Early Morning Tea
You are growing convalescent
As pain's fingers are withdrawn;
And you waken in a strange, white room at last;
Yet your thought is aught but pleasant
In the cold, grey winter dawn,
As you realise a weakness not yet past.
Then a little sound comes creeping
From some distant inner shrine,
And you bid farewell to sleeping
At that trebly welcome sign.
'Tis the tink-clink-tinkle of a teacup,
From morbid thought imagination stirs;
And with sharp anticipation you await the glad libation
The draught of draughts the thristing tongue prefers.
And you listen for that soul-uplifting gurgle,
As from the precious pot you hear them pour
The golden brew you're craving . . . Then a weak, white hand is waving
To the white capped Sister smiling at the door.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Introducing the Day Family
Sun Day is a simple child,
Face new washed and shining;
In the morning prim and mild
Church and mid-day dining.
If, before the shadows fall,
You should find him going
Out to romp, or play at ball
Well, well. The child is growing.
Mon Day is a sulky boy.
He frowns on work and hates it.
Tho' facing life should bring him joy,
He ill appreciates it.
But Tues Day is a bright young man,
Alert, well-dressed - oh, very
Snatching pleasure where he can,
Giving girls 'the merry.'
Wednes Day, stout and middle-aged,
Seems hard-pressed and harried;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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It Isn't Cricket
Hello, old cobber. Well, what's on your mind?
You're lookin' awful gloomy and mysterious
Done in your dough? The horses been unkind?
Nobody ill? I hope it's nothin' serious.
Aw, don't be funny. Foreign what? Affairs?
Well, they ain't happ'nin' this side of the Murray.
Nothin' in my young life, them blighters' cares,
Why go so far away to look for worries?
What? League o' Nations? Look, you ain't allowed
Them sort of jokes. There's nothin' goin' to happen.
I lose no sleep about that comic crowd
A lot of glum old gaspots, always yappin'
Most of 'em foreigners! . . . Aw, boy, wake up!
That paper talk don't cause my blood to curdle . . .
Time we was concentratin' on the Cup.
Dam politics. What's fancied for the hurdle?
World politics? A grown-up cove like you!
Doin' your block that way! It's childish! Reely!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Yule Fever (With apologies to the King's Minstrel)
I must go down to the shops again, to the crowded shops go I
And all I have is a long list of the gifts that I must buy,
And a few bob in the old kick and a mere spot of credit;
For he'll trust me, so the boss said, but I hate the way he said it.
I must go down to the shops again, for the call of Christmastide
Is a stern call and a hard call that may not be denied.
And all I ask is a fair choice at reasonable prices
And a hard heart for bland blokes with blandishing devices.
I must go down to the shops again. There's gifts for Mum and Dad
And Jim's gift and Joe's gift and toy for Peter's lad.
Then all I want are gloves for Clare? And June? I'll send her roses,
And - who's next? The list says - I've lost it! Holy Moses!
But I must go down to the shops again, to the shops and the milling crowd
On a hot day and a fierce day when the skies know ne'er a cloud;
And all I ask is a fair spin 'mid the masses overheating
And the loud bawl of the bored babe, and the toy drums beating.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Chantey of Labor's Lost
There on the quay sobbed Bones, A.B.,
And he took me by the hand.
Says he to me, 'I've quit the sea
An' I'm huntin' a berth on land.
‘Er doom ‘as come; an' the days o' rum,
Salt-‘orse an' tar is over;
For these is the days of the popinjays
An' the end of the deep-sea rover
Oh,
Them tough ole, rough ole, rollicking lads
The shell-back, deep-sea rover.
'They've finished with me,' says Bones, A.B.,
'For they've finished with seamanship.
What they're shippin' of late is a milliner's mate
With a housemaid's mop on the ‘ip.
But ask ‘im the rig of a barque or a brig,
Or the toons of the chanteys sung
By a buck he-male in the days of sail
When me an' me mates was young
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Wangled by the Wayside
'Country blokes is kind,' he said,
And sat upon his swag
(I had no pipe tobacco,
So he said he'd 'risk a fag.')
'A country bloke's my sort o' bloke,
As I've had cause to find.
Them city coves is cold as mud:
But country blokes is kind.
'Now, f'rinstance, just you take yerself.
I meets you on the road,
A stranger, fur as I'm concerned
A cove I've never knowed.
An' when I sprags you for a smoke,
I'll bet you didn't mind.
You done your best; tho' fags is muck.
Country blokes is kind.
'Country hearts is rightly placed
A every battler knows.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Farewell Cable Tram
Now a sad farewell to the cable-tram,
Staunch friend of the quieter days,
That glided down thro' a leisured town
Ere the urge for speed was a craze.
We'd time to spare and we took the air
On a sociable seat outside
Calm charioteers of those peaceful years
When 'the trams' were a city's pride.
Clash! Clang! The twin bells rang,
And the grip went smoothly in.
Then we floated along to a muted song
And a dearth of hustle and din.
Untouched by the need for racketting speed
That frazzles the moderns' nerves,
Scarce heeding at all the warning call:
'Sit tight! Hold on at the curve!'
Unhurried, serene, we viewed the scene,
Or chatted with Charlie or Sam.
Oh, in spite of the rage of a jazz-mad age,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Listen, Elaine!
Listen, Elaine. Tho' I'm not mad on racing,
I like a little flutter now and then;
But I maintain you would not be disgracing
The family, or look like some old hen
If you just wore - Now, just a minute, please!
That pinkish frock - No, wait! Let me explain.
That pinkish frock with spots - You wouldn't freeze!
You've got your furs. Aw, listen, please, Elaine!
Now, look. We've twenty pounds. Don't let us quarrel.
(Surely we can be sane and quite grown-up).
If you take most of that, what of the 'moral'
That Percy Podgrass gave us for the Cup?
Of course he's sure to win. What are vain dresses
Compared - My dear! I did not call you vain!
Nor selfish either. Gosh! What married messes
Start over clothes, and - Listen, please, Elaine.
We're partners, aren't we? Well, then, listen, darling.
We might discuss this calmly, don't you think?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Affable Alf
Have you heard the inscrutable mutable Alf,
The mannerly man with the silvery tongue?
Ever loquacious,
Smiling and gracious.
Loud in the land have his praises been sung.
He has magnetised all with his eloquent speakin'
The Great oratorical oracle, Deakin.
His somewhat sporadical radical speeches
Have over-persuaded us all, and his style
His easy urbanity
Tickles our vanity;
And we are won by his affable smile.
He captivates all with his eloquence sinister,
Does the persuasive, evasive Prime Minister.
His fine pyrotechnical technical phrases,
His grand perorations, exordiums, too,
'Spite their obscurity,
Are of a purity
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In Time
'In good time, when I am ready,
Wondrous schemes shall I unfold;
But we must be cautious, steady,
Cleaving to the safe and old.
Patience, prudence must prevail;
They who venture often fail.'
Thus the politician, weakly
Of the big things of the State;
While the patient public, meekly
Wait, and ever hopeful, wait;
While he slyly woos their vote
With shrewd turnings of his coat.
But, in time, when other people
Populate this troubled world,
Lo, from housetop and from steeple,
Futile curses will be hurled
Curses on the shiftless ones,
Feckless robbers of their sons.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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