Australian Jokes,Poetry.My Choice

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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

OUTBACK

Henry Lawson



The Poem

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought;

The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out;

The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black-

And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.



For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide,

With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;

All day long in the dust and heat- when summer is on the track-

With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.



He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,

With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.

The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,

But only God and the swagman know how a poor man fares Out Back.



He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,

And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, til the western station shore;

But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack-

The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back.



In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead,

And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead.

For in times of flood, when plains were seas and the scrubs were cold and black,

He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.



And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;

He tramped for years, til the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.

As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,

With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.



He chanced one day when the north wind blew in his face like a burnace-breath.

He left the track for a tank he knew- twas a shorter cut to death;

For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack.

And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.



A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile:

He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.

The tanks are full, and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,

Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back.



For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide,

With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;

All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track,

With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, must carry their swags Out Back.
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Snooze
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Post by Snooze »

Wow. That really created a stunning visual for me.
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An Australian poem.

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock

The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.

He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,

The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams.

He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank

And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.

"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,

"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt

She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.

But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free

And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down

If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.

Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim

He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks

And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.

He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam

He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam.

The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip

He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.

At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath

She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side

He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.

Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed

He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.

He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away

He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea

But nor was he prepared for what he was about to see.

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view

For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.

And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch

The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bi#$h!"

The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car

The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far

So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks

Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I recieved this as an email & thought I would share as it made some sense to me.

Hope you enjoy

What's mainly wrong with society today is that too many Dirt Roads have been paved.

There's not a problem anywhere today, crime, drugs, education, divorce, delinquency that wouldn't be remedied, if we just had more Dirt Roads, because Dirt Roads give character.

People that live at the end of Dirt Roads learn early on that life is a bumpy ride.

That it can jar you right down to your teeth sometimes, but it's worth it, if at the end is home...a loving spouse, happy kids and a dog.

We wouldn't have near the trouble with our educational system if our kids got their exercise walking a Dirt Road with other kids, from whom they learn how to get along.

There was less crime in our streets before they were paved.

Criminals didn't walk two dusty miles to rob or rape, if they knew they'd be welcomed by 5 barking dogs.

And there were no drive by shootings.

Our values were better when our roads were worse!

People did not worship their cars more than their kids, and motorists were more courteous, they didn't tailgate by riding the bumper or the guy in front would choke you with dust & bust your windshield with rocks.

Dirt Roads taught patience.

Dirt Roads were environmentally friendly, you didn't hop in your car for a quart of milk you walked to the barn for your milk.

For your mail, you walked to the mail box.





What if it rained and the Dirt Road got washed out? That was the best part, then you stayed home and had some family time, roasted marshmallows and popped popcorn and pony rode on Daddy's shoulders and learned how to make prettier quilts than anybody.

At the end of Dirt Roads, you soon learned that bad words tasted like soap.

Most paved roads lead to trouble, Dirt Roads more likely lead to a fishing creek or a swimming hole.

At the end of a Dirt Road, the only time we even locked our car was in August, because if we didn't some neighbor would fill it with too much zucchini.







At the end of a Dirt Road, there was always extra springtime income, from when city dudes would get stuck, you'd have to hitch up a team and pull them out.

Usually you got a dollar...always you got a new friend...at the end of a Dirt Road!



Have a great day friend.:-6
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

This is perhaps the most well known of all Australian poems. At some time during their primary school education, all children will be required to commit the poem to memory. This has often meant that phrases such as "where lithe lianas coil", have been remembered as "where nice bananas boil"! There is also continuing controversy over whether our mountain ranges are "ragged" or "rugged".

We had to learn this at school,I like it



My Country

by Dorothea Mackellar



The love of field and coppice,

Of green and shaded lanes,

Of ordered woods and gardens

Is running in your veins.

Strong love of grey-blue distance

Brown streams and soft, dim skies-

I know but cannot share it,

My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,

A land of sweeping plains,

Of ragged mountain ranges,

Of droughts and flooding rains.

I love her far horizons,

I love her jewel sea,

Her beauty and her terror-

The wide brown land for me.

The stark white ring-barked forests

All tragic to the moon,

The sapphire-misted mountains,

The hot gold hush of noon.

Green tangle of the brushes,

Where lithe lianas coil,

And orchids deck the tree-tops

And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!

Her pitiless blue sky,

When, sick at heart, around us

We see the cattle die-

But then the grey clouds gather,

And we can bless again

The drumming of an army,

The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!

Land of the Rainbow Gold,

For flood and fire and famine,

She pays us back threefold.

Over the thirsty paddocks,

Watch, after many days,

That filmy veil of greenness

That thickens as we gaze...

An opal-hearted country,

A wilful, lavish land

All you who have not loved her,

You will not understand-

Though earth holds many splendors,

Wherever I may die,

I know to what brown country

My homing thoughts will fly.
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

Meetings

Poem By Mick Leigh

I'm going to a meeting to talk about a meeting, we had at a meeting just the other day.

If you really want to see them you better hold a meeting

cos it's the only way to see them and really have your say.

Sorry they can't see you cos they're all in a meeting,

what's it all about, I really can't say.

When you go to a meeting, do lots of nailbiting,

but don't let them see that you haven't got a clue.

When they ask you a question say more than likely or even absolutely,

it's entirely up to you.

So when you go to a meeting take notice of the seating

and who is in the chair so you know exactly where,

as you climb the corporate ladder and your life becomes madder

by knowing to agree or just wait and see,

cos it won't take long to sing the corporate song

and your future is assured and you'll never be bored,

cos the minutes of the meeting are never worth repeating,

and you've got to have a quoram if you really want to bore 'em.

So look very serious, even though you are delirious

and make sure you focus on all the hocus pocus

and look at Madam Chair and her most ridiculous hair

and the earrings she's wearing are enough to keep you staring,

you can wonder what she does when she really needs a buzz,

it must be very scary and really quite contrary,

now they're asking questions and calling for suggestions,

so I think I'll move motion and cause a commotion,

that we all go home!
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Post by mrsK »

A Bush Christening

AB Paterson

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,

And men of religion are scanty,

On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,

One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,

Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;

He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest

For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die

Saint Peter would not recognise him.'

