He Feels The Time Is Ripe
Where many do live for local renown
The ageing fringe dweller in the old country town
Has never played football with the local club
And always drinks on his own when he is in the pub.
Since he does not talk about the local club's latest loss or win
He remains an outsider and does not fit in
Though he has lived here for ten years as an outsider he remain
The status of a local he has yet to attain.
He feels a decade of his life enough to have spent here
He will move to the bigger town early next year
This not a town for one such as he an artist and a talented man
More suited to a footballer or a football fan.
In the old country town he does not have a friend
And his stay in the place is coming to an end
In his early to mid fifties his best days long gone
And he feels the time is ripe for him to move on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Little Country Town
The creek down to a trickle and the paddocks looking brown
And not much ever seems to happen in the Little Country Town
lived in by the descendants of the early settlers who settled here a century ago
Of the bigger World out there few of them wish to know.
At night the recent happenings discussed in the local pub
News of the local cricketers or the local football club
Where the personal lives of those they know to them never taboo
What is happenning in the town of late who is having sex with who?
The visual or the literary arts never discussed at all
It has to be a local scandal that or bowls cricket or football
In little country towns one might say that creative types are rare
They are looked on with suspicion the culturally aware.
The creek down to a trickle and bone dry every drain
And in the local church on sunday the Reverend prays for rain
In the Main Street all is so quiet and few cars pass up and down
And life goes on as usual in the Little Country Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Just An Ordinary Fellow
His life revolves around work his mates and football
But his wife and children he seldom does talk of at all
Each evening after work he calls to the pub
Or else to the bar-room of the Football Club.
In his early to mid thirties he is well liked in the town
To have kicked five goals in the local Grand Final is his one claim to renown
And though his team did not win the flag he earned his local fame
With a best on ground display on a beaten side he made for himself a name.
His wife takes care of the children a boy of four and a girl of three
She is not well known in the town few as down to earth as she
So different from her husband she's never seen at the pub
And she is not a member of any local club.
He is a well liked character and in the town well known
And the local people say of him he is one of our own
Not a bad husband and father though better than him not hard to find
Just an ordinary fellow in his own way he is kind.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Town Poets
They have the ticket draw for the football club
But never a poets hour at the local pub
'Twould seem that cricket and football are the in thing
And horse racing at the back end of the Spring
But of course the Town poets have their own poetry night
On saturday evenings at the bowling club rooms their poems they recite
The local lovers of poetry their night out enjoy
To watch local favourite poets such as Rina, Kate and Roy
Reciting their poetry and strutting their stuff
It cannot be said of them not quite good enough
Quite talented poets the tops of the Town
Young poets in their thirties who dream of renown
And recite their poems in the rooms of the bowling club
Whilst it's a different scene at the Town's biggest pub.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Local Outsider
To the local community he is not one of their own
And apart from them in every way he has grown
He does not share their interests of work, sports, small talk, drinking and football
In fact with them in common he has nothing at all.
He works in the big town some twenty miles away
But he returns to his home in the small town every day
Single in his mid twenties in the peak of his prime
And he does feel happy at least most of the time.
A spiritual person and an artist at heart
In community meetings and projects he never takes part
He draws and sketches at night and his art readily sell
And as a hobby artist he is doing well.
He was born in the small town but it does seem sad to say
That as a local outsider he is destined to stay
Even with those he grew up with little in common he share
He is an endangered species and his type are rare.
He is not a student of sports or football
And who won last year's Grand Final he does not recall
And though his praises none of the other locals do sing
He is his own man and he does his own thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Locals Are The Premiers
Above the Local oval for twelve months will fly the Premiership flag
The Locals are the Premiers they can afford to brag
Down at the Footy Club they are celebrating and singing the Club song
The fans are in a party mood they will sing all night long.
The Locals are the Premiers the champion team this year
Their fans are celebrating they will drink heaps of beer
Since the final siren was blown today the fans have sung long and loud
The Local team have won the day and have done themselves proud.
Lets hear it for the Premiers a mighty hip hooray
The local football fans are cheering in this their greatest day
For the winners joy and the losers heartache that's life as some would say
Life has it's good and bad times and it has always been this way.
The local football team are Premiers and their fans celebrate
Two decades since the last flag was won but it was a worth the wait
The town pubs are in a festive mood they will party on all night
And down at the Football Club Rooms the fans whoop in delight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Big J
Tis true about hate that it can be love turned upside down
And Big J a classic example the most bitter man in Town
Since Pam his wife she left him and with her took their five year old daughter Sue
One might say a long holiday the man is overdue.
He feels the World is against him he is always in a bad mood
And about his imaginary wrongs against him he silently does brood
When he is in the bar-room he always drinks on his own
He now ignores his old mates as if them he'd never known.
Tis said that Pam she left him because her he used to beat
And a kinder and more loving man she happened for to meet
But he feels so hard done by to none he says good day
He would rather brood in silence that now his chosen way.
