The Knowledgeable One
They are not the brightest for to give them their due
And on his subject matter they did not have a clue
He seems a bit clever the older bloke said
To which his younger mate answered not right in the head.
Since he did seem a clever young person to me
With the older bloke's assumption I could only agree
And though I too not the brightest I was duly impressed
With one in his mid twenties who with knowledge is blessed.
The bloke in his thirties to the barmaid for another beer did call
With the knowledgeable one he did not seem impressed at all
And when the knowledgeable one had left the pub he turned to me to say
This bloke Socrates he was talking of who is he anyway?
His name is a name that I cannot recall
He cannot be famous he does not play football
I informed him the one of whom the clever one did speak
Is a long dead philosopher a legendary Greek.
He and his mate in his forties began to discuss Sunday's big game
Every player taking part they know them by name
Of football between them little they would not have known
Suppose like it is said of people to each their own.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
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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On Overhearing Two Arguing About Poverty
I over heard two fellows arguing about poverty
Whilst I sat in the cafe drinking coffee
And in truth I could not help but overhear them
As they sat at the next table to me.
The older of the two a silver gray haired fellow
Said to rid the World of want and poverty
We would need to depose every despotic leader
But the younger bloke with him did not agree.
He said in so called wealthy societies there's want and hunger
And where affluence is poverty too abound
From here you don't walk far to see poor people
For poverty is everywhere around.
The older bloke countered but this is a free Country
And those in poverty have themselves only to blame
And if hungry people in our midst are living
Do not expect me to feel any shame
The younger man again with him did differ
Saying want is caused by those who only care
For themselves alone and their own self interest
Many must grow poorer for to make one millionaire.
I left them there in the cafe to argue
And not for me to say who is wrong or right
For both of them looked well dressed and well fed fellows
And they won't go to bed hungry tonight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Bloke from Mullumbimby
You won’t know this fella, till I get on with me prose.
But I’ll tell ya this my friends, I think he’s one of those.
Now before you howl me down and question my social status.
My job here blokes is to tell a story, not just how johnfarls rates us.
They stuck him in the navy, he used to box for sport.
Adds were placed upon his soles you would see these adds quite often, with the gloves my friends he wasn’t good, he should have stuck to golfin.
Milkin cows he tried, roamin from wide and far, his hands will bear the evidence,5 thirty shows the scar.
He has a friend, and, boy is she a cutie, beats me folks how a bloke like him ends with such a beauty.
So that’s a little yarn about this bloke, and not much have you gleans. His place in life aren’t nothing much, that’s as a bloke I means.
But let me tell just how much he makes the AUSSIE bloke, yeah golf’s the go, he didn’t have a clue, played off 87, his goals were for the dough.
Well Bruce and me were average, Ross was good at golf, THE BLOKE had a problem though, his putting, well, was off.
His wallet bulged with ego and one day he laid the claim, you and Bruce and Ross and me will play the noble game.
Let me dwell upon the rules, sheep stations were the scene. A beer a beer a beer and two bob, you lose, Ok vent your spleen.
The game was in the best of jest, we practiced the art of discourse. But if you lose old friend, two bob thanks and that has got no recourse.
The BLOKE my friends would not lay down his courage was divine, we lived of his wagers, all night we wined and dined.
Somehow Bruce and me felt time was grown’ thin’, lets have a triathlon we suggested, best of three to win.
Really not the Olympics but a contest just the same, the aim was winnen’, two out three the aim.
Darts, Euchre, Golf were the games we competed, glory for the victor let the loser please stay seated.
One last thing about our bloke, it concerns that Euchre game, with one spade he goes alone his partner Ross is shamed.
The BLOKE was hopeless in all these sports but never would he yield, then my friends the town soon found out he had a special field.
One day we all run last you see, and thinking with a smile, the BLOKE writes some prose, recites some stuff and leaves us for a mile.
You see my friends, please forgive my comments oh so rude, RAY you beaut, we re-vere you in gratitude.
We enjoy your yarns, we’re infected, you’re the peoples choice, an Aussie yarn has impetus simply by your voice.
Mullumbimby bred a BLOKE, BUT Bruce and Ross and ME we bred HIM too,
THE MULLUMBIMBY BLOKE is out there folks he belongs to me and you.
poem by John D. Farley
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Each To His Or To Her Own
I only came into the pub for to have a quiet beer
But talk of football all I hear I ask what brought me here
And I thought there was more to life than talking of football
But with that at the Local Pub few would agree at all.