But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,

Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,

With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',

And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,

`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,

And it seemed to his small understanding,

If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,

It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,

While the tears in his eyelids they glistened --

`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,

I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,

And his father with language uncivil,

Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,

`Come out and be christened, you divil!'

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,

And his parents in vain might reprove him,

Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)

`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'

`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;

Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him,

'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,

As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name --

Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'

Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout --

`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub

Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,

The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head

That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,

And the one thing he hates more than sin is

To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,

How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!
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Post by AussiePam »



The Play

© C J Dennis

Wot's in a name? - she sez . . . An' then she sighs,

An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes.

"A rose," she sez, "be any other name

Would smell the same.

Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir?

Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!"

Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show -

The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know.

A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;

A slap-up treat.

The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago,

About a barmy goat called Romeo.

"Lady, be yonder moon I swear!" sez 'e.

An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney;

An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words

Like two love-birds.

I nudge Doreen. She whispers, "Ain't it grand!"

'Er eyes is shining an' I squeeze 'er 'and.

'Wot's in a name?" she sez. 'Struth, I dunno.

Billo is just as good as Romeo.

She may be Juli-er or Juli-et -

'E loves 'er yet.

If she's the tart 'e wants, then she's 'is queen,

Names never count . . . But ar, I like "Doreen!"

A sweeter, dearer sound I never 'eard;

Ther's music 'angs around that little word,

Doreen! . . . But wot was this I starts to say

About the play?

I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love

'Is thorts turns 'er way, like a 'omin' dove.

This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew -

A dead tough crowd o' crooks - called Montague.

'Is cliner's push - wot's nicknamed Capulet-

They 'as 'em set.

Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks,

Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.

Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words?

They scraps in ole Verona wiv the'r swords,

An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance,

An' that's Romance.

But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots

In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.

Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day,

Is "valler" if yer fur enough away.

Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick

Wiv Ginger Mick,

Of Spadger's Lane.

'E'll be a Romeo,

When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.

Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip.

Sez she: "Don't sling that crowd o' mine no lip;

An' if you run agin a Capulet,

Jist do a get."

'E swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean.

(Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)

They smooge some more at that. Ar, strike me blue!

It gimme Joes to sit an' watch them two! '

E'd break away an' start to say good-bye,

An' then she'd sigh

"Ow, Ro-me-o!" an' git a strangle-holt,

An' 'ang around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.

Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about

A secret weddin'; an' they plan it out.

'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched:

Then they git 'itched . . .

Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip!

She's 'is for keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!

Ar! but 'e makes me sick! A fair gazob!

E's jist the glarsey on the soulful sob,

'E'll sigh and spruik, a' 'owl a love-sick vow -

(The silly cow!)

But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight

'E crools the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.

Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon

As 'e was wed, off on 'is 'oneymoon,

'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio,

They 'ave to go

An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets.

They look fer trouble; an' it's wot they gets.

A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)

Sprags 'em an' makes a start to sling off dirt.

Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go -

'Arf round or so.

Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck,

"Ar rats!" 'e sez, an' passes in 'is check.

Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.

"It's me or you!" 'e 'owls, an' wiv a yell,

Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,

'Ow I ongcored!

"Put in the boot!" I sez. "Put in the boot!"

"'Ush!" sez Doreen . . . "Shame!" sez some silly coot.

Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.

The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,

An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk

An' does a bunk.

They wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.

"Ah, strike!" she sez. "I wish that I could die!"

Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.

Sez 'e "I'll dope yeh, so they'll think yer dead."

(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo

A thing or two.)

She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:

They think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.

Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.

'Ere's Romeo comes back an' finds 'is girl

Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,

An' in a jiff,

'E swallows lysol, throws a fancy fit,

'Ead over turkey, an' 'is soul 'as flit.

Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,

Turns on the water-works an' tears 'er 'air,

"Dear love," she sez, "I cannot live alone!"

An' wiv a moan,

She grabs 'is pockit knife, an' ends 'er cares . . .

"Peanuts or lollies!" sez a boy upstairs.
"Life is too short to ski with ugly men"

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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

A Christmas Tale



At this time of year it is patently clear

That the males are the ones who are blest.

Thoughts like "goodwill to men" we hear time and again

And we find them quite hard to digest.

As we women all know, men think they run the show,

And sometimes we allow them this pause.

But it gets on our nerves, like too many hors d'oeuvres

When we want to get at the main course.

Many times out of mind the same problem we find,

Leaving plans to the menfolk is risky.

Christmas spirit they think is some kind of a drink,

Such as vodka, Baccardi, or whiskey.

Since we carry the load, men keep out of our road,

We are ready and willing and able.

For it's perfectly clear, that the stuffed turkeys here

Are not always confined to the table.

The traditional way is now rather passe,

Lets give credit, where credit is due.

Then you'll see, man or boy, in return you'll enjoy

The fruits of OUR goodwill to you.





Copyright; Jacqueline Ramm
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

The Women of the West

by George Essex Evans



They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,

The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,

The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:

For love, they faced the wilderness - the Women of the West.

The roar, the rush, and fever of the city died away,

And the old-time joys and faces - they were gone for many a day;

In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,

O'er the everlasting sameness of the everlasting plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,

In the tent beside the bankment of the railway just begun,

In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,

On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,

The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;

And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say-

The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away



The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires,

When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar-fires,

And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast-

Perchance He hears and understands, the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts-

They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.

But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above-

The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by.

We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.

And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest,

The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

A man walks out of a bar totally hammered, only to be greeted by a snobby woman.

She takes one look at him. “You, sir, are drunk!"

"And you ma'am, are ugly.

But when I wake up, I will be sober!"
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mrsK
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Post by mrsK »

THE RIDING OF THE REBEL

By Will Ogilvie

He was the Red Creek overseer, a trusted man and true,

Whose shoulder never left the wheel when there was work to do;

Through all the day he rode the run, and when the lights grew dim

The sweetest wife that ever loved would wait and watch for him.

She brought him dower of golden hair and eyes of laughing blue,

Stout heart and cunning bridle-hand to guide the mulga through;

And when the mob was mustered from the box flats far and wide

She loved to mount the wildest colts that no one else would ride.

And once it chanced a wayward steed, half-mouthed and roughly broke,

Denied the touch of gentle hand and gentler words she spoke,

And, plunging forward like the ship that feels the autumn gales,

He reared and lost his footing and fell backwards on the rails.

