Galloping Horses
Oh, this is the week when no rhymster may rhyme
On the joy of the bush or the ills of the time,
Nor pour out his soul in delectable rhythm
Of women and wine and the lure they have with 'em,
Nor pen philosophic if foolish discourses,
Because of the fury of galloping horses.
Galloping, galloping thro' the refrain -
The lure and the lilt of it beat on the brain.
Strive as you may for Arcadian Themes,
The silks and the saddles will weave thro' your dreams.
Surging, and urging the visions aside
For a lyrical lay of equestrian pride,
For the roar of the race and the call of the courses,
And galloping, galloping, galloping horses.
This is the week for the apotheosis
Of Horse in his glory, from tail to proboscis.
That curious quadrupled, proud and aloof,
That holds all the land under thrall of his hoof.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Spring Delirium
Gold days give way to sudden rain,
But what, I ask, of that?
For I am my own man again,
And gloom comes sprawling flat.
Let grouchers grieve and nurse the hump
Because bleak winds still shout;
But I don't care a tupp'ny dump;
From zero - whoop! - my spirits jump:
The daffodils are out.
Hail bloom of golden promise! Hail!
These trumpets sing of hope.
To mock grim Winter's weakening flail
And shame the misanthrope.
All hail! And hail again, for luck.
Hence, cold and clammy doubt!
Come, Spring! Come, honey-bee and suck;
Into this heady nector tuck!
The daffodils are out!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Accent Conscious
Trouble brews along the border for the word has got around
That blokes an' coves an' coots must mind their tongues;
Out about the long dry stages
Where the willie-willie rages
Strange sounds are issuing from leathern lungs.
Vowels, consonants and diphthongs in the old bark hut take place
Of the talk of clips or cattle or 'wot won the 'urdle race.'
For the world grows regimented and the olden orders pass
With those ancient heroes that we knew of old.
Out beyond the sandy ranges
Culture grows and fashion changes
And a bloke has got to talk the way he's told.
For the craze of 'standardising' has Australia in its grip,
And Lawson's friends, Joe Wilson, and his mates have got the pip.
These old battlers, so accustomed to the old Australian drawl,
Find it hard to knuckle down to modern ways.
Tho' the purists may deride them,
'Twas their speech identified them,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bobbie' for Brotherhood
Lang syne I penned a mickle rhyme
That muckle grief brocht to my soul;
For critics said 'twas aye a crime
Nae Scottish patriot could thole
Whit way I ca'ed their honored bard,
Wi' kind intention, 'Bobbie' Burns.
Aye, mon, they smote me fine an' hard
Wi' sic' fierce words as nae yin learns
Save native sons, those braw, stern men
O' mountain crag an' heather glen.
Misdoubtin' whit my critics said,
An' sair distressed aboot my plight,
A notion cam' intil my head
To haud a Scottish plebiscite.
Forbye I passed frae Scot to Scot
Spierin' whit way they named their bard,
An' aye the same reply I got
Wi'out dispute in sic' regard;
For ilka mon gie'd answer straight
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Little People
'Twas a long bush night; and the old hut light
Shone out thro' the open door
To flood the knees of the great bush trees
And the scrub that grew before.
And, as I dreamed where the firelight gleamed,
And watched the long hours lag,
Came there to my shack Kilkenny Jack
With his fiddle in its green baize bag.
So I bade him sit and rest a bit,
And we yarned of this and that.
Pipes well alight, we watched the night
As he on his old swag sat.
'Lonesome, indade, this life we lade,'
Said he, 'Why let time drag
For me an' you?' And he stooped and drew
His fiddle from its green baize bag.
Then the scrub before the old hut door
Was people suddenly
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bench and the Blonde in Black
His Honor walked into the shop
For of shopping his Honor was fond.
Did she blush? Did her eyes indicate shy surprise
In that slim little, trim little blonde?
Did his bachelor heart miss a beat?
Did she flash him a smile as she turned?
Did his Honor smile back at this vision in black?
Said his Honor, 'The case is adjourned.'
His Honor walked into his court.