One fellow said my team doing well with stress on the word my
Methought he thinks he owns the team or so he seems to imply
And then he sang a line from the anthem of his club 'When the Saints go marching in'
His voice was booming loud and clear above the bar room din.
Suppose it beats talking of war or politics maybe
Though football a boring subject or so 'twould seem to me
But each to his or her own as they say and those words seem so true
And to them I seemed a boring man one of the unenlightened few.
One asked me what team do you barrack for mate, I said who win or lose
Won't matter much to you or I it won't pay for our booze
At which he only laughed aloud saying you must have a team
Or in your present company you are out of place 'twould seem.
Indeed I said how right you are on this we can agree
For you are you and I are I we see things differently
He shouted to the barman give the man a beer he's not a bad old boy
Though on a few important things we do not see eye to eye.
I bought him a beer before I left, thank you old boy he said
And he started to sing 'Good Old Collingwood' the booze had gone to his head
And as I walked out in the night the moon shone in the sky
And a boobook owl called on a gum in the Parkland nearby.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Observation
A tall bloke talks
A short bloke listens
And on his face
A question
A smudge
A blue tear
Below his eye
Tattooed
poem by Michael Oliver
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To Those Who Love Footy
To those who love footy a man of renown
The legend of sport from the little bush town
Footballers of his calibre hard to be found
On Grand Final day he was best on ground
But Tim the young artist one who doesn't like football
Says legends of sport don't interest him at all
To him the renowned locally raised footy player seems quite ordinary
Though many with him on that would disagree
He says sports fans elite sports people over-rate
That they are not worthy of the title of great
The greats of human history that historians recall
Were not sports people or never played football
And he says of the locally raised football legend I'm not putting him down
When I say he's an ordinary bloke from an ordinary town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A blind bloke walks into a shop with a guide dog. He picks the Dog up and starts swinging it around his head. Alarmed, a shop assistant calls out: 'Can I help, sir?' 'No thanks,' says the blind bloke. 'Just looking.'
quote by Tommy Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fiduciary Friendship
'E 'ad spragged me before for the loan of a quid.
But I told 'im straight out I was broke.
Still 'e would 'ang around me, wotever I did.
'E's a regiler obstinit bloke.
'E'd tapped me for dollars an' bit me for bobs;
An' I ain't too finanshil meself.
Wot with times like they are an' not too many jobs;
So a bloke 'as to 'ang to 'is pelf.
But this Mister Theodore give me a lead
'E's a genius all on 'is own
'E put me wise yestidy - jist wot I need,
When a bloke comes along for a loan.
I rekin this Theodore's out on 'is pat
As a shrewd an' a far-seein' bloke,
Wot can 'and out the patter an' deal with a flat,
'Fore 'e's time to make up to the joke.
So today, when this cove puts the 'ard word on me,
I tells 'im straight out I'm 'is friend,
An' I'm goin' to 'elp 'im from sheer sympathy
With a few quid I'm goin' to lend.
It 'urts me, I tells 'im, to ark at 'im moan,
An' I 'aven't the 'eart to refuse.
So I gives the poor coot a fidoosary loan
In the shape of some nice I.0.U.'s.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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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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Sling It!
Blimey! Ain't it gittin' tough?
Life gits 'arder day by day.
First a bloke ain't got enough
Words for wot 'e wants to say;
Then some nark; with nix to do,
Cuts vocab'laries in two.
'Ow can coots ixpress their souls?
Many a noble song is sung
By crook lips; an' music rolls
Off full many a slangy tongue.
Many a word o' wisdom's spoke
By some reel dead leery bloke.
Still in all, I gotter own,
If pure lingo we would teach,
Young kids' minds 'ad best be sown
With some dinkum slabs of speech.
Shove this matter in each book:
'Sling the slang; it's all dead crook.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Some Women Like Their Men
Some women like their men gentle and some like them rough
And some like them clever and some like them tough
When it comes to the male kind few women agree
We all look at things one might say differently
Some women the macho type of a bloke do prefer
The refined type of fellow is not one for her
And good looks and youthfulness to some little to amount
The one with heaps of money to them only count,
Some women than others are harder to please
And some go for a man with the Uni Degrees
And some women do prefer muscles to brain
How chemistry works in people is beyond me to explain
When it comes to men few women agree
We all look at things one might say differently.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Old Mates
I came up to-night to the station, the tramp had been longish and cold,
My swag ain't too heavy to carry, but then I begin to get old.