Her husband bent above her with cold terror at his heart --

The form was still he loved so well, the wan lips would not part;

And all the day in trance she lay, but when the stars smiled down

He heard his name low-whispered and he claimed her still his own.

And afterwards he spoke his fear: "Heart's love, if you should die! . . .

Unless you take our orders from some other man than I,

You shall never finger bridle, never mount on horse's back,

Till the outlaw on Glenidol is a broken lady's hack!"

There's an outlaw on Glenidol that is known through all the West,

And three men's lives are on his head, bold riders of the best;

The station lads have heard the sneer that travelled far and wide,

And flung the answering challenge: "Come and teach us how to ride!"

Roll up, ye merry riders all, whose honour is to guard!

We've mustered up the ranges and the Rebel's in the yard,

His open mouth and stamping foot and keen eye flashing fire

Repeat the temper of his dam, the mettle of his sire.

Roll up, ye merry riders all, from hut and camp and town!

You'll have to stick like plaster when the stockyard rails go down.

But the boss will come down handsome, as the boss is wont to come,

To the first who brings The Rebel under spurs and greenhide home.
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Post by mrsK »

Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Seamus, were stumbling home from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard.

"Come have a look over here," says Paddy, "It's Michael O'Grady's grave, and God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87."

"That's nothing," says Sean, "here's one named Patrick O'Tool, it says here that he was 95 when he died." Just then, Seamus yells out, "Hey, here's a fella that got to be 145!"

"What was his name?" asks Paddy. Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims, "Miles, from Dublin."
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Post by mrsK »

Alcheringa

Poem By Mick Leigh

It was then I heard the silence,

a great stillness,

as if time had not began,

the earth not turning.

As if the creator,

the Rainbow Serpent,

the Deity,

were pondering the risk.

The unborn wind and all the water were still,

mountains silent and unmoving,

and all the while the sun, moon, stars and others watched and waited

for day and night to begin and until then,

there was no sound.

For without the first sound,

there was no beginning,

no energy,

no struggle,

no love, no hate.

All the sounds of eternity waited.

The sounds of the wind, sea, thunder,

the cry of the newborn,

the roar of triumph,

a cry of pain, despair,

the groan and shiver of the earth.
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Post by mrsK »

The Bell Bird is a small Australian bird with a very distinctive call. It sounds like tinkling bells. It is very beautiful to hear as you walk through the bush. You don't hear them in the cities at all. These are just a couple of verses from a longer poem.

Bell-Birds

by Henry Kendall



By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,

And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;

It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges

Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges;

Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers

Struggles the light that is love to the flowers.

And softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,

The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.



The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,

They sing in September their songs of the May-time.

When shadows wax strong, and the thunder-bolts hurtle,

They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;

When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,

They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,

And straightway the hues of the feathers unfolden

Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
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Post by mrsK »

Uluru

The pic is one of Uluru/Ayers Rock







Poem By Mick Leigh

Heart of the land,

your deep buried spirit will rise again,

to reclaim the long lost vanished creatures hidden within you.

Gondwana you are the living heart,

the dreaming giant,

temple of dance,

where the spirits sleep.



Fountains of song,

where the desert wind sings.

Remember the past.

Home of the starmaker,

you bask in the sun,

drink from the clouds,

count the passing of stars.

Blood red heart beats each thousand years.

Timeless mountain,

shelter of spirits,

gave birth to the Rainbow Serpent,

and life to the land.

Watching in silence,

you will always remain,

the sacred spirit which will return.

For I am, I am, lore of the land

I am Uluru.
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Post by mrsK »

September in Australia

by Henry Kendall



Grey Winter hath gone like a wearisome guest,

And, behold, for repayment,

September comes in with the wind from the west

And the spring in her raiment!

The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers,

While the forest discovers

Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours,

And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift silver feet!

She glides and she graces

The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat,

With her blossomy traces;

Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose,

She lightens and lingers

In spots where the harp of the evening glows,

Attuned by her fingers.

We, having a secret to others unknown,

In the cool mountain mosses,

May whisper together, September alone

Of our loves and our losses.

One word for her beauty, and one for the grace

She gave to the hours;

And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face

To sleep with the flowers.
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Post by mrsK »

A Book for Kids CJ Dennis

HIST!

Hist! . . . . . . Hark!

The night is very dark,

And we've to go a mile or so

Across the Possum Park.

Step . . . . . . light,

Keeping to the right;

If we delay, and lose our way,

We'll be out half the night.

The clouds are low and gloomy. Oh!

It's just begun to mist!

We haven't any overcoats

And - Hist! . . . . . . Hist!

(Mo . . . . . . poke!)

Who was that that spoke?

This is not a fitting spot

To make a silly joke.

Dear . . . . . . me!

A mopoke in a tree!

It jarred me so, I didn't know

Whatever it could be.

But come along; creep along;

Soon we shall be missed.

They'll get a scare and wonder where

We - Hush! . . . . . . Hist!

Ssh! . . . . . . Soft!

I've told you oft and oft

We should not stray so far away

Without a moon aloft.

Oo! . . . . . . Scat!

Goodness! What was that?

Upon my word, it's quite absurd,

It's only just a cat.

But come along; haste along;

Soon we'll have to rush,

Or we'll be late and find the gate

Is - Hist! . . . . . . Hush!

(Kok!. . . . . . Korrock!)

Oh! I've had a shock!

I hope and trust it's only just

A frog behind a rock.

Shoo! . . . . . . Shoo!

We've had enough of you;

Scaring folk just for a joke

Is not the thing to do.

But come along, slip along -

Isn't it a lark

Just to roam so far from home

On - Hist! . . . . . . Hark!

Look! . . . . . . See!

Shining through the tree,

The window-light is glowing bright

To welcome you and me.

Shout! . . . . . . Shout!

There's someone round about,

And through the door I see some more

And supper all laid out.

Now, run! Run! Run!

Oh, we've had such splendid fun -

Through the park in the dark,

As brave as anyone.

Laughed, we did, and chaffed, we did,

And whistled all the way,

And we're home again! Home again!

