Bosses Don't Seem Right' - A Christmas Monologue
The thing's all wrong (I sez to ‘im)
Now look, there's this ‘ere Monday, Jim,
Comes before Christmas. Be a toff
An' lest us ‘ave the Monday off.
‘E ‘ums an' ‘ars. An' then he's got
To talk a lot of silly rot
Abut ‘ow business binds a man;
An' ‘e don't quite see ‘ow ‘e can
Afford to give me Monday in,
Seein' he'll lose a lot of tin
Under our capit'listic plan
Which sort of binds a business man
‘Lest his competitors was bound
To give the Monday all around.
If but (‘e sez) they would agree
To let the trade ‘ave Monday free
Then ‘e would do it. There you are!
Shows ‘ow Democracy's a bar.
It's competition, don't you see,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Apt Pupil
Knockin' about (said Benny, the Tough)
By the Rocks an' Woolloomooloo,
Oh, I was a low-brow, right enough,
And a bit of a bounder, too.
Kickin' about with me larrikin band,
I was always gittin' in bad;
Till the kindly cops took me in hand,
An', lissen, I've been glad.
I was a tough when life begun,
An' me ideels was not high
Doin' the things that 'are not done,'
Disgracin' me old school tie.
Me feet was set on the downward road,
A crook I was, an' a cad,
Till the genteel cops taught me a Code
An', lissen, I was glad.
Doin' sich things as I never had ort,
Soilin' the family name,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Different Route
Say you have some great objective.
Very well. Be calm, reflective;
Make no vulgar show of vigor; 'tisn't good.
Do not rush the thing directly;
But approach it circumspectly,
As a gentlemanly politician should.
Though certain consequences hinge upon the laws you make,
Your prestige in high politics rests with the road you take.
For the common sort of fellows,
With enthusiastic bellows,
Rush about and shout their schemes in ev'ry ear;
In their shirt-sleeves, toiling, fretting,
And most vulgarly a-sweating,
Quite without a thought or care how they appear.
And if they do arrive at things a trifle in advance
Their strenuous endeavors go to prove their ignorance.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Why!
Sisters!
I've thought o'er this until my brain has blisters.
Are you, indeed, such valiant resisters
Of all the charm, the grace, the noble bearing
Of that strange creature who's condemned to wearing
A bifurcated garment, and whose hair
Is pruned, say, monthly - if mere wear and tear
Has not destroyed the crop?
Sisters, I stop
To ponder that strange statement o'er
Once more:
And, though I don't know very much about it,
Frankly, I doubt it.
For if, indeed, you have no conscious aim,
Then why, I claim,
Why, sisters, WHY,
Why the glad eye?
And, by the by,
Why that adorable, coy, cute, elusive, shy
That certain - shall we say, that certain sly
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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If It's Modern It's Right
By the Mediterranean shore,
In the days of the cohorts and legions,
When oodles of rain used to pour
O'er the old agricultural regions,
When a deluge came thundering down -
Tho' the vineyards of Rome did not need it -
Men cocked a shrewd eye
At the lowering sky
And agreed that the gods had decreed it.
And they said to themselves: 'There is not the least doubt
That's Jupiter Pluvius pouring it out.'
But the restless old world forged ahead,
And men waxed in wisdom and reason;
An in bluff, Merrie England, 'tis said,
When a deluge came down out of season,
And rotted their 'turmuts,' their 'spuds',
Mangelwursts and similar riches,
The wise of the land
Saw black magic at hand,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Milch Kangaroo
'Which reminds me,' said O'Brien
'And 'tis not a word of lyin'
Of a summertime way back in eighty-two,
Whin a felly name of Brady
An' his sister (quite a lady)
Ran a dairy up beyant in Wallaloo.
But, in place of cows like Bossy
An' Strawberry and' Flossie,
It was Kangaroo she milked - I'm spakin' true;
While his pretty sister, Mary,
Was the mistress of the dairy,
Of the dairy of the milch Kangaroo.
'Now, his neighbour, name of Cleary,
He was dape in love with Mary
Small blame to him; for sure she was a drame;
But his love he had to smother
'Count of Mary's wealthy brother
Wid his waggon-loads of Kangaroo crame;
For a clever man was Brady,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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K'Shoo
When your dose is code as barble,
Ad you sduffle all the day,
Ad your head id is behavig
Id a bost unbleased way;
When your ev'ry joid is achig
With a very paidful cramb,
When your throat is dry ad tiglish,
Ad your feed are coe and damb;
When your eyes are red ad rudding
With the dears that will cub oud;
You cad safely bake your bind ub
There is very liddle doubd.
You've got a code - a code
Ad idfluedzal code;
You cahd tell how you coughd id,
But id's a got a good firb hode.
Your face is whide, your eyes are pigk,
Your doe is red ad blue;
Ad you wish that you were
Ah -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Christmas Scene
To this green place the tourists troop,
By twos, by threes, and group by group,
Lads in bright blazers, girls in slacks,
Hikers with rucksack on their backs.
And bush ways, till their advent stilled,
With joyous shouting now is filled
'Cooee!' each gay town-dweller cries,
And counts himself full forest wise.
An old grey bushman lounging by
Marks the sophisticated cry
And smiles a little as he says,
'The city folk got real queer ways.
What's this here 'cooee' mean at all?
Seems like a kind of mating call.
Childish they seem.' He smiles again,
The wise one in his own domain.
Here's his revenge for all he meets
Of stares and smiles in city streets,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Anzac Square: What The Digger Said
Said the Digger: 'Soon forgot! Soon forgot, the deeds of war.
Better so, may be. . . Why not?
Beauty fades and laurels rot;
Last year's roses are no more.
Fame?' the one-armed Digger said,
'What of glory when you're dead?'
'Stone and brass,' the Digger said. 'Stone and brass: tho' these endure,
Marble flaunting o'er my head
Would be dead, as I'd be dead.
How may any man be sure
That the hearts of men shall hold
Memories of tales once told?
This alone I surely know: earth I am, and earth shall be,
Only Mother Earth can show,
When I go where all men go,
Aught of this that had been me.
Mother Earth, once stained so red,
She must know,' the Digger said.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 5 - Mr Mead The Printer
'Mr Mead, the printer' - so the townsfolk called him;
But never in his presence since his reign began;
Such a plain, plebeian title would most surely have appalled him
Felix Mead, Esquire, the literary man.
Down the street each morning to the office of The Banner
Crazy little tin shed - gravely he'd proceed;
Most sedate his measured gait, dignified his manner.
And all the town was very proud of F. T. Mead.
'Have you met our Mr Mead, sir? A bookman and a scholar.'
A grave man, a deep man, rarely known to laugh.
Toiling at the week's news, ever in the collar,
With his little printer's devil, single member of 'the staff.'
Toiling at the type-case, toiling at the leader;
Clothing leading citizens with fleeting, local fame:
'Got to hold the balance, sir; can't be a special pleader.
Tact, sir, tact is the secret of the game.'
He censured Mr Gladstone, and in no uncertain manner;
Vainly might the Russian Czar, the Turkish Sultan plead;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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