Frankenstein
We roam about the countryside
And view the farmlands rolling wide
A picture surely this of peace, of planty.
We mark within these sylvan scenes
The whirr and clatter of machines
That help one man to do the work of twenty.
We mark the orchards fruited deep,
The flocks of well-contented sheep,
The drowsing kine all corpulent and sated.
We gaze with gladness undisguised,
And thank our stars we're civilised;
Yet long for life a shade less complicated.
For birds, now vocal in the trees,
And beasts, with grass about their knees,
Accept in simple wise the gifts abounding,
But, of all creatures, man alone,
The brainiest being ever known,
Must scratch his head and fall to self-confounding.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Handicap
I think I should suit, for I've knowledge minute
Of all tickets, time-tables, and trains;
All speedings and slowings and comings and goings
Are deeply impressed on my brains.
I know just how long the express to Geelong
Stops outside certain stations; and where
All the footwarmers go when the winter winds blow.
So I think I am qualified there.
I can find you a porter, or see that your daughter
Leaves safely for Sydney. My list
Of refreshment-room fare is exclusive and rare
I can tell you what trains you have missed.
I can find little Willie, or mind little Millie
While Mother, with no time to spare,
Goes to buy her a bun. I can tell you what won
All the races. I'm competent there.
I have knowledge unique of what days in the week
Trains stop at your station - or not.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Erb
Do you know 'Erb? Now, there's a dinkum sport.
If football's on your mind, why, 'Erb's the sort
To put you wise. It's his whole end and' aim.
Keen? He's as keen as mustard on the game.
Football is in his blood. He thinks an' schemes
All through the season; talks of it an' dreams
An' eats an' sleeps with football on his mind.
Yes: 'Erb's a sport - the reel whole-hearted kind.
'A healthy, manly sport.' That's wot 'Erb says.
You ought to see his form on football days:
Keyed up, reel eager, eyes alight with joy,
Full of wise schemes for his team to employ.
Knows all about it - how to kick a goal,
An' wot to do if they get in a hole.
Enthusiasm? Why, when 'Erb gets set
He is a sight you couldn't well forget.
There ain't a point about it he don't know
All of the teams and players, top to toe.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ethics for Infants
Now, children, in this lesson of a rather novel sort
Let us dwell, however briefly, on the moral phase of sport,
Taking cricket, for example, and those vague unwritten laws
Which, when observed, bring harmony, and help the noble cause
Of sportsmanship; but, understand, opinions given here
And rules of conduct specified are just as they appear.
To me and sundry others who see eye to eye with me
While 'tis candidly admitted other folk may disagree.
Eample one: When bowling we'll suppose, without intent,
You hurt a batsman badly so that half his strength be spent.
Now, the law, as I conceive it; is to give the man a chance
And to treat him rather gently while he flounders in trance.
That's sportsmanship, true sportsmanship as it appears to me;
Tho', as I have remarked before, some folk may disagree.
They would set a leg trap for him and attack him out of hand!
But that's a trick that you and I could never understand.
Example two: When bowling you have got a batsman out
But the umpire has not seen it, and the issue is in doubt;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Broken Sanctuary
I 'ad been bushed in city streets,
Where the bricks and mortar grow.
I 'ad worked me way through the northern towns
'Oo's landmarks I don't know.
There was faces, faces, driftin' past,
But never a one I knoo.
An' I never 'ad felt the need so great
For a reel good mate an' true.
A lonely man in the Outback lands
Is a lonely man, all right.
Yet 'e 'as the sky an' the birds by day
An' 'e 'as the stars by night.
But a lonely man in a crowd o' men
Is the loneliest of all,
An' that's 'ow come I 'ad a few;
An' that's 'ow come my fall.
Fer I sez to meself, 'I'm a stranger 'ere,
An' there ain't a soul I know.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Armistice Day 1933
This we have said: 'We shall remember them.'
And deep our sorrow while the deed was young.
Even as David mourned for Absolem
Mourned we, with aching heart and grievous tongue.
Yet, what man grieves for long? Time hastens by
And ageing memory, clutching at its hem,
Harks back, as silence falls, to gaze and sigh;
For we have said, 'We shall remember them.'
'Age shall not wither...' So the world runs on.
We grieve, and sleep, and wake to laugh again;
And babes, untouched by pain of days long gone,
Untaught by sacrifice, grow into men.
What should these know of darkness and despair,
Of glory, now seen dimly, like a gem
Glowing thro' dust, that we let gather there?-
We who have said, 'We shall remember them.'
Grey men go marching down this street today:
Grave men, whose ranks grow pitifully spare.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Old Man Muses
Can it be I - this Hindenburg, deferring
To demagogues, catch phrases, lucky charms
And all this mummery about me stirring?
Can it be I, lord of high feats of arms,
Smiling complancence on a rabble's blunders,
Counting a mountebank amongst my peers
I, who commanded with the voice of thunders?
Ah, what a role betrays me with the years!
Can it be I - condoning, cavallering
This sorry paint-and-tinsel paladin.
This braggart upstart, raging, racketeering
Like some cheap western gangster 'muscling in,'
Apeing the arts in which I loomed a master:
Acting with arms as children play with toys:
Mouthing fierce phrases, pregannt with disaster,
To lure brief loyalty from brain-sick boys?
Can it be I who saw the vision splendid
Shaping before these ageing eyes of mine,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Aesthete in the Avenue
Within the wooded avenue I stood,
And I was proud.
I looked upon the scene and found it good;
For here, I vowed,
Reigned Beauty rare. Sweet praises filled my mouth
For this, the loveliest city of the south;
Yet not a soul could hear,
Altho' my lyric praise with fervor flowed;
For, as I spoke, there rumbled down the road
A lorry-load of beer.
I tried again. I spoke of civic pride,
Aesthetic joy.
With those rare phrases, culled from far and wide,
Poets employ.
I waxed in aphoristic ecstasy,
Hymning the loveliness of sky and tree;
Yet not a single soul
Gave heed to me; for sudden thunders grew
As round the bend there lumbered into view
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Triantiwontigongolope
There's a very funny insect that you do not often spy,
And it isn't quite a spider, and it isn't quite a fly;
It is something like a beetle, and a little like a bee,
But nothing like a wooly grub that climbs upon a tree.
Its name is quite a hard one, but you'll learn it soon, I hope.
So try:
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope.
It lives on weeds and wattle-gum, and has a funny face;
Its appetite is hearty, and its manners a disgrace.
When first you come upon it, it will give you quite a scare,
But when you look for it again, you find it isn't there.
And unless you call it softly it will stay away and mope.
So try:
Tri-
Tri-anti-wonti-
Triantiwontigongolope.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Quest for Tophet
'Twas a hell of a Hell they glimpsed, my son,
In superstitious days
When cultured man had scarce begun
To shed barbaric ways:
With gridirons set above the flame
For naughty gentlemen.
Who uttered lies that earned them blame
And righteous folk condemn.
'Twas a terrible sort of a Hell, my son,
That crude man pictured then.
But picture a land laid waste, my lad,
In scientific style,
While supermen of a world gone mad
Plan forms of torture vile;
While innocent children fight for breath
In a gas-filled city's street,
And mothers of men call on kind Death
As a friend whose kiss is sweet.
If you're looking about for a Hell, my lad,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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