But
Tho we seem to reach the turning
And the Government is yearning
To brings us swift releif, and make a cut
In the burden of the taxes,
As fond hope within us waxes
Sounds, like the knell of doom, the fatal 'but.'
Oh, that stultifying 'but'!
Every avenue is shut
That leads to that Nirvana that men must believe in still;
And a tantalising star
Gleams as ever yet afar,
As we trudge the weary, winding road that ever goes uphill.
Who can doubt the skies are clearing?
Who can doubt good days are nearing?
We are climbing from depression's gloomy rut.
Now from tax relief we'll borrow
Gladness, and, today, tomorrow
At the latest, end our sorrow surely - but -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Echuca
With wood and wool for Adelaide
The paddle boats came down
When here this spritely river maid
Built up her river town.
Flanked by the green of spreading gums,
Where trade in waxing volume comes
Her industry to crown.
Those were the careless, easy days
The days of old romance,
When men were prone to casual ways,
But she had marked her chance,
As gateway of the north and east,
To share one day the coming feast
Of this wide land's advance.
Now she, grown old in count of years,
Stays young, who dreams her fate
Is to arise above her peers
And serve a sister State,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Another Economic Riddle
I venerate economists
As very learned blokes,
But when in paradox they speak
Their meaning oft I vainly seek,
Suspecting subtle jokes.
They say the whole world's down and out;
But here's what I can't see:
If every land, beyond all doubt,
In all the world is up the spout -
Then who's the mortgagee?
Do we owe money in the moon,
Or some celestial land?
Or have we creditors in Mars,
Or other fixed and unfixed stars,
Who hold our notes of hand?
If not, why all the fuss and fret?
I've conned it o'er and o'er,
And find no clear solution yet.
If all the earth is deep in debt,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hoch Der Hausfrau!
Back to the kicthen, mein Gretchen!
Back to the scullery, frau!
You have dreamed your brief hour of a matriarch's pow'r:
But it's dishes and drudgery now.
Your head bent in humble submission,
Your back for the masculine flail,
Speak softly, and know your position,
Meek slave of the dominant male.
Back to the kicthen, mein fraulein!
Back to the post and the pans.
To that menial place marked for you in the race.
This earth and its glories are Man's
Seek you a strong master, my daughter,
And serve him; yet be not appalled:
But give him stout sons for the slaughter
When more cannon fodder is called.
Hausfrau! Hark you back to the kitchen!
Your visions of glory are vain.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Fair Exchange
Would you be much impressed, my dear,
Now you've adopted shorts,
If males like me came dressed, my dear,
In skirts, to divers sports?
With gussets, flares and pleats and things
Like that, we'd give our fancy wings
To grace the links and courts.
You should not worry very much,
Since male attire you choose,
If, with a chic Parisian touch
And taste in cut and hues,
We garbed ourselves, from neck to knees,
In crepe de chine or 'summer breeze'
Of pretty pinks and blues.
Would frills and flounces seem absurd
Upon the manly form?
I don't see why, upon my word,
Such gads, should raise a storm
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Incorrigible
The bad boy of Europe,
He stands in dire disgrace,
Crying too loud his innocence
While guilt grins from his face.
The gangster and the racketeer
Earth's honest folk disown,
And the bad boy of Europe
He walks his way alone.
In cynical dishonour
The world is not yet lost,
As the dull boy of Europe
Discovers to his cost.
Something is let to decency,
And something of fair play,
As the shameless boy of Europe
Learns, to his vague dismay.
Tho' nations yet be governed
By chiefs too worldly-wise,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Cricket Casualty
My dear, I'm awful shorry
'Bout gettin' home sho late.
I orra been in hoursh ago;
But you know how I hate
To biss a crit of micket
(Shuse me) I mean to say,
To criss a mit of bicket
Cricket! Ash right. Hooray!
In-toshicated? Nonshense!
Just need a lirrle rest.
I shush been round to Johnson's place
Lish'nin' to the Test.
Great game! It's nervish teshion
Has made me feel like thish.
You know how I like cricket
I wouldn't bit a mish.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Silver-Eye
Down among the strawberries,
Up among the plums,
Cheeping in the cherry-tree
When early autumn comes,
In our silver spectacles
And sober olive suits.
We're very, very innocent;
We wouldn't touch your fruits.
Well, maybe just a speckled one,
A windfall here and there.
But raid your precious strawberries?
Oh no, we wouldn't dare.
Behold our bland astonishment,
The charge is quite absurd!
It must have been a parrot
Or some other kind of bird.
It must have been a satin bird;
It must have been a crow.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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To the Memory of Claude Marquet
Because to him the wise gods gave
Rare gifts, to lesser folk denied,
He might have thriven, Mammon's slave,
Rich in the goods that small men crave,
But poor in all beside.
And yet, because his was the pride
Possessed by earnest men and brave,
He stayed by his weak brothers' side
And there he fought, loved, laughed and died,
And went, loved, to his grave.
Because his was the simple heart
That found small lure in pelf or praise,
For greater ends he plied his art,
And, asking little, played his part
A rich man all his days.
The simple heart, the single aim
That guided e'er his ready pen,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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It's No Joke to One Bloke
Dear Comrade: In the game of politics
A Senator gits quite enough of kicks
Without 'is photer sittin' in the press
Wot makes 'is map look like a nasty mess
A pitcher that present 'im to the mob
A fair gazob.
Me, I ain't vain, but it is past a joke
To go an' print a crook dile of a bloke
So that the mob sez, 'Is this Digger? Struth!
'E's changed a good bit since 'is flamin' youth.
We thort 'e was a better lookin' chap.
Strike! Wot a man!'
Why make me look like somethin' choice in crooks?
For, if I ain't got nothin' but me looks,
Why, gimme looks, an' bung a photer in
That gives me sex-appeal a dinkum spin
I ain't - (For w'ich remark 'e'll please excuse)
No Billy Hughes.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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