The Over-Fed Fuse
He has made many meals
On the Lib'rals of late,
And the way that he feels
May be judged by his state;
For the fact that he has indigestion
Is needless, almost, to relate.
In the Kingdom of wade
He has eaten with zest;
That is plainly displayed
By the girth of his vest
Now he's hungrily eyeing McGowen
And Dacey and some of the rest.
With repletion he's sighed
In the south cabbage plot,
For he's quite satisfied
With the feed he has got;
For the Libs, they were many and juicy,
And lo, he has gobbled the lot.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Song of Insane Gardener
Oh, I dance upon the lawn in the cold, white dawn,
And I gloat upon the corpses of a countless million slain;
Where the frost about my feet spreads its winter winding sheet
There I chuckle and I chortle as I chant my mad refrain;
'Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead,
Benzole couldn't kill 'em; but they're dead, dead, dead.'
Men have said I went insane when the Summer brought its bane:
Beetle, bug, and butterfly, weevil, wog and worm,
And a thousand million thrips with my garden came to grips
Plus a plague of things that fly and creep and crawl and squirm.
Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead,
They sneered at 'em, and leered at 'em, and gaily gorged ahead.
They fell upon my fancy phlox, hyacinths and hollyhocks;
Amaryllis, antirrhinum, lupin, lily, all were lost.
All my garden's vanished glory now remained a sorry story,
While, dismayed, I sprayed and sprayed and reckoned not the cost.
Lime and sulphur, Paris green, arsenate of lead -
Vain were these till nights afreeze dire destruction spread.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hist!
Hist! . . . . . . Hark!
The night is very dark,
And we've to go a mile or so
Across the Possum Park.
Step . . . . . . light,
Keeping to the right;
If we delay, and lose our way,
We'll be out half the night.
The clouds are low and gloomy. Oh!
It's just begun to mist!
We haven't any overcoats
And - Hist! . . . . . . Hist!
(Mo . . . . . . poke!)
Who was that that spoke?
This is not a fitting spot
To make a silly joke.
Dear . . . . . . me!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Different Meaning
It is truly as lucid as lucid can be;
It is plain as the nose on your face
Though the tactics may be a disgrace, don't you see,
The tactician is not a disgrace.
He may wobble and swerve and crayfish and curve
It is all of it part of the game
But you mustn't say 'Wobbler,' for, prithee, observe
That the meaning is not quite the same.
One might carry this argument ever so far
There is not the least good in denying
That though a man's talk may be lies you must baulk
At describing the talker as 'lying.'
His work may be slow, but it's nonsense, you know.
To declare that the man's a 'slow worker.'
And it he should shirk in the House all his work
'Twould be foolish to call him a 'shirker.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Playtime
Brothers!
(I address myself to that chosen few - which includes you,
My dear reader - who
Are men of understanding, bright intellect and horse-sense, and to no others).
Brothers!
There comes one little period in the day
When each of us may say,
'Away!
Away with care and thoughts of toil and stress and pain!'
And, as we journey home in car or tram or train,
Let us leave office worries far behind,
Banish domestic troubles from the mind,
And just go gay.
Say,
Once a day,
For just a few brief minutes let us play.
Let us be joyous, and, with quip and quirk,
Forget the drudgery of daily work,
And, from this daily column
Banish the somnolent, the sad, the solemn.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 9 - Long John, The Snob
Long John McDougal, the wax-end and leather man,
Solon of the main street, full of curious lore,
Keen-eyed and frugal, politician, weather man,
Pegging there, or stitching by his shop front door;
Keen-eyed and frugal, Long John McDougal
Talked as he toiled there, or harked to others' woes,
With his tousled old grey head and steel-rimmed spectacles,
His old steel spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Long John the leather man: boots, bridles any a thing
Fashioned out of leather, could his wise hands mend.
'Cease your foolish blether, man! For I have cobbled many a thing
Cobbled it and cured it wi' me strong wax-end.
Cease your foolish blether, man. 'Tis Long John, the leather man
Has shod the feet of half the town, an' no complaints from those.'
And his old head would waggle and his steel-rimmed spectacles
His smeared old spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Long John, the cobbler, sets aside his sowing owl,
Sets aside his apron and gives his hands a rub,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Our Black Brudder
O, fellow Australians, listen, attend:
We must cease our contemptuous swearing
And cursing and sneering at Bull's colored friend,
For our attitude's too overbearing.
It is perfectly right we should keep ourselves white
But contemnpt is a national blunder.
Be as nice as you can to the camel-train man,
And speak like a friend to Ram Chunder.
When a spindle-legged heathen comes round to the door
With the bundle of commerce, disturbin'
The peace of your home, he'd be hurt if you swore
Or attempted to knock off his turban.
When the smiling Ah Wong, from the isle of Hongkong,
A loud smell and some cabbages hawking,
Makes eyes at your missus, 'tis certainly wrong,
To indulge in discourteous talking.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 10 - Big Doc Littlejohn
Big Doc. Littlejohn, and ugly man and tall,
He wasn't very graceful, no part of him was small;
Big, frame, big head, huge hands, and red;
But gentle as a woman's as he stooped above the bed,
His great voice muted and the jaw out-thrust
And something there behind his eyes that captured human trust -
Big John Littlejohn, who drove until he died,
In his abbot buggy to the farms outside.
The family physician and the family's true friend;
No household in that wide, new land but loved him to the end;
And the old, fat midwife revered him as a saint:
'Sent straight from God, me dear,' says she. 'A human man she ain't.
No human flesh could bear it, no heart withstand the test,
The slavin', drivin', day an' night with no full hour of rest.'
But Big John Littlejohn, with one of his tired smiles,
Climbed in his abbot buggy for another seven miles.
He'd never met a vitamin, he seldom sought a knife;
But he healed full many a body and he saved full many a life.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hakim Kahn
When first I found this forest place
More years ago than I can tell,
I met a man of alien race
And came to know and like him well;
A humble hawker, spare and tall,
Dark faced, a handsome, bearded man;
And often now bush folk recall
The kindly smile of Hakim Khan.
He plied his trade in ways remote,
Where bush-wives pawed his varied stock:
A working shirt, a winter coat,
Socks, handkerchiefs, a cheap print frock.
They chaffered with him till, at eve,
With well-fed horse and well-kept van,
Sim Jackson's block, by Jackson's leave,
Served as camp for Hakim Khan.
And many a talk and many a tale
We had together long ago.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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