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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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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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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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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Small Town
Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probly die in a small town
Oh, those small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity
Educated in a small town
Taught the fear of jesus in a small town
Used to daydream in that small town
Another boring romantic thats me
But Ive seen it all in a small town
Had myself a ball in a small town
Married an l.a. doll and brought her to this small town
Now shes small town just like me
No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be
Got nothing against a big town
Still hayseed enough to say
Look whos in the big town
But my bed is in a small town
Oh, and thats good enough for me
Well I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in this small town
And thats probly where theyll bury me
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Football.
Football.
Some people look at football like it’s some type of idol.
We’ve got bigger issues, like young people who are suicidal.
We are blessed to live in such a place,
Yet we complain that there’s not enough space.
We have so many things in our spoiled lives,
There are some people who massively strive.
So don’t go around yelling about football,
When we’ve got children who stomachs are too small.
Think how blessed you are every day,
And don’t forget who had to go through the most pain.
-Bethany Jeffreys
poem by Bethany Jeffreys
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Port Adelaide
It is the great City of Port Adelaide
Where heroes are born and legends are made
In the Australian Football League they have their own football team
For to play for Port Adelaide many Port teens do dream.
A place where Indigenous and white Australia meet
And different races live on every street
The Indigenous tribes had their corroborees long ago
By the trees near the banks where the Port waters flow.
Many nineteenth century buildings in Port Adelaide remain
Which one does suppose goes in part to explain
Why so many visitors come to that Town
Port's history is far more than football renown.
The Port river dolphins are famed far and wide
One can see them surface from the harbour side
A tourist attraction and it would be fair to say
That seeing them has made many a vistor's day.
Where the cultures meet Indigenous and European
Port Adelaide a Town where all races are seen
When in South Australia I feel at home there
Few Towns with Port Adelaide can hope to compare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Reading Of Racism In Ireland
I always feel disappointed when of racism I read
And when I read of it in Ireland I feel very sad indeed
For racism in society should never have a place
And people should never be judged on their colour or their race.
As the Land of saints and scholars Ireland was known Worldwide
And the Irish people suffered and their rights to them denied
But the Irish in their sense of fair play could take a certain pride
And for their human rights and liberty the sons of Ireland died.
Poor migrants from Romania their possessions weigh light
To live and work in Ireland do they not have the right?
They may come un-invited but their numbers only small
And the Irish too are migrants as history will recall.
I read it's the Irish media that fans racism's flame
If this be so of their bad work they must feel a great shame
They cannot say in years to come the fault was never ours
When they first used the noxious spray that poisoned all the flowers.
I am an Irish migrant far from my native shore
And others treat me with respect than that one could not ask for more
A fair go for all people and for everyone fair play
Those words from centuries ago are relevant today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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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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In Every City, Town And Village
In every City, Town and Village the haves and have nots reside
But even the poorest of the poor have got their sense of pride
And it must be soul destroying for them to have to beg to stay alive
But pride has to take second place to the will to survive.
The wealthy growing wealthier and the poor growing poorer in the great social divide
And sad to say the gap between the haves and the have nots has never been so wide
Millions are dying of hunger and in camps for the homeless and Stateless overseas
At least thirty million people that's a lot of refugees.
Poverty is a relative thing some have been known to say
And the poor one in a prosperous Nation would be seen as wealthy in a poor Nation far away
But to live short of money anywhere is not a pleasant thing
'Tis seldom of the homeless soul that the balladeer does sing.