Hip . . . . . . Hooray!
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Post by mrsK »

1. You know you're over the hill when you are arranging your hair instead of combing it.

2. You know you're over the hill when your idea of a good workout is standing up.

3. You know you're over the hill when you start picking your teeth out of the popcorn.
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Post by mrsK »

Great Southern Land

Poem By Mick Leigh

Great Southern Land,

once lost in time,

drifting in Pacific seas,

guarding your secrets well.

Pristine mountains and forests untouched by man,

shaping life to preserve the earth,

and soft treading creatures that cause no harm .

Teeming rain to spur the growth for lighting fires,

which set the seed,

wandering drought when wind won't change,

to regulate the pulse of life,

and cull the mobs that feed,

so the earth may rest.

And the searing heat which make all gasp and flee,

the burning baking sun,

all is still while whirlies dance,

and tease the dry creek bed and the black

crow scurry to find the almost dead.

Flash floods that scour the plain and carry

those that died in vain,

but the desert blooms

and grass returns to feed the saved,

and so the rhythm goes on,

for the Land gives birth and death to all,

but grants no favours however small.
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Post by mrsK »

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE by C.J. Dennis

X. HITCHED

An'--wilt--yeh--take--this--woman--fer--to--be

Yer--wedded--wife?-- . . . O, strike me! Will I wot?

Take 'er? Doreen? 'E stan's there arstin' me!

As if 'e thort per'aps I'd rather not!

Take 'er? 'E seemed to think 'er kind was got

Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin'. Still,

I does me stunt in this 'ere hitchin' rot,

An' speaks me piece: "Righto!" I sez, "I will."



"I will," I sez. An' tho' a joyful shout

Come from me bustin' 'eart--I know it did--

Me voice got sorter mangled comin' out,

An' makes me whisper like a frightened kid.

"I will," I squeaks. An' I'd 'a' give a quid

To 'ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss,

An' orl the starin' crowd that Mar 'ad bid

To see this solim hitchin' up of us.



"Fer--rich-er--er--fer--poorer." So 'e bleats.

"In--sick-ness--an'--in--'ealth," . . . An' there I stands,

An' dunno 'arf the chatter I repeats,

Nor wot the 'ell to do wiv my two 'ands.

But 'e don't 'urry puttin' on our brands--

This white-'aired pilot-bloke--but gives it lip,

Dressed in 'is little shirt, wiv frills an' bands.

"In sick-ness--an'--in--" Ar! I got the pip!



An' once I missed me turn; an' Ginger Mick,

'Oo's my best-man, 'e ups an' beefs it out.

"I will!" 'e 'owls; an' fetches me a kick.

"Your turn to chin!" 'e tips wiv a shout.

An' there I'm standin' like a gawky lout.

(Aw, spare me! But I seemed to be all 'ands!)

An' wonders wot 'e's goin' crook about,

Wiv 'arf a mind to crack 'im where 'e stands.



O, lumme! But ole Ginger was a trick!

Got up regardless fer the solim rite.

('E 'awks the bunnies when 'e toils, does Mick)

An' twice I saw 'im feelin' fer a light

To start a fag; an' trembles lest 'e might,

Thro' force o' habit like. 'E's nervis too;

That's plain, fer orl 'is air o' bluff an' skite;

An' jist as keen as me to see it thro'.



But, 'struth, the wimmnin! 'Ow they love this frill!

Fer Auntie Liz, an' Mar, o' course, wus there;

An' Mar's two uncles' wives, an' Cousin Lil,

An' 'arf a dozen more to grin and stare.

I couldn't make me 'ands fit anywhere!

I felt like I wus up afore the Beak!

But my Doreen she never turns a 'air,

Nor misses once when it's 'er turn to speak.



Ar, strike! No more swell marridges fer me!

It seems a blinded year afore 'e's done.

We could 'a' fixed it in the registree

Twice over 'fore this cove 'ad 'arf begun.

I s'pose the wimmin git some sorter fun

Wiv all this guyver, an 'is nibs's shirt.

But, seems to me, it takes the bloomin' bun,

This stylish splicin' uv a bloke an' skirt.



"To--be--yer--weddid--wife--" Aw, take a pull!

Wot in the 'ell's 'e think I come there for?

An' so 'e drawls an' drones until I'm full,

An' wants to do a duck clean out the door.

An' yet, fer orl 'is 'igh-falutin' jor,

Ole Snowy wus a reel good-meanin' bloke.

If 'twasn't fer the 'oly look 'e wore

Yeh'd think 'e piled it on jist fer a joke.



An', when at last 'e shuts 'is little book,

I 'eaves a sigh that nearly bust me vest.

But 'Eavens! Now 'ere's muvver goin' crook!

An' sobbin' awful on me manly chest!

(I wish she'd give them water-works a rest.)

"My little girl!" she 'owls. "O, treat 'er well!

She's young -- too young to leave 'er muvver's nest!"

"Orright, ole chook," I nearly sez. Oh, 'ell!



An' then we 'as a beano up at Mar's --

A slap-up feed, wiv wine an' two big geese.

Doreen sits next ter me, 'er eyes like stars.

O, 'ow I wished their blessed yap would cease!

The Parson-bloke 'e speaks a little piece,

That makes me blush an' 'ang me silly 'ead.

'E sez 'e 'opes our lovin' will increase --

I likes that pilot fer the things 'e said.



'E sez Doreen an' me is in a boat,

An' sailin' on the matrimonial sea.

'E sez as 'ow 'e hopes we'll allus float

In peace an' joy, from storm an' danger free.

Then muvver gits to weepin' in 'er tea;

An' Auntie Liz sobs like a winded colt;

An' Cousin Lil comes 'round an' kisses me;

Until I feel I'll 'ave to do a bolt.



Then Ginger gits end-up an' makes a speech --

('E'd 'ad a couple, but 'e wasn't shick.)

"My cobber 'ere," 'e sez, "'as copped a peach!

Of orl the barrer-load she is the pick!

I 'opes 'e won't fergit 'is pals too quick

As wus 'is frien's in olden days, becors,

I'm trusting later on," sez Ginger Mick,

"To celebrate the chris'nin'." . . . 'Oly wars!



At last Doreen an' me we gits away,

An' leaves 'em doin' nothin' to the scram

(We're honey-moonin' down beside the Bay.)

I gives a 'arf a dollar to the man

Wot drives the cab; an' like two kids we ran

To ketch the train -- Ah, strike! I could 'a' flown!

