GS [or the Fourth Cook]
He has notions of Australia from the tales that he’s been told—
Land of leggings and revolvers, land of savages and gold;
So he begs old shirts, and someone patches up his worn-out duds.
He is shipped as ‘general servant,’ scrubbing pots and peeling spuds
(In the steamer’s grimy alley, hating man and peeling spuds).
There is little time to comfort, there is little time to cry—
He will come back with a fortune—‘We’ll be happy by-and-by!’
Scarcely time to kiss his sweetheart, barely time to change his duds,
Ere they want him at the galley, and they set him peeling spuds
(With a butcher’s knife, a bucket, and, say, half a ton of spuds).
And he peels ’em hard to Plymouth, peels ’em fast to drown his grief,
Peels ’em while his stomach sickens on the road to Teneriffe;
Peels ’em while the donkey rattles, peels ’em while the engine thuds,
By the time they touch at Cape Town he’s a don at peeling spuds
(And he finds some time for dreaming as he gets on with the spuds).
In the steamer’s slushy alley, where the souls of men are dead,
And the adjectives are crimson if the substances are red,
He’s perhaps a college black-sheep, and, maybe, of ancient blood—
Ah! his devil grips him sometimes as he reaches for a spud
(And he jerks his head and sadly gouges dry-rot from a spud).
And his brave heart hopes and sickens as the weary days go round;
There is lots o’ time for blue-lights ere they reach King George’s Sound.
But he gets his best suit ready—two white shirts and three bone studs!
He will face the new world bravely when he’s finished with the spuds
(And next week, perhaps, he’ll gladly take a job at peeling spuds).
There were heroes in Australia went exploring long ago;
There are heroes in Australia that the world shall never know;
And the men we use for heroes in the land of droughts and floods
Often win their way to Sydney scrubbing pots and peeling spuds
(Plucky beggars! brave, poor devils! gouging dry-rot from their spuds).
poem by Henry Lawson
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Related quotes
Window Into The Past
A Window into the Past.
Visiting time over, mother was ill in hospital she had been so tired lately.
Nearby a small stream, an empty box of matches was my raft, rudderless
it rushed down rapids and disappeared under ground, under the town
and I wondered if it reached the docks. I had bought mother a chocolate,
in the same shop that sold oranges and but they were too expensive,
but ate most of the chocolate while listening to her instructions, to peel
spuds, buy milk and yesterday loaf (half the price) , open a tin of sardines.
But first I had to go down to the docks see what ships were in and also try
to find my raft. When I came home mother stood smoking in the kitchen,
she had peeled the spuds. They had let her out only so she could pack her
suitcase; she had to go up the mountains, where the air was pure, and be
cured… and I knew why I hadn’t found my raft.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Polish Flowers
A box with paints from childhood's time:
The colors of town are earth and grime.
An old worker at a dark doorway squats,
The spuds in his bowl are powdery dry.
It's a face of yellowish and gray spots
In the midst of hunger, cold, dirt and slime.
poem by Julian Tuwim
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A smokey cabin, a handful of spuds and a flea-filled bed.
Through Being Cool
Were through being cool
Eliminate the ninnies and the twits
Going to bang some heads
Going to beat some butts
Time to show those evil spuds whats what
If you live in a small town
You might meet a dozen or two
Young alien types who step out
And dare to declare
Spank the pank who try to drive you nuts
Time to clean some house
Be a man or a mouse
Waste those who make it tuff to get around
If you live in a big place
Many factions underground
Chase down mister hinky dink
So no trace can be found
Put the tape on erase
Rearrange a face
We always liked picasso anyway
Mash em
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Help
The Passionate Householder to his Love
Come, live with us and be our cook,
And we will all the whimsies brook
That German, Irish, Swede, and Slav
And all the dear domestics have.
And you shall sit upon the stoop
What time we go and cook the soup,
And you shall hear, both night and day,
Melodious pianolas play.
And we will make the beds, of course,
You'll have two autos and a horse,
A lady to Marcel your tresses,
And all the madame's half-worn dresses.
Your gowns shall be of lace and silk,
Your laving shall be done in milk.
Two trained physicians when you cough,
And Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays off.
When you are mashing Irish spuds
You'll wear the very finest duds.
If good to you these prospects look,
Come, live with us and be our cook.
On callers we have put no stops,
We love the iceman and the cops,
And no alarm clock with its ticks
And bell to ring at half-past six.
