In The Only Pub In Penshurst
In the only pub in Penshurst saturday is the big night
Some of the locals there for a meal and drinks of their worries make light
And some even have their children there in a child friendly place
And everyone seems happy a smile on every face.
In the only pub in Penshurst I was made feel welcome there
It did not seem to bother them that I was from elsewhere
To me they were so welcoming as if I were a long lost friend
And I felt like a Local there before the night did end.
In the only pub in Penshurst they sell the best of beer
And talk of cricket and football one is obliged to hear
The Aussies playing cricket in England and football finals time drawing near
And Spring around the corner it is that time of year.
In the only pub in Penhurst though there I was not known
The locals made me feel welcome as if I were one of their own
I had gained at least twenty new friends by last drinks at closing time
And to these lovely people I dedicate this rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Young Aussie
In the company of women he is not coy or shy
A real macho type is the young Aussie guy
And some young women like him though some young women say
A bit of a boofhead who pushes his way.
He likes to talk cricket with his mates drinking beer
But of God and of religion he does not wish to hear
He does not have a God for to which he can pray
And he is never seen in a church on sunday.
He is a great fan of Aussie Rules Football
To him the one true game and the best game of them all
On friday night he goes to the football and on saturday to the pub
And on sunday evening he drinks in the Sportsman's Club.
The young Aussie bloke he doesn't use words like date
His woman to him she is more of a mate
On saturday night at the disco for five hours or more
He parties and drinks till the small hours of four.
Though much his own man in him there is much good
And the young Aussie he would help you if he could
But don't mention God to him for he will only say
That only the impressionable to the unseen do pray.
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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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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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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Saturday Night At The Local
Saturday night in The Ramble Inn Bar
Johnny the folk singer strums on his guitar
For his entertainment in beer he is paid
Not a hard one to please is Danny McDaid,
Saturday night the night for the sing along
Everyone gets a chance to sing a song
Anyone who sings will get a free beer
Saturday night is the night of good cheer,
Annie she sings and she receives an encore
Drinks her free beer and she sings a few more
Singing and dancing and reciting rhyme
Everyone's having a jolly good time,
Nobody is looking for trouble or fight
Down at the Local on Saturday night.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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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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The Joy Of Their Laughter
The children are playing football in the park off of the street
The joy in their laughter it does sound so sweet
'Tis true youth is such a marvellous thing
Like the flowers of the fields that bloom lovely in Spring.
The joy of their laughter bring back memories to me
Of happy boyhood days of any cares free
In the Town park on Summer evenings we kicked the football
Such wonderful memories are good to recall
The years went so quickly and time did not wait
And I've grown grayer and slower and I'm putting on weight
The future belongs to the youth of today
Though they too will grow to learn that time quickly ticks away.
Some of those I went to school with now with the dead lay
And some are grand parents and their grand children play
The games they themselves played they run up and down
In pursuit of the football in the park by the Town.
As I walk to the bottle shop for to buy beer
The laughter of the children playing football I hear
Their best days approaching and mine in the past
But time keeps on ticking and nothing does last.
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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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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Cricket Is Just Another Game
Cricket just like baseball and football and golf is just another game
And though some great cricket players have won Worldwide fame
Cricket for most cricket fans like followers of all other sports
From their life cares is just an escape of sorts
The praises of sports celebrities millions every day do sing
And nowadays sports Worldwide is a huge thing
And those not in some way involved in sport a minority
At least that is how it does seem to me
I've got nothing against cricket I'd like to make that clear
Though on t v and radio so much of it to see and hear
Like every sport for millions of poor people I am aware
A temporary escape from their lives every care
And cricket after all is just another game
Like every other sport it is much the same.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Haystack Called Happiness
I thought that I would begin your day,
with a mixed flower bouquet.
There's going to be a change in the weather,
so let's spend the day together.
We'll go to the country on a Barton bus,
and walk where people won't bother us.
We'll saunter hand in hand, talk and kiss,
and find a haystack called happiness.
We'll lie on top and catch the sun
and if it rains we'll have some fun
by digging a tunnel inside the hay,
and make the most of this your day.
After that we'll find an old country pub
where the locals will sit and stare at us.
We'll sip our beer and talk, and eat,
whilst the locals look on in disbelief.
They'll see the hay still in our hair
and watch as it falls around the chair.
They'll no doubt smile at the untidy mess
and know of the place called happiness.
We'll return their smiles, and I'll pick up the hay,
and we'll keep a piece each for a memory day.