We gets the carridge right agen the van.

She whistles, jolts, an' starts . . . An' we're alone!



Doreen an' me! My precious bit o' fluff!

Me own true weddid wife! . . . An' we're alone!

She seems so frail, an' me so big an' rough --

I dunno wot this feelin' is that's grown

Inside me 'ere that makes me feel I own

A thing so tender like I fear to squeeze

Too 'ard fer fear she'll break . . . Then, wiv a groan

I starts to 'ear a coot call, "Tickets, please!"



You could 'a' outed me right on the spot!

I wus so rattled when that porter spoke.

Fer, 'struth! Them tickets I 'ad fair forgot!

But 'e fist laughs, an' takes it fer a joke.

"We must ixcuse," 'e sez, "new-married folk."

An' I pays up, an' grins, an' blushes red....

It shows 'ow married life improves a bloke:

If I'd bin single I'd 'a' punched 'is head!
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Post by mrsK »

CJ Dennis

The Singing Garden

DUSK

Now is the healing, quiet hour that fills

This gay, green world with peace and grateful rest.

Where lately over opalescent hills

The blood of slain Day reddened all the west,

Now comes at Night's behest,

A glow that over all the forest spills,

As with the gold of promised daffodils.

Of all hours this is best.

It is time for thoughts of holy things,

Of half-forgotten friends and one's own folk.

O'er all, the garden-scented sweetness clings

To mingle with the wood fire's drifting smoke.

A bull-frog's startled croak

Sounds from the gully where the last bird sings

His laggard vesper hymn, with folded wings;

And night spreads forth her cloak.

Keeping their vigil where the great range yearns,

Like rigid sentries stand the wise old gums.

On blundering wings a night-moth wheels and turns

And lumbers on, mingling its drowsy hums

With that far roll of drums,

Where the swift creek goes tumbling amidst the ferns...

Now, as the first star in the zenith burns,

The dear, soft darkness comes.
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Post by mrsK »

The Swagman

Old Bluey was a swaggie who

had travelled on the road,

with his worldly goods all bundled.

He had no fixed abode.

Possessions swung across his back

secure in calico,

a waterproof sheet and blanket

in his swag were set to go.

Dark blue it was to hide the dirt

with clothes, needle and thread,

a dog-eared photograph or two

and memories in his head.

He carried one old tattered book,

a small essential ration.

An old tin mug swung near his chest

in a carefree fashion.

In his hand there was a billy

or water in a can.

An axe was tucked in by the side

of Bluey, near his pan.

Sometimes he would walk forty miles

in just a single day

searching for some casual work,

supplies and food his pay.

He'd drive the cattle, drive the sheep,

or maybe just chop wood,

and do odd jobs to earn his crust.

He lived best as he could.

But woe betide a squatter who

denied the swaggie food,

he'd find his land was set alight,

his fence to be renewed.

Old Bluey was a battler who

had often found it tough,

but he'd never swap his lifestyle

as freedom was enough.
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Post by mrsK »

Endangered

A dugong population lives

in Brisbane’s Moreton Bay.

They have a slow-paced peaceful life

that’s under threat today.

With numbers fast decreasing there

are less and less each year;

the birthrate’s low, they’re dying off

and soon they’ll disappear.

Hunted to near extinction

their oil was such a prize.

Their habitat’s diminishing,

pollution’s on the rise.

Propellers sometimes cut them down

when underneath a boat.

A sight we do not want to see

is dead dugongs afloat.

Once a source of native food,

they face another threat

of accidental capture

in a shark or fishing net.

They’ve bristly hairs on fleshy lips,

thick skin that’s brownish-grey,

and bodies spindle-like in shape,

three metres long I’d say.

They weigh four hundred kilograms,

have diets of sea-grass;

and like their cousins, elephants,

their population’s sparse.

So do not let harsh chemicals

escape into the sea,

clean up any rubbish.

and leave our dugongs be.
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Post by mrsK »

Disinfected

A fly from off the garbage can

lands on my kitchen bench

and leaves behind the legacy

it picked up in the stench

of germs and decomposing meat,

fish heads and rotting fruit,

from faeces of the dog next door

and other things enroute.

It bites a bit of biscuit,

crawls on a coffee cup,

and even leaves its tawdry trail

on my clean washing up.

I've scrubbed and disinfected,

I've swept and washed the floor,

so next time when you come inside

PLEASE SHUT THE BLOODY DOOR!
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Post by mrsK »

Trying to be a good father, Jack took his son Tommy to the movies. He drove uptown to the Hoyts Theater, and there they watched an exceptionally long movie.

Afterwards, as they were heading to the car, the father asked his son, "Did you like the movie, Tommy?"

"Yeah, Dad, but I think I know why they call it Hoyts Theater."

Puzzled by this comment, the father asked, "Why?"

And the little boy replied, "Because it Hoyts when you get up!"
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Post by mrsK »

A LEGEND REVISITED

Ian Mackay

There was movement in the carpark, for the word had passed around,

That the trolley from Nambour Woolies had got away;

And had joined the wild street trolleys, it was nowhere to be found,

And all the trolley boys had gathered to the fray.

There was Jason...who had had his start

In the deli...but had been demoted;

And there was Brad...who lived on chips and coke,

And was rather fat...and bloated.

There was Glennie who could push his trolleys

In the longest line of all;

And a new young chap, named Kevin,

Who stood over six feet tall.

Well they scoured the streets of Nambour,

They found two trolleys in the creek;

Fifteen wedged in gutters...and one...

In Franklins...what a cheek!

Then someone brought the dreadful news

That had the trolley boys all bitchin';

Those street trolleys were seen...heading fast...

...Down past the Howard Street Kitchen.

“Ah Rats!” said Brad, “We've lost 'em,

We may's well give up the ghost;

When trolleys head that fast down Howard Street

...They're headed for the Coast.”

But Kevin refused to chuck it in,

(Well it was his very first day);

He threw his cap down on the ground,

And he ran off for the fray.

And the trolley boys, they just watched him,

They stood there still and mute;

Then Brad saw him reach the top of the hill

And yelled “Go f'rit Kevin, you little beaut!”

Now it must be said, that, in Nambour,

........ A trolley's life is poor;

So the dream of every trolley

...Is to escape...to Maroochydore.