I came through this way to the diggings -- how long will that be ago now?
Thirty years! how the country has altered, and miles of it under the plough,
And Jack was my mate on the journey -- we both run away from the sea;
He's got on in the world and I haven't, and now he looks sideways on me.
We were mates, and that didn't mean jokers who meets for a year or a day,
We meant to go jogging together the whole of the blooming long way.
We slept with one blanket between us the night that we run from the port,
There was nothing above us but heaven, yet we took it as jolly good sport.
And now he's the boss of a station, and I'm -- well, the bloke that you see;
For he had the luck and I hadn't, and now he looks sideways on me.
We pegged out a claim on the Dunstan, there used to be gold in them days,
There's blokes that still sticks to the digging, but Lord only knows how it pays;
For the country as far as I've seen it's as chock full of holes as a sieve
With the Chinkies amullocking through it, and yet them coves manage to live.
But when Jack took me to the cradle, the place was a wonder to see,
We washed out a fortune between us, and now he looks sideways on me.
We both fell in love with one woman -- she worked in a pub for a spell;
It ain't the best place for an angel, but angels ain't better than Nell;
For she was as good as they make 'em and hadn't a notion of ill --
It's long years and years since we parted, and seems I'm in love with her still!
But Jack was the handsomest fellow -- I saw how the thing had to be;
He got the best wife on the diggings, and now he looks sideways on me.
I left him, I just couldn't stand it -- I knew it was better to part;
I couldn't look on at the wedding with a pain like a knife at my heart!
I never said nothing to no one -- we didn't whack out all the gold;
I wanted my mate to be happy without my own yarn being told.
So I went to the coast by the steamer, and now I'm the bloke that you see;
He told me to go to the wharè, it seems he looks sideways on me.
There's steps coming down to the wharè -- some other poor bloke on the road;
'Taint nothing to him to get growled at, the boss ain't a bloke that he knowed.
Too dark to make out who's a-coming -- he's crossing the plank at the creek;
The years and the whisky are telling, my eyesight begins to get weak.
What's the odds? it ain't like me to whimper, and all that's gone by had to be,
But the old times came crowding around me to see him look sideways on me.
What, Jack! Why, old man, you don't mean it? You didn't right know it was me?
Well I'm altered -- it ain't for the better -- never mind, never mind, let it be.
O mate, the long years since we parted -- there's a blooming great lump in my throat --
I ain't been as glad, mate, I tell you, since the time that we run from the boat.
You ain't a bit altered -- you're crying -- why, Jack, don't be sorry for me,
I'm that glad that I think I'll go cranky -- and I thought you looked sideways on me.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Down the Pub on a Saturday Night
Saturday night in the pub
lots of things going on
lads playing pool
couple of older gents
playing dominoes.
A gang of drunken girls
walk in all wearing Pink
they're out on a hen night
they shout a lot then there off.
Football's on the television
so the pubs fairly full tonight
and as there's two big screens
you watch one then the other.
The smokers stand outside
puffing away at their fags
but as it's raining hard
their soon back inside.
Two blokes start arguing
punches are thrown
it gets broken up
the landlord chucks them out.
Then a woman falls of her stool
and she knocks herself out
but as she lies there for ages
people carry on drinking.
A young bloke throws up
the barmaid hands him a mop
when he finishes cleaning it up
he orders himself another pint.
Saturday night in the pub
lots of things going on
it's a British institution
and a way of life.
poem by Kevin Halls
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The Bloke Wot Gits The Girls
'E passes by, each day, at ten
A bottle-shouldered yid
Wot looks as if 'e pushed a pen
An' drawes a weekly quid;
'E's always with some little lass;
(By cripes, 'e gets some pearls!)
We calls 'im, watchin' of 'em pass,
The bloke wot gits the girls.
An' strewth! it beats me outer sight
'Ow girls can stand 'im - straight!