O Gretchen, Bridget, Hulda, Mary,
Come, be our genius culinary.
If good to you these prospects look,
Come, live with us and be our cook.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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A Primer of the Daily Round
A peels an apple, while B kneels to God,
C telephones to D, who has a hand
On E’s knee, F coughs, G turns up the sod
For H’s grave, I do not understand
But J is bringing one clay pigeon down
While K brings down a nightstick on L’s head,
And M takes mustard, N drives to town,
O goes to bed with P, and Q drops dead,
R lies to S, but happens to be heard
By T, who tells U not to fire V
For having to give W the word
That X is now deceiving Y with Z,
Who happens, just now to remember A
Peeling an apple somewhere far away.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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Into Overtime
I do not want an expensive watch. My time
Is far too precious to me to be tracked and
Hacked to slivers on the face of such a
Thing, and I'm not much for trappings of
A life I don't, and wouldn't, lead. You've
Seen me, love. You call me shabby. Once,
You said, 'bohemian, ' but now, it seems,
You chafe at being tethered to a dowdy
Clod, who rushes home from work each
Day to pour a drink and agonize for words
To put on his computer. You, in clothes
And make-up close to dearer than all
That I own, insist I dress, so we can eat,
But I have spuds and sausage in the
Kitchen. What more would I need?
You fume. I see it in your face, and in
Your tapping, polished nails, and, though
I neither have a watch nor want one, I've
Become aware the hours are growing short
For you and me.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Watching Mother
Your mother is peeling apples
for the apple pie
and you stand watching her
and say can I have some peelings?
Sure she says
it’s probably the best part anyway
and you notice she has tears in her eyes
and wonder if the old man
has had a go at her again
like that time over the camera
and her saying jokingly
you look like some tourist
in upstate New York
and he thumped her one
and her lip bled
and you stood watching
keeping your mouth shut
but wanting to go at him
but you being too small
stood still
and as she peels the apples
you watch her hands
go over the apples
with a skill of years of experience
and you watch as the tears
run down the side of her nose
and fall like raindrops
on to her busy hands
and you focus like some artist
at the way that they land.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Scent Of Oranges
when you peel
the orange
i smell the thrill of
citrus
it is the same peeling
that night
when you feel like
peeling the foreskin of
my penis.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rainbow Snow
Rainbow snow
Once I saw rainbow snow falling like a carpet woven by angels
with time on their lily pale hands. A white winter hare sat on
its haunches taking in this strange sight. There are men with
shotguns lurking in the woods, farmers who wait for spring to
plough dark soil and plant spuds.
The hare made a jump of death, now a stew and the braves spit
pellets on a plate. Snow ate the rainbow and I saw heavy boots,
the hare looked small. In the forest a big tree soundless fell and
a squirrel lost its winter larder. Red fur on saintly snowfall;
do they eat squirrels in Norway?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Field Of Mortality
The Field of Mortality
On a field, not far from here, I see millions of lit candles in long rows,
but only at night; in daylight it is a potato patch. A man, you may call
him god if you like, walks among the candles every so often he stops
and with his thumb and index finger snuffs out light; the skin on his
fingers are corned from this arduous work. Behind him new candles
spring up, sometimes he turns and go back waste some of them too.
He is heading for the part where the candles have been burned out,
only the wick flickers. He uses he thumb to bump them off; a spiral of
grey smoke in still air. He is old as time, sometimes he misses candles
that keep on burning, although they have no wick. As dawn begins,
behind the easterly mountain, the field of mortality turns into a potato
patch again, where an old man is harvesting spuds.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Drought And Potatoes
The rhythmic rise and fall of swinging hoe,
Red rising dust that coats his arms and legs
And all for spuds that without rain won't grow;
Each plant with wilted leaves to heaven begs
Here on this barren hilltop where the gaze
In all directions shows the blasted earth,
And from the sky, the scorching searing blaze
Of sun that robs the land of all its worth.
Like tombstones stand the forest giants now dead,
All strangled by the pioneer's ringing axe;
They cast no shade upon the digger's head
As from the dust, the stunted crop he sacks.
A fence is strung from one dead tree to next,
‘Tis all that says this patch of earth unique;
Around it lie the bones of death perplexed;
The logs and limbs - the past that cannot speak.
He stops to rest, his back to dead wood pressed;
A cooling drink, a humble meal of bread,
Then back he goes to carry on his quest.