Kevin chased those trolleys down the hill,

He was running fast that day;

And at last he overtook them,

Out near the Bruce Highway.

He cut them off and wheeled them round.

And he said, “Now you lot, cut this crap!”

And he lined them up inside each other,

And he took out ....his octopus strap.

And the streets of Nambour all went quiet

As he wheeled those trolleys home;

Their spirits were broken, he'd done that much,

Now never more'd they roam.

Today, Kevin's name's a household word,

It's enshrined in trolley boy lore;

But he no longer walks the streets,

...'Cos he manages the store!
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The Old Australian Ways

AB Paterson

The London lights are far abeam

Behind a bank of cloud,

Along the shore the gaslights gleam,

The gale is piping loud;

And down the Channel, groping blind,

We drive her through the haze

Towards the land we left behind --

The good old land of `never mind',

And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk

Are not for such as we;

They bear the long-accustomed yoke

Of staid conservancy:

But all our roads are new and strange,

And through our blood there runs

The vagabonding love of change

That drove us westward of the range

And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro

Behind a prison's bars,

They never feel the breezes blow

And never see the stars;

They never hear in blossomed trees

The music low and sweet

Of wild birds making melodies,

Nor catch the little laughing breeze

That whispers in the wheat.

Our fathers came of roving stock

That could not fixed abide:

And we have followed field and flock

Since e'er we learnt to ride;

By miner's camp and shearing shed,

In land of heat and drought,

We followed where our fortunes led,

With fortune always on ahead

And always further out.

The wind is in the barley-grass,

The wattles are in bloom;

The breezes greet us as they pass

With honey-sweet perfume;

The parakeets go screaming by

With flash of golden wing,

And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry

Their long-drawn note of revelry,

Rejoicing at the Spring.

So throw the weary pen aside

And let the papers rest,

For we must saddle up and ride

Towards the blue hill's breast;

And we must travel far and fast

Across their rugged maze,

To find the Spring of Youth at last,

And call back from the buried past

The old Australian ways.

When Clancy took the drover's track

In years of long ago,

He drifted to the outer back

Beyond the Overflow;

By rolling plain and rocky shelf,

With stockwhip in his hand,

He reached at last, oh lucky elf,

The Town of Come-and-help-yourself

In Rough-and-ready Land.

And if it be that you would know

The tracks he used to ride,

Then you must saddle up and go

Beyond the Queensland side --

Beyond the reach of rule or law,

To ride the long day through,

In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe

You then might see what Clancy saw

And know what Clancy knew.
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Feel fat ? It's not you!

Mirror Mirror



Mirror mirror on the wall

do you have to tell it all?

Where do you get the glaring light

to make my clothes look just too tight?

I think I'm fine but I can see

you won't cooperate with me.

The way you let the shadows play

you'd think my hair was turning grey.

What's that you say, a double chin?

No that's the way the light comes in.

If you persist in peering so

you'll confiscate my facial glow.

And then if you're not hanging straight

you'll tell me next I'm gaining weight.

I'm really quite upset with you

for giving this distorted view.

I hate you being so smug and wise.

Oh look what's happened to my thighs!

I warn you now oh mirrored wall

since we're not on speaking terms at all

If I look like this in my new jeans

you'll find yourself in smitherines!





Jaimee Jones
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Disowned

(In memory of Emily Frances Jones nee Mitchell c.1881-1953)

I never knew Great-Grandma. She

passed on before my birth

but Grandpa said she died because

of her love for the earth.

She loved her garden manicured,

short grass all cropped and shorn,

so like the shearers sheared the sheep

Great-Grandma sheared the lawn.

One fateful day Great-Grandma took

her mower from the shed

but ran the sharpened blade across

her foot. She bled and bled.

Alas, Great-Grandma died that day

and Grandpa’s faith died too.

“The vultures came,” he said to me,

“we had the biggest blue.”

The vultures were her other sons,

the uncles now disowned,

the one’s we never visited,

the one’s we never phoned.

They wanted this, they wanted that,

Great-Grandma was still warm,

the greed was shining in their eyes.

Poor Grandpa cried a storm.

One uncle took the table while

another took the bed,

before long there was nothing left,

Great-Grandma barely dead.

The morbid scene was horrible

for outside in the mud,

they were fighting for the mower

still spattered with her blood.

Grandpa disowned his family,

‘twas all that he could do.

I wish this tale was make-believe

but sadly it is true.
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Post by mrsK »

CJ Dennis

Backblock Ballads and Other Verses

THE SILENT MEMBER

He lived in Mundaloo, and Bill McClosky was his name,

But folks that knew him well had little knowledge of that same;

For he some'ow lost his surname, and he had so much to say –-

He was called "The Silent Member" in a mild, sarcastic way.

He could talk on any subject -- from the weather and the crops

To astronomy and Euclid, and he never minded stops;

And the lack of a companion didn't lay him on the shelf,

For he'd stand before a looking-glass and argue with himself.

He would talk for hours on literature, or calves, or art, or wheat;

There was not a bally subject you could say had got him beat;

And when strangers brought up topics that they reckoned he would baulk,

He'd remark, "I never heard of that." But all the same -- he'd talk.

He'd talk at christ'nings by the yard; at weddings by the mile;

And he used to pride himself upon his choice of words and style.

In a funeral procession his remarks would never end

On the qualities and virtues of the dear departed friend.

We got quite used to hearing him, and no one seemed to care --

In fact, no happ'ning seemed complete unless his voice was there.

For close on thirty year he talked, and none could talk him down,

Until one day an agent for insurance struck the town.

Well, we knew The Silent Member, and we knew what he could do,

And it wasn't very long before we knew the agent, too,

As a crack long-distance talker that was pretty hard to catch;

So we called a hasty meeting and decided on a match.

Of course, we didn't tell them we were putting up the game;

But we fixed it up between us, and made bets upon the same.

We named a time-keep and a referee to see it through;

Then strolled around, just casual, and introduced the two.

The agent got first off the mark, while our man stood and grinned;

He talked for just one solid hour, then stopped to get his wind.

"Yes; but --" sez Bill; that's all he said; he couldn't say no more;

The agent got right in again, and fairly held the floor.

On policies, and bonuses, and premiums, and all that,

He talked and talked until we thought he had our man out flat.