Big J he looks so serious from society he has withdrawn
His life is from work to the pub and he rise for work at dawn
He has resigned from football and from the Football Club
And nowadays he drinks on his own down at the local pub.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ghost Town
This town is becoming like a ghost town;
Many of our local shops are closing down.
Once upon a time, this town was really hopping,
But now people go elsewhere for their shopping.
The life from our town has been sucked out,
And nowadays there is hardly anyone about.
Local people go to other towns and cities:
That it has ended up this way, is a real pity.
The town's population is rapidly growing,
But trade in our shops is rapidly slowing.
Many units stand empty for years and years:
Owners found the rents were just way too dear.
We need some life breathed back into town;
We need to turn this situation back around.
Of help for new businesses, we need much more,
So that our town can be the place it was before.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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He Was A Big Hero
He has just turned fifty his fastest pace slow
He is not the man he was twenty years ago
When they used to toast him at the local pub
And he was the hero of the football club
But time it did not wait for him time it ticked on
And he can only talk now of his better days gone
When he was his football club's number 1 player
And he could run as fast as a wildborn hare
And though he has such good memories of the past
The Seasons came and went and time went so fast
Whilst yet not an old man his hair is quite gray
And clearly he has known a far better day
Two decades ago when his hair was dark brown
He was a big hero the toast of the town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In Sports As In Life
The town decorated in the colours of the local football club for the weekend's big game
Suppose in sports as in life it is all about winning and fame
The local footballers are playing for renown
For the fans and love of self glory and love of the Hometown
And for love of the club colours they proudly do wear
The very thought of losing even seems hard to bear
To the uninterested 'tis just another game of football
But in sports as in life the winners seem to take all
Of the admiration and fame and of singing their praises their fans never tire
And even gallant losers so few seem to admire
To be graceful in defeat to little does amount
In sports as in life only winners seem to count
At the weekend they play for the trophy and their self glory and sporting renown
And for their sporting succes hungry fans and for love of their Hometown.
poem by Francis Duggan
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This Is The Football Season
This is the football Season it is that time of year
When men in the pub talk football as they enjoy their beer
And look forward to September when one club will fly the winner's flag
The team that wins the Premiership gives their fans the right to brag.
Their wives nicknamed the footy widows their husbands at the football club
Or after work talking football with their mates down at the local pub
They take football so seriously 'tis their passion in life
The footy fan loves his football club as much as his children or his wife.
And if their team lose at the weekend they feel and look so sad
What's known as football addiction they seem to have it bad
They feel sad for their football team and the chance of four premiership points gone
But they cheer up and look forward to next weekend's game as the working week wears on.
This is the football Season football has gone to their head
And their football scarves and beanies they even wear to bed
About their team they feel so passionate as if to them it did belong
And 'tis with delight and pride in victory that they sing the club song.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Woman Of Rhyme
She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.
But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.
Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.
Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.
For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tim Kennelly
A mighty Gaelic Footballer he inspired the bards to rhyme
He played centre half back for Kerry when he was in his prime
A stalwart of the Listowel Emmetts a famous Gaelic Football Club
And in the Town of listowel he owned a well known pub.
His name was Tim Kennelly one of the Kingdom's best
And he was not found wanting when he was put to the test
But he did not live to be an old man to grow stooped and old and gray
In his very early fifties the great man passed away.
With the greats of Gaelic Football he is surely one to rate
The Listowel Emmetts Clubman was a Kerry G A A great
For Listowel Emmetts and for Kerry he played many a marvellous game
And his name destined to live on in Gaelic Football's Hall Of Fame.
His son Tadgh is a star of Aussie Rules Football for the Sydney Swans Today
And though the mighty Tim Kennelly in eternal rest now lay
He will always be remembered as a Gaelic Footballer supreme
Who won five All Irelands with a famous Kerry team.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Will Always Be A Stranger In This Town
Here I'll never even know local renown
I will always be a stranger in this Town
Some of the locals body language tell me what their tongues don't say
He is not one of us he is from far away.
I'm a stranger here I was born and raised elsewhere
And with most locals little in common I do share
I'm very much an outsider 'twould seem
And I don't even barrack for their football team.
From them I do not try to woo their wives
And my presence amongst them does not effect their lives
Yet for some strange reason unbeknown to me
A threat of sorts some of them in me see.
We live in an age that's corrupted by fear
And you need not scratch too hard for to find racism here
Parochial sorts in their own small ways can be rude
All outsiders from their own groups they exclude.
Even if I could their wives from them I would not try to lure away
Yet here I do not make a new friend every day
To many here mine's not a welcome face
I will always be a stranger in this place.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Local Hero
I was driving through my hometown
I was just kinda killin time
When I seen a face staring out of a black velvet painting
From the window of the five and dime
I couldnt quite recall the name
But the pose looked familiar to me
So I asked the salesgirl who was that man
Between the doberman and bruce lee?