At each day's end the path to home he'll tread
As on his weary shoulder go the spoils,
Hard wrung from tortured soil that cries for rain,
As day on day for scant reward he toils.
A farmer bred - so used to meager gain.
Queensland 1968
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Bride Of Brent
Unlike Lucia from far Lammermoor,
fair Linda, hailing from chill Chamounix,
excels when she’s preparing salmon or
deep-frying spuds and spinach that aren’t gammony.
She tried to keep the frog which wooing went
outside the net she guarded as a goalie
till she became the Bride of River Brent
and played the role of Princess Rowley-Powley.
The frog, he always used to say “Heigh-ho! ”
because he knew that he could never find a
more lovely princess once she’d kissed him so
he was more charmed than Chamounix by Linda.
6/5/06
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Beautiful Land Of Australia
All you on emigration bent,
With home and England discontent,
Come, listen to my sad lament,
All about the bush of Australia.
I once possessed a thousand pounds.
Thinks I—how very grand it sounds
For a man to be farming his own grounds
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Upon the voyage the ship was lost.
In wretched plight I reached the coast,
And was very nigh being made a roast,
By the savages of Australia.
And in the bush I lighted on
A fierce bushranger with his gun,
Who borrowed my garments, every one,
For himself in the bush of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Sydney town I reached at last,
And now, thinks I, all danger's past,
And I shall make my fortune fast
In this promising land of Australia.
I quickly went with cash in hand,
Upon the map I chose my land.
When I got there 'twas barren sand
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of sheep I got a famous lot.
Some died of hunger, some of rot,
For the devil a dropp of rain they got,
In this flourishing land of Australia.
My convict men were always drunk,
They kept me in a constant funk.
Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk,
How I wish I was out of Australia!
Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of ills, enough I've had you'll own.
And then at last, my woes to crown,
One night my log house was blown down
That settled us all in Australia
And now of home and all bereft,
The horrid spot I quickly left,
Making it over by deed of gift
To the savages of Australia.
Booligal, Gobarralong,
Emu Flat and Jugiong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia
I gladly worked my passage home,
And now to England back I've come,
Determined never more to roam,
At least, to the bush of Australia.
And stones upon the road I'll break,
And earn my seven bob a week,
Which is surely better than the freak
Of settling down in Australia.
Currabubula, Bogolong,
Ulladulla, Gerringong.
If you wouldn't become an ourang-outang,
Don't go to the bush of Australia.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Wallaces Warrior
Early mornings crisp cool sun illuminates the enemies Armour
His stallions breaths jars the air with snorts of deep anticipation
Thoughts race between victory, defeat, life and finality of death
Survive,
Thrive
The moment is nigh
Heart beat strong
Mind race fast
Remember everything
Forget nothing
Flags pushed by a forceful wind whip his nerves of excitement
Silence
The warrior scream
The surge is as waves eroding the shore of bounteous green
Thunderous thighs pound beneath quivering forelocks
Cool air exhaled rushes past and is left
Past tense
Breath
Eyes to the left
Raging eyes pierce from pale blue paint as scarlet screams
The thunder rolls, swords glisten as enticing Sirens
Contact, a force filled clash of wills and minds plus strength
Clashing swords, ideas beliefs blood plus guts and gore
Dust is kicked and raises past falling victims
Thuds as spuds in sacks
(Land)
Is what it all is for
Face down awkward or upon the broken backs
No time to realise that one who falls is he
Who thought and fought with all his will for all his life
And now just leave him be...
poem by Karen Sinclair
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Devo Has Feelings Too
Young hunks
Cyberpunks
And sweet things
Trying hard to change your luck
Baby thugs
Bad spuds
And mean things
Living for today or maybe even yesterday
Look around
Shakey ground
Do the right thing
In this world youre just a guest
Do it now
Times run out for the pig thing
Living for today stealing from tomorrow
Law and order puppets remote-controlled by greed
And tv preacher robots wont give you what you need
Use your head
Sidestep the traps
Snake through the chaos with a smooth noodle map
Besides the kings been dead
They blew off his head in 63
Big bucks
Energy sucks
And dumb things
Make it hard to live and breathe
Add it up
No matter what
Theres one thing
Living for today theres maybe no tomorrow
Subhuman bloodless leaders fed on lies and fear
And tv anchor news teams trim all we see and hear
Use your head
Sidestep the traps
Snake through the chaos with a smooth noodle map
Besides God isnt dead
Hes in your head
Right where he ought to be
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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5. Bonfire Night
I remember in early November
We went looking for things that would burn
I remember the woods fallen branches
Got dragged home by each taking a turn
I remember the local greengrocer
Gave us crates that were all full of splinter
I remember my fingers being frozen
Well we were in the middle of winter
I remember our neighbours had paper
Old boots, coats and the odd plank of wood
I remember the midst of our garden
Piled up high and as safe as we could
I remember each yard had a bonfire
On the night of the fifth they were lit
I remember ours always seemed higher
Went right up to where our guy would sit
I remember the strong treacle toffee
Baking spuds in the embers and ashes
I remember most all of us cheering
As fireworks lit sky with their flashes
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Country Pubs
We know those little country pubs,
By cross-road and by creek,
Where faithfully the landlord scrubs
His counter once a week,
And stands before his shining bar
To cater for man's thirst
With all the best; but where the meals are
He caters with the worst.