"I think --" Bill got in edgeways, but that there insurance chap

Just filled himself with atmosphere, and took the second lap.

I saw our man was getting dazed, and sort of hypnotized,

And they oughter pulled the agent up right there, as I advised.

"See here -" Bill started, husky; but the agent came again,

And talked right on for four hours good -- from six o'clock to ten.

Then Bill began to crumple up, and weaken at the knees,

When all at once he ups and shouts, "Here, give a bloke a breeze!

Just take a pull for half a tick and let me have the floor,

And I'll take out a policy." The agent said no more.

The Silent Member swallowed hard, then coughed and cleared his throat,

But not a single word would come –- no; not a blessed note.

His face looked something dreadful –- such a look of pained dismay;

Then he have us one pathetic glance, and turned, and walked away.

He's hardly spoken since that day –- not more than "Yes" or "No".

We miss his voice a good bit, too; the town seems rather slow.

He was called "The Silent Member" just sarcastic, I'll allow;

But since that agent handled him it sort o' fits him now.
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Returning home from work, a blonde was shocked to find her house ransacked and burglarized.

She telephoned the police at once and reported the crime.

The police dispatcher broadcast the call on the channels, and a K-9 unit patrolling nearby was the first to respond.

As the K-9 officer approached the house with his dog on a leash, the woman ran out on the porch, shuddered at the sight of the cop and his dog, then sat down on the steps.

Putting her face in her hands, she moaned, "I come home to find all my possessions stolen.

I call the police for help, and what do they do?

They send me a BLIND policeman!"
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Post by mrsK »

A monastery decided to start a fish and chips store.

When the store opened, a client comes in, and asks one of the clerics:

are you the fish fryer?

Oh, no, the cleric answers, I'm the chip monk!
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Post by mrsK »

Be Seated



When life has dealt you an unfair hand

And you feel like you've really been cheated

Don't get irate, spit teeth and curse fate;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.

When the Devil's shat in your laundry bin

And you feel you've been unfairly treated

Don't warble and bleat, stamping your feet;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.

When you've give it a try, and it's all gone awry

And you feel like you haven't competed

Don't ponder, regret, you'll just get upset;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.

When you've give it your all, and held yourself tall

And still wound up getting defeated

Don't let it show that you've taken a blow;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.

When you've gone in headlong, and done it all wrong

And now know you should have retreated

Don't sit and lament, over time poorly spent;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.

When you've leaped from a diving board into a pool

You mistakenly thought had been heated

Remember your strengths, and do a few lengths;

Stay calm, chill out, and be seated.





Copyright; Ben Mousley
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Post by mrsK »

The Childbirth Demon



My wife gave birth last night,

But Jesus what a fuss!

All that screaming and a wailing,

You know guys - it wouldn't happen if it were us.

I told this to my missus,

Told her to take it like a man,

She fixed me with an evil glare,

Said I would understand...

"I'm going to teach you a lesson" she said,

"You'll be visited tonight,

By the female demon of childbirth,

She'll show you what it's like".

Well my wife woke the next morning,

And looked at me in bed.

And laughed, as the demon had taken my bottom lip,

And pulled it over the top of my head.





Neil O'Hara-Smith
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Post by mrsK »

Murphy's Pig



Now Paddy and Murphy were two Irish men

Who went to the market one day

They had a look round and saw pigs in a pen

For two they decided to pay

Well, on the way home with the pigs in the ute

Paddy turned to young Murph with a start

"When we get them back home, although they look cute

How will we tell them apart?"

Quick as a flash Murph stopped on the road

And jumped in the back with the swine

He bit off one's ear and his face it just glowed

"At least I will know that one's mine!"

Paddy leapt in the back and did the same thing

And the other poor pig gave a squeal

Then Murph bit its tail and it let out a wail

This treatment just did not appeal!

Paddy said "Come on Son," he spoke from the heart

"Perhaps it will make it all right

Until we can see how to tell them apart

The black pig is yours, mine's the white!"





Pimms
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Post by mrsK »

A Texan farmer goes to Australia for a vacation. There he meets an Aussie farmer and gets talking. The Aussie shows off his big wheat field and the Texan says, "Oh! We have wheat fields that are at least twice as large".

Then they walk around the ranch a little, and the Aussie shows off his herd of cattle. The Texan immediately says, " We have longhorns that are at least twice as large as your cows".

The conversation has, meanwhile, almost died when the Texan sees a herd of kangaroos hopping through the field. He asked, "And what are those"?

The Aussie replies with an incredulous look, "Don't you have any grasshoppers in Texas"?
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Post by mrsK »

Introduction

It bugs me to see city types pretending to be bushies - you know, with the flash four wheel drive, elastic sided boots and double pocketed shirts on the weekend, but back to three piece suits on Monday. This piece focuses on bush hats and the poseurs who put one on and reckon that qualifies them as "bushies".



City Wallys and Flat Hats

I moved out from the city in January this year

To make my way in country style, if not in country gear.

For I reckon you've to earn the right to wear that old flat hat,

And that don't come in just six months of life at Magpie Flat.

The missus comes from country stock from round Beaudesert way

And doesn't feel the need I feel, of dues I need to pay.

She's quite at home in hat and boots, like it was always so,

Instead of high-heeled shoes and tights and fashion tops cut low.

It's not that she was ever flashy, dressed to catch your eye,

But just that dressing city style is different by a mile.

I still work in town, you see, and wear my three piece suits,

Then out here on the weekends, slosh around in rubber boots.

I've seen too many city wallys ape the bushies ways,

Pretending that they're off the land with the real "bushies" gaze,

From shade of broad brimmed hat that's straight from flash boutique,

A hat they'd never know to use as dipper from the creek.

I'll not pretend to be the kind of man I want to be;

And when the day that finally comes when I can say "that's me"

And know that I have earned the right to wear that old flat hat,

Then that's the day I'll know that home is here at Magpie Flat.



Roger Harcourt
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Post by abbey »

This is one of my favourite threads, well done. :-4
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Post by mrsK »

abbey;774203 wrote: This is one of my favourite threads, well done. :-4


Thanks Abbey,I am pleased you enjoy the read:-4:-6

I might throw in an English poem for you.
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Post by mrsK »

The Sound of Royal Music

Henry the Eighth and old Edward the Seventh,

Louis the Ninth and the Tenth and Eleventh,

Ivan (the Tsar who did terrible things):

These are a few of my favourite kings.



