of sight.
And a green seat is set so near
The sluggish, stealing backwater.
The Spirit of the garden plays
At hide-and-seek an hundred ways
And when you've captured her, she will
Elude you, calling backward still,
A silver echo -- a sweet child,
Demure and lovesome, gay and wild.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Song of the Little White Girl
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, what is the matter?
Why are you shaking so? Why do you chatter?
Because it is just a white baby you see,
And it's the black ones you like, cabbage tree?
Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, you're a strange fellow
With your green hair and your legs browny-yellow.
Wouldn't you like to have curls, dear, like me?
What! No one to make them? O poor cabbage tree!
Never mind, cabbage tree, when I am taller,
And if you grow, please, a little bit smaller,
I shall be able by that time, bay be,
To make you the loveliest curls, cabbage tree.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Waiting
Oh, how I love the fine old chap
Who sits upon my left at meals,
And drops his cabbage, in my lap
From swooping fork, while he reveals
How he, at Hay, in '83,
Gave Hamlet's grand so-lil-o-quee.
He slops his supper beer o' nights,
Or fills my dexter ear with stout,
While strenuously he recites,
And hurls his lanky limbs about,
To prove that every modern cuss
Has missed the true Polonius.
His oysters down my back he'll throw,
Or freely spray me with his soup,
When suddenly inspired to show
How savage Ingomar should whoop,
Or illustrate the proper scream
With which to finish 'Denver's Dream.'
He throws his turnips everywhere;
With breakfast-tea he scalds my legs;
I've spuds and carrots in my hair;
And oft he's smitten me with eggs.
If e'er he shows, with humor grim
I'll throw these things all back at him.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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My plants
My plants
are eaten
by all kinds of vermin.
There are golden beetles
that reaps
the leaves of the beans,
brown buzzing beetles turning in the air
around the tomatoes,
snails that can’t wait
and demolish the leaves
of beans, spinach
and tomatoes.
Indian miners
that feast in their beaks
as if every thing belongs to them.
Even poison that I spread out
doesn’t help a bit
and plants from Mrs. Roberts
that should keep such things in check
grows rampant
and after rains
there are weeds
everywhere,
as if my garden
was prepared only for them.
Even one of the taps breaks
causing water to spray without end
and I have trouble
to bind it down
and have to go to Builders
to get a new one
and this garden man gets fed up
and wants to pull
all of the vegetables out
one by one
and put something else
like flowers into that ground,
until my darling says:
“thank you for the beans,
spinach, carrots and tomatoes
that you placed in the bowls,
can I get a bit of parsley
to put in the salad? ”
poem by Gert Strydom
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Before' The Beans
Take one turkey butt,
And put it in boiling water.
Make sure you had put in olive oil first.
With a little butter, oregano and basil leaves.
Then add two tablespoons of soy sauce.
A pinch or two of brown sugar, salt and red pepper.
20 minutes!
That's all you want to give it 'before' the beans!
Speckled Butter Beans.
With kidney and black eye peas.
Add them with sliced carrots and celery.
Turn down the heat,
To medium for approximately 45minutes.
And serve this with brown rice.
If you are into chicken...
Fried wings would be delicious.
For the better of the best tastes,
The 'smoked' turkey butt is great for that!
NOTE: 'Yes' this is my own original recipe.
Enjoy!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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His Boys
"I'm going, Billy, old fellow. Hist, lad! Don't make any noise.
There's Boches to beat all creation, the pitch of a bomb away.
I've fixed the note to your collar, you've got to get back to my Boys,
You've got to get back to warn 'em before it's the break of day."
The order came to go forward to a trench-line traced on the map;
I knew the brass-hats had blundered, I knew and I told 'em so;
I knew if I did as they ordered I would tumble into a trap,
And I tried to explain, but the answer came like a pistol: "Go."
Then I thought of the Boys I commanded -- I always called them "my Boys" --
The men of my own recruiting, the lads of my countryside;
Tested in many a battle, I knew their sorrows and joys,
And I loved them all like a father, with more than a father's pride.
To march my Boys to a shambles as soon as the dawn of day;
To see them helplessly slaughtered, if all that I guessed was true;
My Boys that trusted me blindly, I thought and I tried to pray,
And then I arose and I muttered: "It's either them or it's you."
I rose and I donned my rain-coat; I buckled my helmet tight.
I remember you watched me, Billy, as I took my cane in my hand;
I vaulted over the sandbags into the pitchy night,
Into the pitted valley that served us as No Man's Land.
I strode out over the hollow of hate and havoc and death,
From the heights the guns were angry, with a vengeful snarling of steel;
And once in a moment of stillness I heard hard panting breath,
And I turned . . . it was you, old rascal, following hard on my heel.
I fancy I cursed you, Billy; but not so much as I ought!
And so we went forward together, till we came to the valley rim,
And then a star-shell sputtered . . . it was even worse than I thought,
For the trench they told me to move in was packed with Boche to the brim.