'E don't go five-feet-two in height
Or eight-stun-two in weight;
'E couldn't swing a pick, - or scrap,
Soft 'ands an' sheeny curls!
'E's just a sorter - well, mishap,
The Bloke wot gits the girls.
But yet each day some bit o' fluff
Trips by, with this 'ere fraud,
A-breathin'-in 'is silly guff
As if 'e wos a gawd.
'E shoots 'is cuffs, 'e swings 'is canes,
'Is spiky mo 'e twirls,
'E seems to mesmerise the Janes,
The bloke wot gits the girls!
Well, tarts is tarts - it's 'ow they're built:
I s'pose their gawd is clo'es;
But 'im - the puffed-up piece o' gilt,
I'd like to punch 'is nose!
A-struttin', starin' round about
As if 'is kind was earls!
Cripes! 'Ow I'd like to pass 'im out
The bloke wot gits the girls!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In The Age Of Celebrity Worship
In the age of celebrity worship our own small gods we do create
And mortals like ourselves in the flesh we worship and celebrate
People who are good at golf and tennis and various other games of ball
We give them their big egos though pride can come before a fall
We look up to wealthy people and those of privileged birth and give to politicians power
And in the presence of the dictator they've created a Nation's people cower
We give big egos to strangers people we may never meet
At the table that they dine at we will never have a seat
Yet the unsung heroes of our town we choose for to ignore
He is just an ordinary fellow the bloke who lives next door
But he helps his wheelchair bound neighbour without asking for reward or pay
And for someone in need in the neighbourhood he does a good deed every day
But we see him as an ordinary bloke and his praises are unsung
Many of our heroes are quite dashing and competitive and young.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Speak'n Aussie.
I myself like to speak plain,
Sometimes others drive me insane.
They say fine is my pronunciation,
And does not produce castigation.
So I'd like to give good English a plug,
So would ya give-it-go-ya-mug.
I mean to say fair dinkum.
Don't be down don't be glum.
Speak plainly it will suit.
You do not need a new bag of fruit.
English is no trick,
Unless you're away with the pixies.
How we dress is of importance as well,
We must try to square the circle.
Wearing cozzies or your uggies,
Out of place they look real bodgy.
It don't matter if you're a woman or bloke,
Good English ain't no joke.
English is important any place,
In Tassie, Woop Woop, or Bris Vagas.
No matter if you're a Pom, Apple Eater,
Cane Toad or Taswegian or Sandgroper.
You might have an Oxford Scholar,
In your sky Rocket not on your collar.
Your plates of meat may be sore,
But your mud pies we adore.
When we were young and tin lids, ya know,
Our English china plates would get rather aggro.
So English Oz style can make you gobsmack,
Make you crazy or crook if your slack.
So have a chinwag with an Ozzie woman or bloke,
And on our English you will not choke.
R. K. Hart 7/11/2012
The Sugar Daddy's Woman
He is seventy four and she is twenty seven with light brown and wavy shoulder length hair
You've guessed right to say he is a sugar daddy one of the Town's wealthier a known millionaire
She feels she is better off with him than with one of her own age a fellow with only a few dollars to spare
He buys her a good time and he treats her as special and for her he does seem to genuinely care.
She is happy to be the sugar daddy's woman money speaks every language and 'tis always been that way
An old man with money better than a poor young bloke who will be a battler until his dying day
The Local young blokes of the older bloke jealous they find it hard to come to terms with how he
Could be going to bed with the Town's fairest young woman without realizing they are restricted by their poverty.
Than seventy four he looks many years younger at a guess one might say from fifty to fifty two
Amazing what a face lift and a bottle of brown hair dye as well as some makeup for an old face can do
She carries her first child it will be his seventh yet he feels as proud as any younger father to be
Her son or her daughter into wealth will be born and that sounds better than being born into poverty.
Despite she being pregnant she does look quite radiant her sugar daddy for her left his old wife
Money speaks every language seems all too apparent and she can look forward to a better life
Than being with one of her own age struggling to make ends meet when poverty bites in love quickly decay
And though she does not love her sugar daddy she does love his money a good reason with him why she ought to stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Oil from Bill Shane
I got the oil: too right. A cove called Shane.
Yes; ole Bill Shane. You've 'eard of 'im, of course.
Big racin' 'ead. There's no need to explain
The things he don't know about a 'orse.