Gordon Costello
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Post by mrsK »

Introduction

There are recent rumors that Julie Andrews did a Senior Citizens concert. Ms. Andrews sang a song from the Sound of Music, 'Favorite Things'. There were a few changes to the words, so here's the new song.

Wondrous Things



Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,

Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,

Bundles of magazines tied up in string,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts and hearing aids and glasses,

Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,

Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,

These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak,

When the bones creak,

When the knees go bad,

I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets, and corn pads for bunions,

No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,

Bathrobes and heat pads and hot meals they bring,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no fear of sinnin,

Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinin,

And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,

When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache, when the hips break,

When the eyes grow dim,

Then I remember the great life I've had,

And then I don't feel so bad.
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Post by mrsK »

A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales.

The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though a whale is a very large mammal, its throat is very small.

The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale.

The teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human, it was impossible.

The little girl said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah".

The teacher asked, "What if Jonah went to hell?"

The little girl replied, "Then you ask him!"
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Post by mrsK »

I Wish For You

Comfort on difficult days

Smiles when sadness intrudes

Rainbows to follow the clouds

Laughter to kiss your lips

Sunsets to warm your heart

Gentle hugs when spirits sag

Friendships to brighten your being

Beauty for your eyes to see

Confidence for when you doubt

Faith so that you can believe

Courage to know yourself

Patience to accept the truth

Love to complete your life

:-6
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Post by mrsK »

fuzzy butt;782602 wrote: The General Managers of Cascade Brewery (Tasmania), Tooheys (NewSouth Wales), XXXX (Queensland), CUB (Victoria) and Coopers (South Australia) were at a national beer conference.

They decide to all go to lunch together and the waitress asks what they want to drink.

The General Manager of Tooheys says without hesitation, "I'll have a Tooheys New."

The General Manager of Cascade smiles and says, "I'll have a Cascade Draught, brewed from pure mountain water."

The General Manager of Coopers proudly says, "I'll have a Coopers, the King of Beers."

The bloke from XXXX says, "I'll have a XXXX, the cleanest beer on the planet."

The General Manager from Carlton glances at his lunch mates and says, "I'll have a Diet Coke."

The others look at him like he has sprouted a new head.

He just shrugs and says, "Well if you poofters aren't drinking beer, then neither will I."


Godd one I like it:wah:
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Post by mrsK »

The Bronze Aussie Male

He's standing there with pie and sauce

And dribbling in a Four-X beer,

His beer-gut is on show of course,

He relives days out hunting deer.

In sweaty singlet, thongs, and shorts

(That hang half-mast on Aussie cracks)

He checks out all the real good sorts -

Reminds him of the things he lacks.

So throw a shrimp on the barbie mate,

Exaggerate the hunting tale,

It's time to top another crate -

Typical sun-bronzed Aussie male.

And when he's shot a herd of moose,

And outdone Crocodile Dundee,

His tongue - it's clear - is running loose,

He's earned a place in history.

As conquests grow and records fall,

And constant patting on the backs,

Another "one" upon the wall,

It's clear just what it is he lacks:

Some common- sense.. .humility...

A brain .... give 'im another ale;

A legend in his own mind, he -

Typical useless Aussie male.

And when at last the hunting's done.

He'll change across to politics,

Religion, football. Irishmen,

And sure-fire ways of pulling chicks.

He'll solve all of the country's woes,

And dream up schemes of dodging tax,

And clean the jam between his toes -

It's clearer still just what he lacks:

Good manners, hygiene, etiquette;

Bull-dust and bull-**** still prevail;

But oh! he is loveable yet -

Typical wonderful Aussie male.



Graham Fredriksen
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Post by mrsK »

A LEGEND REVISITED

Copyright; Ian Mackay

There was movement in the carpark, for the word had passed around,

That the trolley from Nambour Woolies had got away;

And had joined the wild street trolleys, it was nowhere to be found,

And all the trolley boys had gathered to the fray.

There was Jason...who had had his start

In the deli...but had been demoted;

And there was Brad...who lived on chips and coke,

And was rather fat...and bloated.

There was Glennie who could push his trolleys

In the longest line of all;

And a new young chap, named Kevin,

Who stood over six feet tall.

Well they scoured the streets of Nambour,

They found two trolleys in the creek;

Fifteen wedged in gutters...and one...

In Franklins...what a cheek!

Then someone brought the dreadful news

That had the trolley boys all bitchin';

Those street trolleys were seen...heading fast...

...Down past the Howard Street Kitchen.

“Ah Rats!” said Brad, “We've lost 'em,

We may's well give up the ghost;

When trolleys head that fast down Howard Street

...They're headed for the Coast.”

But Kevin refused to chuck it in,

(Well it was his very first day);

He threw his cap down on the ground,

And he ran off for the fray.

And the trolley boys, they just watched him,

They stood there still and mute;

Then Brad saw him reach the top of the hill

And yelled “Go f'rit Kevin, you little beaut!”

Now it must be said, that, in Nambour,

........ A trolley's life is poor;

So the dream of every trolley

...Is to escape...to Maroochydore.

Kevin chased those trolleys down the hill,

He was running fast that day;

And at last he overtook them,

Out near the Bruce Highway.

He cut them off and wheeled them round.

And he said, “Now you lot, cut this crap!”

And he lined them up inside each other,

And he took out ....his octopus strap.

And the streets of Nambour all went quiet

As he wheeled those trolleys home;

Their spirits were broken, he'd done that much,

Now never more'd they roam.

Today, Kevin's name's a household word,

It's enshrined in trolley boy lore;

But he no longer walks the streets,

...'Cos he manages the store!

Copyright; Ian Mackay
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Post by abbey »

Yaaaaaaay Good old Kevin.

Poor old trolley's. :-1
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Post by mrsK »

Early one morning, a mother went in to wake up her son. "Wake up, son. It's time to go to school!"

"But why, Mom? I don't want to go."

"Give me two reasons why you don't want to go."

"Well, the kids hate me for one, and the teachers hate me, too!"

"Oh, that's no reason not to go to school. Come on now and get ready."

"Give me two reasons why I should go to school."

"Well, for one, you're 52 years old. And for another, you're the Principal!"
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