She said just a local hero
Local hero she said with a smile
Yeah a local hero he used to live here for a while
I met a stranger dressed in black
At the train station
He said son your soul can be saved
Theres a beautiful women nights of low livin
And some dangerous money to be made
Theres a big town cross the whiskey line
And if we turn the right card up
They make us boss the devil pays off
And them folks that are real hard up
They get their local hero
Somebody with the right style
They get their local hero
Somebody with just the right smile
Well I learned my job I learned it well
Fit myself with religion and a story to tell
First they made me the king then they made me pope
Then they brought the rope
I woke to a gypsy girl sayin drink this
Well my hands had lost all sensation
These days Im feeling all right
cept I cant tell my courage from my desperation
From the tainted chalice
Well I drunk some heady wine
Tonight Im layin here
But theres something in my ear
Sayin theres a little town just beneath the floodline
Needs a local hero
Somebody with the right style
Lookin for a local hero
Someone with the right smile
Local hero local hero she said with a smile
Local hero he used to live here for a while
Lisa lowell, backing vocals
Patti scialfa, backing vocals
Soozie tyrell, backing vocals
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Boys On their Bicycles
Along the quiet back streets pedalling up and down
Three boys on their bicycles in the old country town
The prime years of their lives a decade ahead
The future belong to the youth as has often been said
The magpie on a street tree is fluting his song
As three boys on their bicycles pedal along
Chatting of football stars and the fortunes of their favourite football team
To be great football players they do often daydream
With their football boots slung across the handlebars to the football oval bound
'Tis every young players dream for to be best on ground
At the famed M C G on Grand Final Day
Though that for them over a decade away
Full of young ambition and dreams of renown
They pedal along the back streets of the town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sameness They Only Embrace
The wealthiest person in the place far from financial renown
And the poorest one is very poor in the poor Country Town
Where everyone knows everyone your business not your own
And even family secrets by everyone else known.
This not a Town for migrants not many migrants live here
The locals do not embrace difference that's how it does appear
But of course there are exceptions though their type in the minority
Who speak out for the fair go in a place of cultural poverty.
Not a place of great commerce and few evolved thinkers live here
In the pubs they talk of work and football between spells of guzzling beer
They feel happy in their sameness it is difference they do fear
Though quite knowledgeable in football and their football heroes they revere.
A small rural Town in the country a few hours drive from anywhere
A place of a small population where many things in common they do share
The people with a fondness for sameness and sameness they only embrace
And if to them you have different interests amongst them you feel out of place.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Not Your Type Of Town
It will never be known as a cultural town
Where footballers and macho men vie for renown
In the pub one once spoke of Rembrandt someone asked who is he
If he does play football his name is strange to me.
If you cannot talk of work, farming, politics or sports and join your pub mates in a beer
This not your sort of town what business have you here
Though if you like line dancing and Country music that might be your saving grace
For these are the most cultural things that are known to the place.
If you talk of Beethoven or Handel they might ask who are they
For they must not be famous never heard of them anyway
Those we most admire play cricket or football
These are the people that we wish to recall.
If you are literary minded or a poet at heart
Or if you are one who is interested in art
Then this is a town you ought not to live in
For here you may not meet with similar kin.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Young David The Under Fourteen
With the local football club he plays under fourteen
In their football colours the black, brown and green
He dreams in the A F L he will star one day
Against Australia's finest he will be picked to play.
Everytime I see young David he's with the egg shaped ball
Playing by himself or with other boys in the park for his age he is tall
His dream is to play as number one ruckman for his favourite team Geelong
Enjoying a great victory as he sings the Club song.
Most boys of his age have a wish or a dream
To win a gold medal or play with a top football team
But not all dreams do come true everyone can't know fame
Still it is nice to dream of great things just the same.
He is the top ruckboy in his football team
And as a player of promise he knows local esteem
But few good juvenile players into great players grow
And young David he still has a long way to go.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ghost Town
This town is coming like a ghost town
All the clubs have been closed down
This place is coming like a ghost town
Bands wont play no more
Too much fighting on the dance floor
Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?
We danced and sang as the music played in any boomtown
This town is coming like a ghost town
Why must the youth fight against themselves?
Government leaving the youth on the shelf
This place is coming like a ghost town
No job to be found in this country
Cant go on no more
The people getting angry
song performed by by Prodigy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dave
Tired of his long uphill battle in life
And tired of being nagged by his cranky old wife
Dave feels like a bird rejected by his flock
And the chip on his shoulder has grown to a block.
Tired of the fellows he meet at the pub
Waffling on about their football club
The praises of their sporting heroes so many do sing
Sports or sports people for him doesn't do anything.
His wife Lyn and he in ideas far apart
All the love he had for her gone out of his heart
Together under the one roof they may be growing old
But now towards each other they seem very cold.
Their only child a son Sam in his mid twenties lives and works in Japan
One who is successful a clever young man
He feels happy in his life on a distant shore
And they have not seen him for three years or more.
On his own at the Local pub he sits and drinks his beer
Grown men talking of football he does not wish to hear
And when he goes home he must cook his own tea
Since he and his Mrs Lyn do not agree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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