A Wish
(An Apartmental Ditty.)
Mine be a flat beside the Hill;
A vendor's cry shall soothe my ear
A landlord shall present his bill
At least a dozen times a year.
The tenor, oft, below my flat,
Shall practise 'Violets' and such;
And in the area a cat
Shall beat the band, the cars, and Dutch.
Around the neighbourhood shall be
About a hundred thousand kids;
And, eke in that vicinitee,
Ten pianolas without lids.
And mornings, I suppose, by gosh,
I'll be awakened prompt at seven,
By ladies hanging up the wash
Only a mile or so from heaven.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Related quotes
Ditty Wah Ditty
(arthur blake)
Theres a great big mistery
And it sure is worrying me
Its a ditty wah ditty
Mister ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
I went out and walked around
Somebody yelled, now whos in town ?
Mister ditty wah ditty
Mister ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
Some little girl bout four-feet-four
Said, come on, papa, and gimme some mo
Your ditty wah ditty
Your ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
I went to church, put my hat on the seat
A lady sat on it and said, daddy you sho is sweet
Mister ditty wah ditty
Mister ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
I said, sister, Ill soon be gone
Just give me that thing that youre sitting on
My ditty wah ditty
Mister ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
Then I got put outta the church
cause I talked about ditty wah ditty too much
Mister ditty wah ditty
Mister ditty wah ditty
I wished somebody would tell me what ditty wah ditty means
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pursued With A Doing Of Missions
So magnificent is this gift of living life.
Pursued with a doing of missions to undertake.
Some loved.
And...
Some disliked.
But many do not appreciate this gift that they get.
And others hate being tested,
To be picked as the ones to get a specific job done.
No one who grows with a faith that shows,
Stays determined to stick selfishly indifferent.
Or refuses to experience those obstacles to face.
Yet...
Many do not appreciate this gift of life they get.
No!
Many prefer to sit through all of it.
While complaining to anyone who listens,
How someone else is 'lucky'.
And all they have known is bad luck and conflicts.
'Nobody knows the troubles I've seen.
Nobody knows my...'
~Do that in a different key.
Try avoiding B-flat.
You have no idea how many times I've sung that.
And in B-flat.
Until I began to hum it.
And one day I awakened to realize,
I was shuffling along to a wrong beat.
I had to speed it up a bit.
Since that song didn't fit any of my missions.
Not a one.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Can Do That
Lennon/McCartney)
I got something to say that might cause you pain,
If I catch you talking to that boy again,
I'm gonna let you down,
And leave you flat,
Because I told you before, oh,
You can't do that.
Well, it's the second time, I've caught you talking to him,
Do I have to tell you one more time, I think it's a sin,
I think I'll let you down.
Let you down and leave you flat,
Gonna let you down and leave you flat,
Because I've told you before, oh,
You can't do that.
Ev'rybody's green,
'cause I'm the one, who won your love,
But if it's seen,
You're talking that way they'd laugh in my face.
So please listen to me, if you wanna stay mine,
I can't help my feelings, I'll go out of my mind.
I know I'll let you down,
And leave you flat,
Gonna let you down and leave you flat,
Because I've told you before, oh,
You can't do that
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Can't Do That
I got something to say that might cause you pain,
If i catch you talking to that boy again,
I'm gonna let you down,
And leave you flat,
Because i told you before, oh,
You can't do that.
Well, it's the second time, i've caught you talking to him,
Do i have to tell you one more time, i think it's a sin,
I think i'll let you down.
Let you down and leave you flat,
Gonna let you down and leave you flat,
Because i've told you before, oh,
You can't do that.
Ev'rybody's green,
'cause i'm the one, who won your love,
But if it's seen,
You're talking that way they'd laugh in my face.
So please listen to me, if you wanna stay mine,
I can't help my feelings, i'll go out of my mind.