Good ole Bill Shane. They say he's made a pile
At puntin'. Shrewd! I wis I 'ad 'is brain.
An' does 'e know the game? Well, I should smile.
They can't put nothin' over ole Bill Shane.
Yes; Shane, Bill Shane ... Aw, listen, lad. Wake up!
Why everybody's 'eard of ole Bill Shane.
They say he made ten thousan' on the Cup
Last year, an' now he's got the oil again.
Wot? Owner? Trainer? Nah! Who 'eeds their guff?
Bill's a big racin' man - a punter. See?
Top dog. I alwiz sez wot's good enough
For ole Bill Shane is good enough for me.
Yes; he gave me the oil. I got it straight
Well, nearly straight. Of course, I've never spoke
To Bill 'imself direck. I got a mate
Wot knows a bloke wot knows another bloke
Wot's frien's with Shane, an' so - you un'erstand.
Wot? me give you the tip? Aw, take a walk!
Yeh think I'd do a thing so under'and?
Bill Shane would kill me if I was to talk.
Well, listen ... Now, for gosh sake, keep it dark.
An' don't let no one know it came from Shane.
Keep it strick secret. I would be a nark
To let you chuck yer money down the drain ...
Wazzat you said? He's scratched? 'Ere! Lemme look!
Scratched! Ain't that noos to knock a man clean out?
I alwiz said this puntin' game was crook ...
Who? Shane? Aw, I dunno. Some racin' tout.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Brice Lee (Short)
bullet got the wrong bloke.
life kid suck
drinkfromthebox
the juice kid suck
life kid
suck the box drink
yeah
life kid drinkfromthebox
the juice kid suck
life kid suck theboxdrink
yeah, bruce lee
life kid sinkfromthebox
seen from the box
the juice from the box
kid suck
life
kid yeah suckfromtheboxdrink
bruce lee
life kid suckfromthebox
drink from the box
the juice kid suck
life kid suckfromtheboxdrink
yeah, bruce lee
life kid sinkfromthebox
seen from a box
the juice from a box
kid suck
life
kid yeahsuckfromtheboxdrink
bruce lee
life kid suckfromthebox
drink from a box
the juice kid suck
life kid suckfromtheboxdrink
yeah, bruce lee
yeah,yeah,yeah
life kid suckfromthebox
drink from the box
the juice kid suck
life kid suckthebox
yeah, bruce lee
life kid drinkfromthebox
sinkfromthebox
straightfromthebox
the juice kid suck
life
kid sucktheboxdrink
yeah, bruce lee
tan blonde
life kid suckthebox...
(from the box)...
skin taught as sails in a gale, hair always cut with a blunt tool,
muscular but thin like springs for not steel...four thin old men, four
thin old men lay silent in two vaporizing rooms, each way up in his
own head...holed up in his flat, flaking boxers...little piggy, little
eyes...folds the skin just enough to let in light...bullet got the wrong
bloke, but they don't die anyway...it's nothing mortal if you don't
move...still have slopped up the war in a proper blanket...and i have
been this way for days
bruceleebruceleebruceleebrucelee...
...wrong bloke...
...force the gun...
...old man, come up to the bed...
...deliberate, and sturdy...
...holds the pistol to the chest of the wrong bloke...
...pulls the trigger...
...a turning shot...
...before your head...
...slaps you in the side of the face like a circus clown...
...wrong bloke...
...it's out of his eyes now...
...strains to get something in his head...
...has to see what is in the air...
...
life kid suckfromthebox
drink from the box
the juice kid suck
life
kid suckthebox
yeah, bruce lee
tan blonde
song performed by by Underworld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Football
I'm a football baby,
Rollin' round the field.
I've been passed and fumbled,
Till I don't know what I feel.
Everybody's the same,
They're all footballs too.
Setting up the big play
And trying to score.
I'm a football baby
In a football game
I'm a football baby
Run--kick
Life's a football game,
As every chump and champ knows.
We don't touch, we collide,
Till we're worn out inside.
We're kicking each other,
Right where it hurts,
Setting up the big play,
And trying to score.
I'm a football baby,
In a football game
I'm a football baby,
I'm a football baby,
In a football game
I'm a football baby,
Block--pass
I'm a football baby,
In a football game
I'm a football baby,
Run---kick---hit---goal .
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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