They saw me too, and they got me; they peppered me till I fell;
And there I scribbled my message with my life-blood ebbing away;
"Now, Billy, you fat old duffer, you've got to get back like hell;
And get them to cancel that order before it's the dawn of day.
"Billy, old boy, I love you, I kiss your shiny black nose;
Now, home there. . . . Hurry, you devil, or I'll cut you to ribands. . . . See . . ."
Poor brute! he's off! and I'm dying. . . . I go as a soldier goes.
I'm happy. My Boys, God bless 'em! . . . It had to be them or me.
poem by Robert William Service
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Sometimes 3
Sometimes people do not believe
who we say we are or what we do.
They think our imagination
is running in overtime
when we relate to the unusual things
that cross our path.
They think we are fibbing,
telling white porky pies,
then they see the pictures
and it astounds them a little bit.
The proof of the pudding
is always in the eating
and my proof is always
in the pictures taken of me.
18 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Our Daily Bread
We need no barbarous words nor solemn spell
To raise the unknown. It lies before our feet;
There have been men who sank down into Hell
In some suburban street,
And some there are that in their daily walks
Have met archangels fresh from sight of God,
Or watched how in their beans and cabbage-stalks
Long files of faerie trod.
Often me too the Living voices call
In many a vulgar and habitual place,
I catch a sight of lands beyond the wall,
I see a strange god’s face.
And some day this work will work upon me so
I shall arise and leave both friends and home
And over many lands a pilgrim go
Through alien woods and foam,
Seeking the last steep edges of the earth
Whence I may leap into that gulf of light
Wherein, before my narrowing Self had birth,
Part of me lived aright.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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The greatest thing
I put the seed
into ground that I
mingled with dark black compost.
Rows of beans,
some carrots, some pumpkins
and spinach
I sowed into the orange brown earth.
Some small tomato plants,
I planted in blocks
and pressed small
frames of reeds
on top
for them to crawl over.
Every day I sprayed water
and tended the weeds
and in time
little green plants
sprang out of the ground
and the tomatoes crept
and crawled all over
their reeds.
It was great to be part
of spring and see
living things sprout
from the ground,
but a dog dug
some carrots out
and a flock of mice
came to eat
tomatoes from the plants.
Yet in time
some great vegetables
came to my table
and spring was awesome
and so was summer
and to tend my own garden
is the greatest thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Billy Radcliff
Billy radcliffe didnt go to town and when he looked up he was really looking down catching blue in his eyes that were brown billy radcliffe
Billy radcliffe owned by the state from his first breath to the cemetery gate he was the first boy born in space billy radcliffe
Billy radcliffe very first one he really had lived just a cursed son a split in half man sang the cherubim billy radcliffe
Billy radcliffe saw what the devil man saw a spot of blue in the black of the eye of the lord such a cruel love is the kind that has wrought billy radcliffe
Billy sadly didnt live long he had to stay there because he wasnt too strong hes stepping out the door blowing up like a bomb billy radcliffe
Billy radcliffe very first one really a hatched man a light switch son a split in half man sang the cherubim I bet you cried when he died now didja, now didja?
Now billy radcliffe saw what the devil man saw a spot of blue in the black of the eye of the lord now billy radcliffe saw what the devil had and I feel very bad for william radcliffe
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr Ed The Talking Horse
Once for laughs I often watched Mr Ed the talking horse.
Charlie Chaplin, Mr Bean, Fred Dagg, Benny Hill, ...
Billy Connolly, Bill Cosby, Eddie Murphy, Groucho Marx.
Now I just watch Sarah Palin “the twisted logic discourse”.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Dyspeptic Clerk
I think I'll buy a little field,
Though scant am I of pelf,
And hold the hope that it may yield
A living for myself;
For I have toiled ten thousand days
With ledger and with pen,
And I am sick of city ways
And soured with city men.
So I will plant my little plot
With lettuce, beans and peas;
Potatoes too - oh quite a lot,
An pear and apple trees.
My carrots will be coral pink,
My turnips ivory;
And I'll forget my pen and ink,
And office slavery.
My hut shall have a single room
Monastically bare;
A faggot fire for the winter gloom,
A table and a chair.
A Frugalist I call myself,
My needs are oh so small;
My luxury a classic shelf
Of poets on the wall.
Here as I dream, how grey and cold
The City seems to me;
Another world of green and gold
Incessantly I see.
So I will fling my pen away,
And learn a how to wield;
A cashbook and a stool today . . .
Soon, soon a Little Field.
poem by Robert William Service
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Asshole
Your brains went black
When she took back her love
And put it out into the sun
The birds did fly
When the heavens all went dry
And the cigarettes were smoking by themselves
Shell do anything
Shell do anything
Shell do anything
To make you feel like an asshole
Call her name
She looks the same as you
With question-marks stretched across her skin
She dangles carrots
Makes you feel embarrassed
To be the fool you know you are
Shell do anything
Shell do anything
Shell do anything
To make you feel like an asshole
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The New Vestments
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.
By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabit-skins, -- but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any morre, never more!'
poem by Edward Lear
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