I know i'll let you down,
And leave you flat,
Gonna let you down and leave you flat,
Because i've told you before, oh,
You can't do that.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've Seen That Look On Me (A Thousand Times)
(Harlan Howard/Shirl Milete)
It's 4 a.m. and you're just gettin' in
You're first night out
I won't ask you where you've been
You're so ashamed in you're eyes
Can't beat mine
I've seen that look on me a thousand times
What makes us do the things we do
Heaven only knows
We think we've got a secret
But it always shows
I've taught you how to cheat
You're doin' fine
I've seen taht look on me a thousand times
But I sstill love you
And so I pretend and hope I never see that look again
But if I do I know the fault is mine
I've seen that look on me a thousand times
What makes us do the things we do
Heaven only knows
We think we've got a secret
But it always shows
I've taught you how to cheat
You're doin' fine
I've seen taht look on me a thousand times
I've seen that look on me a thousand times
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Hundred Thousand Marching
One hundred thousand marching
One hundred thousand men
One hundred thousand heading
To a place and a time when
One hundred thousand dying
One hundred thousand cold
One hundred thousand praying
Forever young and never old
One hundred thousand lives were lost
One hundred thousand felt the pain
One hundred thousand maimed and slaughtered
And yet those armies march again.
poem by David Keig
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The Bushfire - an Allegory
'Twas on the famous Empire run,
Whose sun does never set,
Whose grass and water, so they say,
Have never failed them yet --
They carry many million sheep,
Through seasons dry and wet.
They call the homestead Albion House,
And then, along with that,
There's Welshman's Gully, Scotchman's Hill,
And Paddymelon Flat:
And all these places are renowned
For making jumbacks fat.
And the out-paddocks -- holy frost!
There wouldn't be no sense
For me to try and tell you half --
They really are immense;
A man might ride for days and weeks
And never strike a fence.
But still for years they never had
Been known a sheep to lose;
Old Billy Gladstone managed it,
And you can bet your shoes
He'd scores of supers under him,
And droves of jackaroos.
Old Billy had an eagle eye,
And kept his wits about --
If any chaps got trespassing
He quickly cleared 'em out;
And coves that used to "work a cross",
They hated him, no doubt.
But still he managed it in style,
Until the times got dry,
And Billy gave the supers word
To see and mind their eye --
"If any paddocks gets a-fire
I'll know the reason why."
Now on this point old Bill was sure,
Because, for many a year,
Whenever times got dry at all,
As sure as you are here,
The Paddymelon Flat got burnt
Which Bill thought rather queer.
He sent his smartest supers there
To try and keep things right.
No use! The grass was always dry --
They'd go to sleep at night,
And when they woke they'd go and find
The whole concern alight.
One morning it was very hot --
The sun rose in a haze;
Old Bill was cutting down some trees
(One of his little ways);
A black boy came hot-foot to say
The Flat was in a blaze.
Old Bill he swears a fearful oath
And lets the tommy fall --
Says he: "'ll take this business up,
And fix it once for all;
If this goes on the cursed run
Will send us to the wall."
So he withdrew his trespass suits,
He'd one with Dutchy's boss --
In prosecutions criminal
He entered nolle pros.,
But these were neither here nor there --
They always meant a loss.
And off to Paddymelon Flat
He started double quick
Drayloads of men with lots of grog
Lest heat should make them sick,
And all the strangers came around
To see him do the trick.
And there the fire was flaming bright,
For miles and miles it spread,
And many a sheep and horse and cow
Were numbered with the dead --
The super came to meet Old Bill,
And this is what he said:
"No use, to try to beat it out,
'Twill dry you up like toast,
I've done as much as man can do,
Although I never boast;
I think you'd better chuck it up,
And let the jumbucks roast."
Then Bill said just two words: "You're sacked,"
And pitches off his coat,
And wrenches down a blue gum bough
And clears his manly throat,
And into it like threshing wheat
Right sturdily he smote.
And beat the blazing grass until
His shirt was dripping wet;
And all the people watched him there
To see what luck he'd get,
"Gosh! don't he make the cinders fly,"
And, Golly, don't he sweat!"
But though they worked like Trojans all,
The fire still went ahead
So far as you could see around,
The very skies were red,
Sometimes the flames would start afresh,
Just where they thought it dead.
His men, too, quarreled 'mongst themselves
And some coves gave it best
And some said, "Light a fire in front,
And burn from east to west" --
But Bill he still kept sloggin' in,
And never took no rest.
Then through the crowd a cornstalk kid
Come ridin' to the spot
Says he to Bill, "Now take a spell,
You're lookin' very 'ot,
And if you'll only listen, why,
I'll tell you what is what.