'Wottle you 'ave?' There's beer or brandy,
Rum or half-and-half or shandy.
Wine or whisky. Bottles wink
'Wottle you 'ave, boys? Name your drink' ...
But in the grimy dining room
A slattern lass of grease and gloom
Intones in accents charged with grief:
'Wottle you 'ave? There's corn-beef.'
In the bar the talk grows gay,
The landlord beams, for trade agog,
And yokels wile dull hours away
Idly yarning o'er their grog ...
But in that cave of gastric woes
Grimly the hungry traveller eats,
To end by turning up his nose
And hoping to fill up on sweets.
'Wottle you 'ave?' - The cups are cloudy.
Linen soiled. The waitress dowdy,
Comes like an avenging fate
Snatching at the greasy plate
Soggy cabbage; soapy 'spuds'
Droning flies and smell of suds.
Now she whines, like some lost soul:
'Wottle you 'ave? There's jam-roll.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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My Dad (The Gardener)
My Dad has got green fingers,
He's always been that way;
He grew veg' in his younger days,
He grows them now he's grey.
Tomatoes are his forte,
No finer can be found;
He eats them by the dozen,
And sells them by the pound.
He grows a vast amount, and now
Two greenhouses he owns;
Tomato juice is in his blood,
And marrow in his bones.
His spuds are so delicious,
Their praises I must sing;
So fresh and full of flavour,
And fit for any king.
His lettuce too, are lovely,
They're crispy and dark green;
Much better than the shop ones,
The best I've ever seen.
There's not much that can beat him,
He's skillful in his craft;
He isn't Percy Thrower
But he isn't flippin' daft.
The only thing I've ever known
My Dad to fail to grow,
Is melons, for my sisters,
Just a tiny one did show;
The whole procedure was for him
A problem just too great;
So now they're off the menu,
And for melon they must wait.
But still, it's just one failure,
And not like all the rest;
My Dad is still the greatest,
My Dad is still the best.
My Dad has got green fingers,
And this will always be;
Now mine are going green as well,
And that will do for me.
(Written Oct 1994)
poem by John Carter Brown
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The Way Of All Flesh
The live fish twitched
shrugged its tail
and seemed to pale.
Just before it lost its head
the fish observed me
with a cold careless eye.
“Do your worse! ” it said
as if it were a British spy
being tortured by a cruel Gestapo.
Brutally decapitated
with a sudden twak
It became just a body
it’s head feasted upon by feral cats who had patiently
waited just for that.
It was now even more deader
if that could possibly be
made more dead by my Auntie’s laughter.
“What’s the matter boy...
did ya think that fish grew on your plate
and that spuds and peas grew on trees? ”
She was pleased with her wit
and laughed uproariously at it.
Her laughter was so alive.
I watched my Auntie’s hand
execute the movements necessary
for a real live fish to become a fish dish.
I felt sick.
Prising the skeleton out
“He won’t be needing these! ”
her laughter wheezed
with the point of the knife
the tip of her tongue
sticking out
in utter concentration
as she made her point.
I gaze fascinated
(all the time whispering to myself
“I hate it! I hate it! ”)
as she sliced through
the fish’s flesh
& flicked its guts
with a deft fleck of her wrist
towards my open mouthed horror:
”Aghh...ugh...aghh! ”
I screamed
as if I were a
Hammer Horror
movie.
She laughed like an old time
comedy.
Sick to death
I wanted nothing more to do
with it.
I felt gutted
& all alone
amazed that the day
was still so bright
amazed that the sun
still shone.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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