Aldermen and Antirrhinum
I walked out with an alderman, all on a bright spring day.
He was an august alderman, and much had he to say
Of roads and drains and bridges .... Then, as he pulled up short,
His veins stood out in ridges, his breath fled with a snort.
Then anger aldermanic came as the tempest comes;
His aspect grew satanic, his eyes stuck out like plums;
And, as it rent asunder the ambient atmosphere,
Rolled detonating thunder of civic wrath severe:
'Tear down them antirrhium! Tear down them columbine!
Or else, by gum, we'll fine 'em. We'll mulct in a fine!
I won't have antirrhinum! To Tophet I consign 'em!
Surveyors can't align 'em plumb with our buildin' line!'
(They were begonias truly; but that did not unduly
Affect his wrath unruly. The darn things weren't in line.)
'A blot on civic beauty! The Mayor must do his jooty,
An' have them antirrhinum abolished, or resign!'
Then, as his rage he swallowed, and joined the traffic's stream,
I diffidently followed, and sought to change the theme.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Merry Sportsmen
'Arry an' me is bits of sports;
When the summer comes around
We gits our sweaters an' guns an' shorts
An' we seeks out 'untin' ground.
Tennis an' 'ikin' we reckons tame;
So we shuns the cissy push
An' goes in more for a 'e-man sport
Shootin', out in the bush.
Week-end 'fore last we 'ad some fun
Close up to a record day;
For a real good bag fell to each gun
Pea-rific, that's to say.
But the gem of it all was that darn fool bird
I got while 'e's 'avin' a barf
At the edge of a pool. 'E looked absurd.
Chee! 'Arry an' me did larf!
By lunch I'd potted a decent bag:
Three parrots, a thrush an' a jack,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 21 - Mr Woolin-Wister
Mr Woolin-Wister was assistant at the store,
He had an air of breeding, and the kind of clothes he wore
Were very, very natty and exceedingly correct;
For every single day he was habitually decked
In the very latest fashion; and he had a roving eye
That wakened many a smile demure and many a gentle sigh.
For, whenever he sought to 'twit' them, then the ladies straight began:
'Now, Mr Woolin-Wister! Oo, you are a naughty man!'
He wore a wide straw-decker with a pretty colored band;
His pants - the shepherd plaid ones - were the tightest in the land,
He wore a braided coat, with vest - in summer-time a sash -
And a set of heavy sideboards and a very large moustache;
His hair combed on his forehead in a very genteel 'slick,'
He made just the perfect masher with his silver-headed stick,
And thro' the street, when he walked out, the female titters ran:
'There is Mr Woolin-Wister. Oo, he is a saucy man!'
His linen is immaculate. His broad stiff-bosomed shirt
Upheld a three-inch collar; and he was a fearful flirt.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Mellowing Of Joe
When the Laborites and Liberals are bickering,
Are a-calling and a-bawling in the House,
And the strangers in the gallery are snickering,
As the members rear on end and loudly 'rouse,'
There's a voice they miss amid the vocal thundering,
A voice that led the howl a while ago.
And the people in the precincts are a-wondering
What has happened to the erstwhile acid Joe.
For no longer does he lead his noisy following
With a cheering or a sneering to the fray;
But they watch him sitting silently a-swallowing
All the gibes they hurl at him across the way.
And, as others mark his silence 'mid the bellowing
And the bawling of the blatant party cry,
Then they realise that Joseph is a-mellowing;
He's a-mellowing as time goes by.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Hacking Song
Yes, it's tryin', Mrs Gudgits. Very tryin', as you say.
To 'ave a 'usban' on yer 'an's not only night but day.
An' so I can't go out with you, much as I wisht I could;
For me Jack is in there, gaspin' an' 'e's feelin' none too good.
With 'is ''Ack! 'Ack! 'Ack!' Lor! I bangs 'im on the back
An' 'e curses me a treat for my stoopidity.
''It a man,' 'e sez, 'wot's sick!' Oh 'is temper's awful quick,
An' it ain't so much the 'eat as this youmidity.
Oh, I tries to in-ter-est 'im in the topics of the day,
An' I reads 'im from the noos wot Musserlini 'as to say
But 'e sez, 'If Musserlini 'ad me bronkil choobs an' chest,
'E'd 'ave somethink else to think about, an' give 'is was a rest.'