"These coves as set your grass on fire,
There ain't no mortal doubt,
I've seen 'em ridin' here and there,
And pokin' round about;
It ain't no use your workin' here,
Until you finds them out.
"See yonder, where you beat the fire --
It's blazin' up again,
And fires are starting right and left
On Tipperary Plain,
Beating them out is useless quite,
Unless Heaven sends the rain.
Then Bill, he turns upon the boy,
"Oh, hold your tongue, you pup!"
But a cinder blew across the creek
While Bill stopped for a sup,
And fired the Albion paddocks, too --
It was a bitter cup;
Old Bill's heart was broke at last,
He had to chuck it up.
Moral
The run is England's Empire great,
The fire is the distress
That burns the stock they represent --
Prosperity you'll guess.
And the blue gum bough is the Home Rule Bill
That's making such a mess.
And Ireland green, of course I mean
By Paddymelon Flat;
All men can see the fire, of course,
Spreads on at such a bat,
But who are setting it alight,
I cannot tell you that.
But this I think all men will see,
And hold it very true --
"Don't quarrel with effects until
The cause is brought to view."
What is the cause? That cornstalk boy --
He seemed to think he knew.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I've Seen That Look On Me
It's four am and you're just getting in.
Your first night out- i won't ask where you've been.
You're so ashamed and your eyes can't meet mine.
I've seen that look on me a thousand times.
Chorus:
What makes us do the things we do heaven only knows.
We think we've got a secret, but it always shows.
I taught you how to cheat, you're doing fine.
I've seen that look on me a thousand times.
But i still love you and so i pretend
And hope i never see that look again.
But if i do i know the fault is mine.
I've seen that look on me a thousand times.
Repeat chorus:
I've seen that look on me a thousand times.
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Five-Per-Cent
Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern,
And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn.
For in some procreative way that isn't very clear,
Ten thousand pounds will breed, they say, five hundred every year.
So as I have a healthy hate of economic strife,
I mean to stand aloof from it the balance of my life.
And yet with sympathy I see the grimy son of toil,
And heartly congratulate the tiller of the soil.
I like the miner in the mine, the sailor on the sea,
Because up to five hundred pounds they sail and mine for me.
For me their toil is taxed unto that annual extent,
According to the holy shibboleth of Five-per-Cent.
So get ten thousand pounds, my friend, in any way you can.
And leave your future welfare to the noble Working Man.
He'll buy you suits of Harris tweed, an Airedale and a car;
Your golf clubs and your morning Times, your whisky and cigar.
He'll cosily install you in a cottage by a stream,
With every modern comfort, and a garden that's a dream>
Or if your tastes be urban, he'll provide you with a flat,
Secluded from the clamour of the proletariat.
With pictures, music, easy chairs, a table of good cheer,
A chap can manage nicely on five hundred pounds a year.
And though around you painful signs of industry you view,
Why should you work when you can make your money work for you?
So I'll get down upon my knees and bless the Working Man,
Who offers me a life of ease through all my mortal span;
Whose loins are lean to make me fat, who slaves to keep me free,
Who dies before his prime to let me round the century;
Whose wife and children toil in urn until their strength is spent,
That I may live in idleness upon my five-per-cent.
And if at times they curse me, why should I feel any blame?
For in my place I know that they would do the very same.
Aye, though hey hoist a flag that's red on Sunday afternoon,
Just offer them ten thousand pounds and see them change their tune.
So I'll enjoy my dividends and live my life with zest,
And bless the mighty men who first - invented Interest.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Scorcher and the Howling Swell
The Scorcher and the Howling Swell were riding through the land;
They wept like anything to see the hills on every hand;
"If these were only levelled down," they said, "it would be grand."
"If every bloke that rides a bike put in a half-a-crown,
Do you suppose," the Scorcher said, "that that would cut them down?"
"I doubt it," said the Howling Swell, and frowned a doleful frown.
"Oh, ladies, come and ride with us," the Scorcher did entreat,
"A little ride across the park and down the smoothest street,
And you will have a chance to show your very dainty feet."