In every City, Town and Village there is inequality
And even in the wealthiest of Nations there is want and poverty
And though everybody in the World cannot be a millionaire
The unequal distribution of wealth seems so very unfair.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Injustice Here
Some place far from here
A baby is crying
A child is hungry
A mother is dying
Some place far from here
A family is in need
Adults cannot read
Children capture
Never again to be seen
Some place far from here
There’s no drinking water
Someone’s lost their daughter
Some place from here
People are homeless and alone
Without light and are cold
They sleep on dirt roads
With only their skin and their bones
Some place from here
There are so many things
So much injustice happening
Lots of poverty
Lots of death
But we forget
That right in our country
We have all these things too
We worry about a place far, far from here
And don’t take care of our priorities here
What about the poverty that covers our streets
Or children that are dying with no food to eat
The people in our country are suffering too
So although helping somewhere else
Is what we should do
There are obligations here first to pursue
We’re a great country
We have always been
But to continue this legacy
This is where we begin
poem by Jessica Collazo
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They Make Them Tough In Beech Forest
They make them tough in Beech Forest it has become a well known place
As the former home of Cliff Young the ageing man who won the great race
From Sydney all of the way to Melbourne some two decades ago
Even in death the great man's legend does seem to grow and grow.
Forty five kilometres south of Colac the nearest big country Town
And though Beech Forest has a small population 'tis a place that has won renown
For it's hardy breed of people who possess great pride of place
A pride and courage that Cliff Young displayed in his greatest ever race.
They make them tough in Beech Forest in the potato growing countryside
The achievements of Cliff Young their most famous athlete to them a source of pride
A stranger there made to feel welcome of which many do testify
Of their friendly and hospitable nature of them none can deny.
They make them tough in Beech Forest the once home of the great Cliff Young
For his Sydney to Melbourne ultra Marathon winning run
His praises have been sung
One of the hardy breed of men from that famous place south of old Colac Town
Who from Sydney all of the way to Melbourne jogged his way to renown.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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Smalltown
When youre growing up in a small town
When youre growing up in a small town
When youre growing up in a small town
You say, no one famous ever came from here
When youre growing up in a small town
And youre having a nervous breakdown
And you think that youll never escape it
Yourself or the place that you live
Where did picasso come from
Theres no michelangelo coming from pittsburgh
If art is the tip of the iceberg
Im the part sinking below
When youre growing up in a small town
Bad skin, bad eyes, gay and fatty
People look at you funny
When youre in a small town
My father worked in construction
Its not something for which Im suited
Oh, what is something for which you are suited
Getting out of here
I hate being odd in a small town
If they stare let them stare in new york city
As this pink eyed painting albino
How far can my fantasy go
Im no dali coming from pittsburgh
No adorable lisping capote
My hero, oh, do you think I could meet him
Id camp out at his front door
There is only one good thing about small town
There is only one good use for a small town
There is only one good thing about small town
You know that you want to get out
When youre growing up in a small town
You know youll grow down in a small town
There is only one good use for a small town
You hate it and youll know you have to leave
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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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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On The Wayne Carey Scandal
The captain of the Kangaroos Football Club known for his dash and flair
And in the game of Australian rules a football millionaire
But he quit the Club in disgrace when news broke of his affair
With the wife of a team mate his future now elsewhere.
He breached the trust of his mate and was unfaithful to his own wife
And he must now try to save his marriage and get on with his life
He went back home to Wagga to hide away in shame
And many feel Wayne Carey might have played his last game
Of Australian Rules Football but without him the game will go on
And the North Melbourne club is still around though their ex captain from them gone
The Club's bigger than the individual is that's always been the case
And as good a player though he may be there's one to take his place.
He should have gone to a brothel for his bit on the side
Instead he had sex with his best mate's wife and their friendship he destroyed
The Roos fans had him on a pedestal and they called him the king
But like a silly person he did the silly thing.
My sympathies not with Carey or any sporting millionaire
My sympathies are with the poor and all people in despair
Like those brave souls who in leaky boats cross the dangerous southern seas
In search of a home they flee from war poor defenceless refugees.
Like those people interred in Woomera with numbers for their name
The Government of this great southern Land bring on their Country shame
They keep people behind barbed wire and their only crime is they
Have fled war lords and the bombs of foreign powers in their
Homelands far away.
The ex captain of the Kangaroos is back home in Wagga Wagga Town
And for his fall from grace he has himself to blame since he dragged himself down
And though I only wish him well my sympathies elsewhere
For my sympathies could never be with a disgraced football millionaire.
poem by Francis Duggan
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