The Ground Thrush
I'm a business man; and I can't spare time
For this fluting and fussing and frilling.
The song of my cousin may be sublime,
But I never have found it filling.
So I run and I dig and I dig and I run,
And I'm at it soon as the day's begun,
And I never knock off till the light is done
Over the garden and lawn and tilling.
I'm a business man on my business bent,
And I've never an hour of leisure.
I have little regard for sentiment,
And I fritter no time in pleasure.
But I dig and I run and I run and I dig;
And you never see me at my ease on a twig,
Prinking and posing in holiday rig
Or trilling a tuneful measure.
I'm a business man, and I've much to do;
So the day's work must be speeded.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mother's Day
Matriarchy's coming fast,
Matriarchy's here!
Man's supremacy at last
Finds the end is near.
Since the days of troglodytes,
Man, the lord and master,
Sees his olden cherished rights,
Slipping fast and faster.
Daddy has no time to roam,
The household bills he's clearing,
Mummy's left four kids at home
And gone electioneering.
Mummy holds a sacred trust
To talk the public dizzy,
Daddy has to earn a crust,
And, gosh! it keeps him busy.
Once a chattel and a slave,
We grabbed her by her hair
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Whose Blame?
'A woman's work is never done,'
Said she.
'From dawn to setting of the sun,'
Said she.
'I toil and moil and work and slave,
And do my best to pinch and save,
And yet you say I don't behave,'
Said she.
And twenty men in twenty carts
In that suburban street
Long, long before the daylight starts
Are setting out with cakes and tarts
And fish and milk and meat
And cauliflowers, beans and bread
What time my lady lies in bed.
'All day I have to live alone,'
Said she.
'Attending to the door or 'phone,'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Happy Heathen: (With limited apologies to G.K.C.)
The heathen's not efficient;
He sits down in the sun
And doesn't care a tuppn'y dump
When the day's work's begun.
He works to eat and eats to live,
All day he'll dance and sing;
And if you mention overtime
He laughs like anything.
But we are most efficient!
And, goodness! Look at us!
Our nights are filled with restless dreams,
Our days with fret and fuss.
And we can have depressions
And modern things like that,
And monoplanes and motor cars
And trousers and a hat.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Land Shanty
Sou' sou' east, with the course set fair
Heave ho, me hearties!
On the Geelong road we're cruisin' there
Seven tars with ne'er a care
Heave ho, me hearties!
When up speaks Bill of trouble aft;
But the bos'n grinned and the skipper laughed;
An' 'e sez, 'We'll trust the queer ole craft
Heave ho, me hearties!'
Stuns'ls, mains'ls, all were set
Heave ho, me hearties!
An' the fust mate sez, 'We'll make port yet,
For the seas are smooth, so don't you fret
Heave ho, me hearties!'
But the steersman sez, 'I doubt her feel,
For she ain't responding to the wheel,
An' I got me doubts of 'r starboard keel
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Fool and the Fire
A fool and a bag in a belt of scrub,
Cloudless skies and the still hot days,
And the countryside's in a mad hubbub;
Terror is here and the world's ablaze.
Five thousand sheep went West today,
Bell's home at the crossing and Casey's pub;
And the cause of it all is a world away;
A fool with a bag who passed the scrub.
An oaf with a match in a mile of grass,
Where yesterday the skies shone clear;
But fury leapt where he came to pass;
And now, ten miles away, comes fear.
Men toil and sweat in the reeking smoke
That curling drifts to a sky of brass.
And now black ruin and homeless folk
Are toll to an oaf in a mile of grass.
If the fool be caught can the fool repay?
What is to do but build again,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Goldfinch
When dandelions star the fields
Another alien singer, I,
Nursed upon England's flowery wealds,
Seeking no tithe of treasured yields,
dropp sudden from a summer sky
To where the spangled clearing spills
Its gold about your timbered hills.
A mite in splendid motley clad,
I mark the field, I know the hour
When choicest morsels may be had;
When blooms are gay, when days are glad,
And thistledown wafts in a shower
To dance and drift and disappear,
I, who was not, am with you here.
I cling beside the thistle head,
I dance about your cattle's feet,
I revel in the banquet spread
By many a blazing yellow bed,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Band
Hey, there! Listen awhile! Listen awhile, and come.
Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum.
Bim! Boom!! Out of the room! Pick up your hat and fly!
Isn't it grand? The band! The band! The band is marching by!
Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.
Tah, rah! We don't go home -
Oom, pah! We won't go home -
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home when the band begins to play.
Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street!
Left, right! buttons so bright, jackets and caps so neat.
Ho, the Fire Brigade, or a dress parade of the Soldier-men is grand;
But everyone, for regular fun, wants a Big-Brass-Band.
The slide-trombone is a joy alone, and the drummer! He's a treat!
So, Rackety-rumph! We don't go home -
Boom, Bumph! We won't go home -
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home while the band is in the street.
Tooral-ooral, Oom-pah!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Children of the Sun
The Children of the Sun are out,
About the hills and beaches
The stolid burghers halo and stout,
The tailored sheik, the city lout,
And plain blokes with their peaches,
And dinkum coves alert and brown;
While over all the sun shines down.
The Children of the Sun are prone
To sunlight, play and pleasure;
And sober-minded mentors groan
And shake their beads and gravely moan
O'er all this love of leisure.
This lust for sport and sun they say
Will surely bring its reckoning day.
The Children of the Sun heed not,
But laugh and gather vigor,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Incubus
Who wants a nice white elephant,
Quite fit in wind and limb?
An ornament for any gent
Who can find use for him.
It won't pay us to kill the cuss;
But we can't afford his keep.
Who wants a nice white elephant?
We'll sell or lease him cheap.
Who wants a nice white elephant?
He'd make a lovely pet.
In rich, fat days we loved his way,
But in these times of fret
He's sort of grown too big for us
To fondle, groom and feed.
Who wants a fine white elephant
Of most exclusive breed?
Who wants a nice white elephant?
Of noble lineage he.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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