The Artist and the Alderman

'Give us gardens!' said the artist,
'Blatant brick and soulless stone,
Never built a noble city.
Man lives not by bread alone,
Beauty brings, for our enrichment,
Smiling lawn and spreading tree.'
'Bricks and mortar,' said the alderman,
'Bring in more £.s.d.'

As acid and alkali,
Water and fire,
The good and the evil,
Discension inspire;
As the cat and the dog,
And the axe and the tree,
So artists and aldermen
Never agree.

Said the artist: 'Give us gardens!
So to save the civic soul,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Bouquet

Yes!!! So we will
Throw care away,
If for no other reason than that 'twill
Delight our brother.
We'll gaily 'mooch' along in tram and train,
And ever one of us will look in vain
For weary laborers of brawn or brain.
There will not be
Papers to go around. Oh yes, you'll see!...
Husbands will hurry home as if for life
Gladly to read to each delighted wife
The little things
That C.J.D. so humorously sings
All discord and all gloom we'll strive to smother,
Rejoicing that we have so bright a brother.

- Bung

To which we reply:-

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ballad of Lieges

Son of our King: When yoemen sailed
From Britain to expand her sway,
The coward from High venture quailed,
The weakling sank beside the way.
None save the strong in that far day,
The brave, stood clear-eyed at the prow
To plan such parts as venturers play.
Here be their kin who greet you now.

Britain had failed if these had failed -
Stout pioneers whose sterner clay,
Reckless of that the task entailed,
Faced the unknown with no dismay.
Out to vast wildernesses they
Blazed pain-strewn paths, for axe plough
To earn this fruitful century's pay.
Here be their kin who greet you now.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Consummation

They may be duds or they may be drones,
Or legislators heaven-sent;
But the A.L.P. for all atones
When it gets them into Parliament.
Tho' they talk sheer drivel once they're there,
Our job is done. Why should we care?

They may be mild or they may be reds,
Or 'has-beens' who have missed the bus.
But the simple job of counting heads
Is all that matters much to us.
And the job we do with wondrous ease
Is the mas production of M.P's.

So, why blame us in peevish gloom,
And charge us with this grievous sin?
They may involve the land in doom;
But our job's done; we've got 'em in.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Heigh, Ho!

Heigh, ho! But they're talking, talking,
As the cold, hard streets we're walking
Seeking work at any wage,
While the talkers rant and rage.

Says the judge: 'Let's look up section
Ninety-eight in this connection.'
'Right,' replied the advocate.
'But I submit that's out of date.'
'Sir!' the judge says, 'such things border
On contempt. You're out of order!'

Heigh, ho! But a man grows weary,
Time flies; and the outlook's dreary,
What care we for argument
When bread alone can bring content?'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bird Song

Crow
I detest the Carrion Crow!
(He's a raven, don't you know?)
He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul,
And his sanctimonious caw
Rubs my temper on the raw.
He's a demon, and a most degraded fowl.

Blue Wren
I admire the pert Blue-wren
And his dainty little hen-
Though she hasn't got a trace of blue upon her;
But she's pleasing, and she's pretty,
And she sings a cheerful ditty;
While her husband is a gentleman of honour.

Cuckoo
I despise the Pallid Cuckoo,
A disreputable "crook" who
Shirks her duties for a lazy life of ease.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Corryong

The cattle-lands of Corryong,
The maiden of the snows
(Where silver streams the winter long
Sing pleasantly their tinkling song)
Not many a town man knows.
And here sleek cattle, deep in grass,
Watch placidly the seasons pass.

Her beauty has a wondrous worth
This maiden cleanly bright
A beauty won from her rich earth
Where the great Murray has his birth,
And gathers up his might
To scatter rich fertility
On his long journey to the sea.

Her face is laved in waters clear
Snow waters dashing down.
That flash, and hide, and reappear
To feed the pastures far and near

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Beauty's Blemish

You are as young, O lady mine,
As ere you were in olden days,
Your lips are red, your blue eyes shine,
And still you have your girlish ways.
I hate to think what years have flown
Since first I praised these things, mine own.

Your frocks still have that youthful cut,
Garbing a svelte form, slim and flat.
You should be spreading, darling but
Your middle-age has brought no fat.
Indeed, you sometimes seem at nights
A flapper, seen in certain lights.

My fond eyes have surveyed you, sweet,
Thro' all these years and found no fault.
Your lustrous hair, your tiny feet
Are still perfection. Yet a halt

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cooked

What's the use?
Give it best;
Cut her loose;
Have a rest.
Hope is dead;
Gloom collects,
Nuff is said
Cook objects.

Moth and rust
Hither lurk;
All is bust,
Knock off work.
Nation's great
Architects,
Clean the slate;
Cook objects.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Care Free Bloke's Cigar

There's a little spark and a wisp of smoke
By the road where the tall gums are;
And a mile away a care-free bloke
Speeds onward in his car.
No thought of evil mars his day,
And he's well a hundred miles away
And safe at home, as skies grow grey,
With another fine cigar.

There's a spurt of flame in the breathless night
And a crackling in the scrub;
There's a withered mint-bush burning bright,
And a kindling dog-wood shrub.
For yards about the bush glows red
But the care-free bloke, his paper read,
Says, 'Bonzer day. And now for bed
After a bite of grub.'

There's a sickening roar as the fire sweeps down
From the mountainside aflame

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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