Then it's, ''Ack! 'Ack! 'Ack!' till 'is face is nearly black,
But 'e manidges to say, with much acidity,
'Blowin' peaceful blokes to death - 'Then 'e stops fer want a' breath.
An' it ain't so much the 'eat as this youmidity.
Then I reads the weather forecask - all about the low an' 'igh,
An 'ow they sez most like the change is passin' Melbun by
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Yarra Flats
A spieler came to Yarra Glen upon the Yarra flats;
He wore a suit of noisy cheeks and something cute in hats.
He was a wicked man, they say,
Such as they grow down Melbourne way.
A spieler gay,
From Melbourne way,
Who sought for Yarra flats.
He taught them an amusing trick with three elusive cards;
But with suspicion such vain things the Yarra flat regards.
And then, with fingers mighty quick,
He tried them with the thimble trick.
A nimble trick,
The thimble trick,
As tricky as the cards.
But still the stolid natives stood, and let him have his say,
But always changed the subject when he wanted them to play.
They were not parting with their 'dough.'
'But now,' said they, 'give us a show.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bird - Seed
Old Pete Parraday, he isn't very wise
Or so the local gossips say - They love to criticise
His crazy views and values, and the things he counts worth while.
'Better had he saved his money,' say his critics, with a smile;
'And not become a pensioner with all his silly chat
Of finches, wrens and robins, and such trivial thngs as that.
It's livin' lonely all these years has filched his brains away.'
'An' left me kind o' peacefuller,' grins old Pete Parraday.
Old Pete Parraday, he sits beside the road
Resting from the hefting of his week-end load:
Bread and meat and groceries to serve his simple need,
And a tiny paper packet with the tag, 'Bird Seed.'
'I allus gits three-pennyworth - I've never needed more
For them there little Pommy-birds wot hops about me door
Goldfinches, starlings an' stranger-folk like they
Wot ain't brung up to grubs an' things,' says old Pete Parraday.
'The robins likes their meal-worms; the blue-wrens tackles grubs;
Grey thrushes goes for take-alls like the boozers goes for pubs;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Censor
The Censor sits behind his desk,
And smiles a censored smile;
His great, blue pencil hovers o'er
Some masterpiece awhile,
Then swoops - oh, child of whose poor ravished brain?
Coldly another innnocent is slain!
The Censor is a murderer.
None knows his secret lair,
Nor all the dark and awful deeds
He does in ambush there.
No eye has seen his charnel-house - it's floor
With literary corpses littered o'er.
The Censor is a crocodile.
Beneath that slimy flood,
The Waters of Oblivion,
He seeks his livelihood.
His gloating eye marks children of my pen;
He draws them under from the sight of men.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bert
Did you ever meet Bert? 'E's all over the town,
In offices, shops an' in various places,
Cocky an' all; an' you can't keep 'im down.
I never seen no one so lucky at races.
Backs all the winners or very near all;
Tells you nex' day when the races are over.
'E makes quite a pot, for 'is wagers ain't small;
An' by rights 'e 'ad ought to be livin' in clover.
But, some'ow or other - aw, well, I dunno.
You got to admit that some fellers is funny.
'E don't dress too well an' 'is spendin' is low.
I can't understand wot 'e does with 'is money.
'E ought to be sockin' a pretty fair share;
An' tho' 'e will own 'e's a big money-maker,
'E don't seem to save an' 'e don't seem to care
If 'e owes a big wad to 'is butcher an' baker.
'E don't tell you much if you meet on the course;
But after it's over 'e comes to you grinnin',
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mac
In every little country place, all up and down the land,
From ageing cradles of the race to Never-Never Land
From the towns about the cities to the little towns out back,
There dwells a man of all trades; and he's mostly known as 'Mac.'
He's dwelt there since the Lord knows when and never seems to die;
And everybody, now and then, when his present job is thro' -
And twenty other little jobs that he has still to do.
A plumbing job, a painting job, a bit of fence to mend;
They want him in a hurry; and he's everybody's friend.
Kettle-mending, carpentry, a bit of scrub to cut -
There's nothing comes amiss to him - a door that will not shut,
A safe that will not open, or a roof that hangs askew,
A plough to mend, a pump to tend - there's nothing he can't do.
He has never learned a single trade, yet somehow has the knack;
And, no matter what the trouble is, it's safe to send for 'Mac.'
He never makes much money, yet he never seems to care,
Tho' a dozen jobs await him, he has heaps of time to spare -
A friendly yarn, a cup of tea, a piece of sage advice,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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