The Scorcher rode up all the hills, as if the same were flat;
"It's very rude," the ladies said, "to ride as fast as that;
For all of us are out of breath - and some of us are fat."
"Cheer up, cheer up, my ladies gay," the Howling Swell replied;
"Behold a tea-shop by the way, with Globe Brand Tea inside;
And all who drink the Globe Brand Tea up any hill can ride."
And every lady in the band revived on Globe Brand Tea,
That Atcherley and Dawson sell in George Street, near the Quay,
And Howling Swells and Scorchers both proclaim its purity.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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You Dream Flat Tires
It came to pass
Like lightening striking from above
Electric flash
Just like lightening striking from above
Struck by precious love
Precious, precious love
So hopeless and so inspired
Why do you dream flat tires
When you dream flat tires?
You dream flat tires
With a jack and a spare youre there
Trying to get to where love is
Coming in on a wing and a prayer
Trying to get to where love is
cause love is precious love
You said it was precious
When first you felt my fire
Before you dreamed flat tires
You dreamed flat tires
You dream flat tires
Woman she bounce back easy
But a man could break both his legs
Are you telling me that to tease me?
Or just to hear me beg
Please dont go!
Cause I know that you love me
But, when are you going to let love be
Just a vague flirtation
Or extra special company?
cause love is precious love
Everybody knows its precious
When first they feel that fire
Before they dream flat tires
They dream flat tires
They dream flat tires
Woman she bounce back easy
But a man could break both his legs
Do you tell me that to tease me
Or just to hear me beg
Please dont be cold
I know that you love me
But, what are you going to let love do?
(flat tires, love, love is precious, flat tires,
Love, love is precious, flat tires, love,
Love is precious)
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hat Too Flat
We come in on the morning scan
All the way from far arcturus
Bringing with us peace and good will
From the margins of space and time
Our women are slung down low to the ground
Theyre very good youve probably had one
Our men are brave, studly and wise,
A pleasure to behold
Right away we walk the walk
More or less we talk the talk
But every time we make our play
Their eyes get wide they run away
cause the hat stays too flat
My hat is way too flat
My english she is much better now
But my hat remains too flat
The man smells a rat
And thats the end of that
My english it is more better now
But my hat is still too flat
Fair arcturus fashion forecast:
Skirts will be shorter
Legs stay long
Virtual raincoats are coming back
Hats as always continued flat
Back at home the machines work hard
We folk like to take it easy
Honing our awareness of
The finer things of life
Here when I go down to my job
I work hard for what seems like a long time
I look at my watch: fifteen minutes
It felt like half a day!
Soon enough we break for lunch
Me and the boys now Im one of the bunch
But no one wants to sit with me
So tell me what can the matter be?
The hat stays too flat
My hat is way too flat
My english she is much better now
But the hat is just too flat
A little thing like that
They dont get past the hat
My english it is more better now
But my hat remains too flat
song performed by by Steely Dan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Happy Flatite
We were living in a flat; it was number eighty-three.
At eighty-four the Barleys lived, a fearsome man was he.
He had a wife and numerous kids. We heard then rip and cuss,
Some three feet and a quarter off, across the hall from us.
And when the Barley boys broke out, and ended up in fight,
Or when the Barley baby read the Riot Act at night,
And on their balcony their cat put up an eerie moan,
The fearful Barley family might as well have been our own.
When Barley after parting with some others of the ilk
Came panting up the narrow stairs, and drank our jug of milk,
Then broke out at his missus, and as fiercely answered she –
Where was the great advantage of our marked sobriety?
When Barley bedded early he would shake the common floor
And fill the gulf of night with an intolerable snore,
And people in the other wing at us their bluchers threw –
What good if we slept soft as snow and silent as the dew?
This Barley when unoccupied would fill my study chair,
And utilise much time, and take up space I could not spare,
To tell me of the deeds he’d done, his drinkings deep and vast,
And ladies who had loved him in his sanguinary past.
And Mrs. Barley dropped in – in the morning, as a rule –
And stayed till lunch and chattered like a ladies’ boarding-school.
Then she borrowed bread and onions, and wondered if she might
Leave her little Willie with us. She was going out till night.