Said the advocate, 'Shop-ladies lack
Much appeal, I submit, when these dark frocks they fit -'
Said his Honor, 'I like 'em in black.
Yes, I like 'em in black when they're blonde.
And I am not concerned with the cost.
It's a question of taste; and I've no time to waste.'
Said his Honor, 'Your action is lost.'
His Honor walked into the church.
'I will,' breathed his Honor, and beamed
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ma Mammy's Done Me In: A New Theme Song
MA-A-AMMY! Ma-a-ammy!
The sun's gone east
And he's left out west
Where, in old days, the sun shone best.
Ma-a-ammy! Ma-a-ammy!
What have you done to poor ole Uncle Sammy?
You would go talkin'
In them dear ole silent days.
You would go squawkin'
Them silly ole jazz-time lays.
Ma-a-ammy! Ma-a-ammy!
Since you introdooced the din
We have done the dollars in -
Ma-Ma-Ma-a-ammy!
Say, ole lady, you did start sump'in' when you began shootin' off your mouth in the fillums. Here we was, sittin' pretty, when Al had to go an' hand you that sob-stuff an' shoot up the whole works. Say, ain't you never heard Shakespeare's wisecracks about silence being golden? I'll say it was.
The fourth largest industry in good ole U.S.A. while it kept its mouth shut! But from the minute the first squawks came out of them ole amplifiers the Britishers put the skids under us, an' we ain't stopped slidin' yet.
Who was it said that it was not until Hollywood started to say sump'in' that she proved herself plumb dumb? say, isn't that the truth?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dogs
I've never met a man who hated dogs....
One meets with all sorts as through life he jogs
The mean ones, and the vain ones, and the rash,
The foolish fellows who splash up the cash.
The brisk 'live wires,' the dull, the sodden logs -
But I have ne'er met one who hated dogs.
(I think I'm fortunate in this, somehow,
For, if we ever met, there'd be a row).
Mayhap I'm prejudiced; mayhap I'm wise
To judge a fresh acquaintance by his eyes.
But show me one who has a dogs' straight look,
And I can read that fellow like a book.
I know him for a man who'd be a friend,
A mate, a sticker to the very end.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Fred
Do you know Fred? Now there's a man to know
These days when politics are in the air,
An' argument is bargin' to an' fro
Without a feller gittin' anywhere.
Fred never argues; he's too shrewd for that.
He's wise. He knows the game from A to Z.
All politics is talkin' thro' the hat;
An' everyone is wrong - exceptin' Fred.
Fred says there ain't no sense in politics;
Says he can't waste his time on all that rot.
Trust him. He's up to all their little tricks,
You'd be surprised the cunnin' schemes he's got.
Fred says compulsory voting is a cow.
He has to vote, or else he would be fined,
But he just spoils his paper anyhow,
An' laughs at' em with his superior mind.
But when a law comes in that hits Fred's purse,
You ought to hear him then. Say, he does rouse;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Pete Parraday
Old Pete Paraday, his mind works very slow;
But, when it fastens on a thoughts, he will not let it go.
He measures it and mumbles it until an answer comes,
Just as he mumbles bits and scraps between his toothless gums.
'I likes to think a bit,' says he. 'An', thinkin', by and large
On these 'ere modrun fashions like, 'as fairly riz me garge.'
Old Pete Paraday, he thinks the joke is rich;
''Cen-TEN-ary! Cen-TEEN-ary!' Did ever you 'ear sich?
I never knowed the like,' says he: 'sich argymints as those.
The proper word is 'Century,' as any scholard knows.
An', when I makes my century, come seven year ahead,
I'll have you call it 'Century,' an' nothin' else instead.'
Old Pete Paraday, he cackles in high glee.
''Cen-TEN-ary! Cen-TEEN-ary!' Ho, lahdidah!' says he.
''Tis these 'ere modrun misses is to blame for all sich rot.
They paints their lips and plucks their brows an' thinks they knows a lot.
But I weren't hatched but yesterdee; an', sure as you're alive,
I knows,' says old Pete Paraday, 'how many beans make five.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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