The touch of the piece will then take us back
to the day we shared in the happy haystack.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Another Football Season
Another Football Season has just commenced having said so just the same
A lot of hype and excitement about a field game
For many from their life problems a relief of sorts
Suppose that's why the establishments created sports.
Some things do seem to change little from year to year
Of football fans discussing football one often does hear
They talk of their Club as if the Club they did own
'Tis from people like them that Football Clubs are grown.
They talk of team ratings and player stats and of last weekend's best on ground
And of who their team are due to play in the next round
And the forward with a goal for the taking who kicked a behind
Next week with the seconds a place he may not find.
Another Football Season commencing the barracker's wife
She does feel neglected but then such is life
He knows about Football and the words of the Club song
And his heart to the Club it does surely belong.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Suppose Football Does Serve A Purpose
Suppose football does serve a purpose some males do need other interests in their lives
Than working or drinking of alcohol or arguing with or making love to their girl friends or wives
On saturday they go to the football to cheer on their team win or lose
'Tis better for them than going to the local and wasting their money on the booze
At least watching football they won't be losing brain cells as they do when they are on the grog
And next day feeling nauseated and hung over and as sick as a very sick dog
Their partners and wives happy to see them going to the football for to support their football club
They feel that for them it is far better than guzzling down grog at the pub
In football there can be disappointments when your team does not win the game
But for every winner there is a loser and to lose should never be a shame
There's more to life than grog and work and women there is that marvellous game known as football
To you and many others 'tis a passion and your team to you is the greatest team of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A poem for Football lovers
Football can make you cry
it can also bring you joy
I've played and watched it
as a man and a small boy.
Football has great players
like the one and only Messi
the Argentinian is a genius
I wished he played for Coventry.
Football is the favourite sport
no other game comes anywhere near
in the U.K.it's the number one pastime
just beating fishing and drinking beer.
Football though can be an addiction
it can be on your mind all of the day
your thinking about goals, shots, and saves,
and even talking about it to God when you pray.
So long may Football be played on our planet
even though it has trouble along the way
but just think if there was no Football at all
us fans would have nothing to do on a Saturday!
poem by Kevin Halls
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In The Local Football Oval
In the floodlight lit football oval each weeknight after tea
I hear the young men shouting as they train diligently
As their coach puts them through their training drills their exuberance I hear
They sprint about in the chill night air in the coldest time of year.
Some of the young players under twenty they have their dreams of fame
That they yet may become famous in Australia's only indigenous game
To play in an Australian Football League Grand final would be a dream come true
A dream that's dreamt by many and realized by only a few.
In the well lit football oval they kick ball and sprint around
And in their endeavour to become match fit they cover miles of ground
And they perform push ups and pull ups and natural muscle in this way they gain
For one cannot expect sporting success if for success you do not train.
In the local football oval where dreams are born and die
The shoutings of the young men echoes to the starry sky
In the chill evening air of late Autumn you hear them cheer and shout
As they race through the oval and chase the ball about.
I hear them every evening from six thirty till after eight
In the local football oval five hundred metres from my front gate
The town's young budding football stars not quite yet in their prime
And they dream of sporting greatness that will withstand the test of time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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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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Those Legs That Once Could Run So Fast
Those legs that once could run so fast feel heavy now and slow
He sure is not the man he was some forty years ago
He played football with his young mates he drank till pub closing time
But that was many years ago when he was in his prime,
On looking back the decades time seems to have gone fast
He had his good days one must suppose though nothing seems to last
And time catches up on all of us though some with hair dye cover their gray
But Mother Nature on us all does have the final say,
Forty five years ago he was the hero of the local Football team
In the cup final he kicked the winning goal a boost to his self esteem
By his team-mates he was shouldered from the field of play the cheers for him rang loud
And thinking of his glorious hour still makes him feel so proud
And now at night he sits at home with his ageing and forgetful wife
And time is catching up on him one might say such is life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Untitled
When I started out I wanted to make people happy and smile
and let them feel good about themselves
and that made me happy... for a while
but it's just not the same anymore
I can't keep putting on a smile and a happy face
because it just makes me realize
I can't take this place
and all the things I used to go through
I can't take always being there
every day and night
and living a life that's so unfair
and I never thought it would come to this
I just can't stand to make people feel happy and good
or put another smile on another person's face
because this doesn't make me happy anymore, and that's not how it should
I don't want to let people feel something I can't, not anymore