Our little flat’s forsaken; we have left St. Kilda road;
We knew not where to go to, and we haven’t an abode;
But no flat in any building that we’d suffered in was worth
The comfort of a camp-out. So we’re flat upon the earth!
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Hopeful Hawkins
Hawkins wasn't in the swim at all in Dingo Flat,
And to bait him was our chiefest form of bliss;
But, in justice, be it said that he had a business head.
(That's why I'm standing here and telling this.)
He was trav'ling for a company, insuring people's lives;
And stayed about a month in Dingo Flat;
But his biz was rather dull, and we took him for a gull,
An amazing simple-minded one at that.
He was mad, he was, on mining and around about the town
Prospected every reef. But worse than that
He'd talk for half a day, in a most annoying way,
On 'The mineral resources of the Flat.'
He swore that somewhere nigh us was a rich gold-bearing red,
If a fellow only had the luck to strike it;
And he only used to laugh when the boys began to chaff,
And seemed, in fact, to rather sort of like it.
Well, we stood him for a month until he well nigh drove us mad.
And as jeering couldn't penetrate his hide
We fixed a little scheme for to dissipate his dream,
And sicken him of mining till he died.
We got a likely-looking bit of quartz and faked it up
With dabs of golden paint; then called him in.
Oh, he went clean off his head; it was gold for sure, he said.
And if we'd sell our claim he'd raise the tin.
But we weren't taking any-not at least till later on;
For we reckoned that we'd string him on a while.
When he wanted information of the reef's exact location
We would meet him with a knowing sort of smile.
At last we dropped a hint that set him pegging out a claim,
And we saw that we were coming in for sport;
For the next account we heard was when Hawkins passed the word
He was fetching up an expert to report.
When we heard that expert's verdict we were blown clean out of time,
And absorbed the fact that we had fallen in.
The gold, he said, would run 'bout four ounces to the ton;
With traces, too, of copper, zinc and tin.
Old Hawkins he was jubilant, and up at Peter's store
A lovely lot of specimens was showing;
And we gazed at them and groaned, for the truth had to be owned:
We had put him on a pile without our knowing.
We couldn't let the thing slip through our fingers, so to speak.
There were thousands in the mine without a doubt.
So me and Baker Brothers, and half a dozen others,
We formed a syndicate to buy him out.
Well, he said he'd not the money to develop such a claim,
And he'd sell it if we made a decent bid.
So we made pretence at dealing, and it almost seemed like stealing
When he parted, for five hundred lovely quid.
We haven't seen the vendor in the Flat for nigh a week,
And we're wishing, on the whole, he'd never come.
The confounded mine's a duffer; for that simple-minded buffer
He had salted it. The 'expert' was a chum.
Hawkins wasn't reckoned much at all in Dingo Flat.
We'd a notion that his headpiece was amiss.
But we wish to have it stated, he was rather underrated.
(That's why I'm standing here and telling this.)
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Breaking The News
Johnny's drowned — here's his clo'es
Where he's got to, we dunno;
Sure enough, he never rose;
So we thought we'd let you know.
Gosh! the fright has knocked us flat —
Here's his shirt, an' here's his hat.
Never seen him since he plopp'd,
Jist a'side the big red-gum;
So, thinks we, poor Johnny's copp'd —
All so suddent! — ain't it rum?
Must be snagg'd among the roots —
Here's his pants, an' socks, an' boots.
Simplest thing you ever seen —
Only just a common swim —
Cripes! it might as ready been
Me or Bill in place o' him!
Try to snake him out, I s'pose?
Anyway, we fetch'd his clo'es.
poem by Joseph Furphy
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When Dawn Comes to the City
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The moaning, groaning cars,
And the old milk carts go rumbling by
Under the same dull stars.
Out of the tenements, cold as stone,
Dark figures start for work;
I watch them sadly shuffle on,
'Tis dawn, dawn in New York.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing,
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There would I be at dawn.
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The crazy, lazy cars,
And the same milk carts go rumbling by
Under the dying stars.
A lonely newsboy hurries by,
Humming a recent ditty;
Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky,
The dawn comes to the city.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling,
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There I would be at dawn.
poem by Claude McKay
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Oh Manatee
manatee that soothes my
soul
my free thought and speech
is swimming in my
heart and left
hand
i love the stick
of sound i play you every
summer for a sum
fourteen hundred
flowers in a field that
my sister spirit danced
in. Death con-
sumes
ME.
Me all the time. I I I
I.
I love. I hate I
BREATHE.
BREATHE MY
heavy, heavy, heavy LIGHT
flatulation.
Flat, flat is my soul.
Flat is her chest.
7. is my four.
i love my flours. Flours make.
cookies.
I love manatee.
Sex my macadamia man-nuts.
poem by Madam Poontang
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A Hundred Times Over
A hundred times over words have flowed through my fingers to the keys
A hundred times over I have released the freedom that is in my mind,
A hundred times over I have become one with my inter most longing,
A hundred times over I have taken a journey to show you my own world.
A hundred times over I have written of pain and life, of sorrow and joy,
A hundred times over I have used my art to show you what's in my mind
A hundred times over again I will show you.
A hundred times over I have cried for those, whose names are untold,
A hundred times over I have showed you their pain.
A hundred times over I have become their connection to you,
A hundred times over I have showed you the beauty of our world,
A hundred times over I have taken you somewhere you may never see,
A hundred times over my words have screamed the horror of darkness,
A hundred times over I have sung to you the beauty of light,
A hundred times over I have taken your hand to lead you to a new place
A hundred time over I have written for those who have no words to write
A hundred times over I have tried to show truth in a world of lies,
A hundred times over I have have tried to show the world's beauty,
A hundred times over again I will lead down these paths,
A hundred times over and over again I will show you reality,
A hundred times over and over again I shall show you my world,
A hundred times over and over again until you have memorised truth,
A hundred times over again until you can repeat what I have told,
A hundred times over again shall I create an art of words, time, of life.
A hundred times over again I shall do this,
A hundred times over again.
A hundred times over.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unfair luck
Dog and I have not much difference,
Both of us stand waiting,
Not for showers of rain,
Or blessings from heaven,
But for a piece of Dosa,
That the small road-side vendor would throw,
The anticipation was would victory be mine or dog’s,
If it be dog’s, he would put it on the road and eat,
If mine I would give to my kid there on the platform.
Everyday this is my routine,
My tough war with the brown dog,
I have no strength to shoo him away,
And grab the bounty thrown by the vendor,
I leave my kid on the platform waiting with hunger,
If a Dosa change shape or become burnt,
Me or the dog is in luck,
We wait eagerly looking at the vendor’s hand,
There are days when the vendor never has a mishap,
When both me and the dog curse our luck.
Today might not be so,
Praying all the God’s that I know,
I was sitting along with the dog,
Looking carefully at the vendor’s hands,
For a long time there was no luck,
Suddenly hearing the screech of the pan,
I was assured a burnt dosa,
With all concentration I looked at the vendor,
The throw was perfect and so was the catch,
The dog caught the Dosa, while death caught me.
To get that one mouth of burnt Dosa for my kid,
I fell before a bus with the Dosa in my hand,
Just to see the dog grab it away from me,
As the unfair luck smiled at me,
Letting me die and my kid hungry and motherless…
poem by Leena Bose
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fire Bugs
Look 'ere. I'll bet a 'arf-a-crown
To anythink you like to name (said Bushy Bill),
If country fellers went to town,
An' burnt a few big buildin's down,
An' quids an' quids went up in flame (said Bushy Bill),
Do you suppose, by any chance,
You'd put it down to ignorance.
An' let 'em go their dilly way
To do the trick some other day? (Said Bushy Bill).
No fear. You'd take that crim'nal lot
An' likely lynch 'em on the spot.
Fine sense of property you got (said Bushy Bill).
Yet city coves come up this way,
Shootin' or goin' campin' out (said Bushy Bill).
But are they careful blokes? Not they.
An' when their camp fire gets away
They wonder what it's all about (said Bushy Bill).
They sling their matches round the place,
An' carry on a fair disgrace
Wise coots they are, all in the know,
Who reckons country coves is slow (said Bushy Bill).
But when two hundred thousand quid
Goes up, they dunno wot they did.
They can't think 'ow that green scrub caught
They never knoo. They never thought.
Look 'ere. IT'S TIME YOUS BLOKES WAS TAUGHT (said Bushy Bill).
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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