Brown's Tram
A city clerk was Henry Brown,
Whose suburb knew nor tram nor train;
And ev'ry morn he walked to town.
From nine till five, with busy brain,
He labored in an office dim.
Each eve he walked out home again.
And all this tramping seemed to him
A waste of time, for, 'mid the strife,
He could not keep his lawn in trim.
It clouded his domestic life -
This going early, coming late -
And much distressed his little wife.
Then some wise man declared the State
Should put in trams, and for this scheme
Brown was a red-hot advocate.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Heart of the Dove
Say, Bo, this little Yewropean war
It grieves our gloryus nation to the core
The vurry core of its great, strang, red heart,
We're tur-ble sore:
That's what.
We got
A reel sawft heart.
Naw, son! we air not takin' any part.
We figgered that ahl out, right from the start.
The great american nation stan's aside:
She keeps apart
An' jaws,
Becaws
We gat our pride.
But don't yew figger ahn no fancy paly
With Uncle Sam; he's ready for th efray.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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War Song
Sing a song o' Hempire
Mother's took a fit,
Nasty Germans buildin' ships,
An' never mentioned it.
Buildin' beastly warships,
Quite a tidy few;
Mother's got an awful start
Baby's got it too.
The King was in the Customs House,
But couldn't find a penny ;
The Lords were at their country seats
And didn't offer any;
A millyun paupers mooned about
With nothin' much to eat,
When down comes Australyer
With a Dreadnought fer the fleet.
Sing a song o' Warships,
'Orrid ole Bulow,
Layin' down 'is Dreadnoughts
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Goophic Phantasm
Tho' I own I have no adequate proofs
Of this queer tale of the quaint old Goophs
The Goophs who dwelt in the land of Guph
Still, I think it's a credible tale enough
When applied to Goophs; tho' it's realised
That it couldn't occur to the civilised,
Sane men like us, for it's quite absurd,
And the silliest tale that ever you heard.
To us, 'tis a fantasy vain. But then,
Of course, we're superior, normal men.
Now a peaceful Gooph, when a-stroll one day,
Looked over a fence in a casual way;
And realised he was staring hard
At a pile of stones in a neighbor's yard.
'Now what,' thought he, 'are the stones there for?'
Then he suddenly shouted, 'My, this means war!
That pile in there is the very stuff
We use for war in the land of Guph!'
And from that day forth his strength was spent
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Work or Reflection
Now, I always have preserved a certain attitude
Quite definite in reference to Work
('Tis futility concealing
That I have the Weary Feeling
And tendency perennial to shirk)
Still, I always strive to recognise the principle
That earnest, steady toil is ever best;
So that, having recognised it,
Not to say idealised it,
I would fain lay down my pen and take a rest.
For, you understand, to recognise a principle
Is patently a virtue in itself.
After that you have the option,
Of its strenuous adoption,'
Or the placing of it gently on a shelf.
For myself, I'm forced to own that though my theory's
A thing of beauty, even in the rough,
Dearth of cash supplies good reasons,
With the Passing of the seasons,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Defence
Not guilty, yer Honers! I talks to yer straight!
An' I calls it a pretty crook game
An' an 'og of a thing, if the coppers should bring
Such dishonor as this on me name
On me name that 'as stood fer up'oldin' the good!
It's enough to make any bloke weep!
An' the goods as they says I received - spare me days!
Don't I tell yer I bought 'em dirt cheap!
Yes, I bought 'em dirt cheap; an' I says to the Bench,
As a man 'oo acts honest an' square,
That me solid defence is poun's, shillin's an' pence,
An' I arsts yer to deal with me fair.
Fer it's more than a joke when a square-livin' bloke
Is 'ad up fer committin' a crime;
Fer the JOHN, 'ere, 'e swears to the goods, an' declares
As I knoo they was pinched at the time.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Chase of Ages
Light of my lives! Is the time not yet?
Lo, I've brooded on a star
Through many a year, with the hope held dear
That, in some future far,
I would know the joy of a love returned.
Are my lives lived vainly, all?
Since that cosmic morn when life, now-born,
First moved on this mundane ball?
Yea, I mind it yet, when first we met
On a tertiary rock,
Flow the graceful charm of your rudiments
Imparted love's first shock.
But I was a mere organic cell
In that early eocene,
While you were a prim, primordial germ,
And the mother of protogene.
So I loved and died, and the ages sped
Till the time of my second birth;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Impervious Iceberg
I saw him stand, a Polar man,
Cold anger in his frigid eye,
Facing it wild, unruly clan
Who poised their fiery shafts on high.
Strangely, his very coldness fed
The angry flame 'gainst such as he;
For in his wintry face they read
Antarctic immobility.
The niveous hauteur of that face
Bespoke the brumal inner man;
And, in its chill hyemal grace,
His pose was quite Siberian.
His haughty and hibernal gaze
Seemed like twin icicles to strike.
The whole man was, in many ways,
Peculiarly cucumber-like.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Cab Horses' Story
Now, you wouldn't imagine, to look at me,
That I was a racehorse once.
I have done my mile in - let me see
No matter. I was no dunce.
But you'd not believe me if I told
Of gallops I did in days of old.
I was first in - ah, well! What's the good?
It hurts to recall those days
When I drew from men, as a proud horse should,
Nothing but words of praise:
Oh, the waving hats, and the cheering crowd!
How could a horse help being proud?
My owner was just as proud as I;
I was cuddled and petted and praised.
My fame was great and my price was high,
And every year 'twas raised.
Then I strained a sinew in ninety-nine,
And that's when started my swift decline.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Warning to Ladies
Deah Ladies,
Let me wawn you, theah are feahful taimes to come,
And a mos' ter-ific strugge is at hand;
And we have no taime to speah
If we wish to do ouah sheah
To defend, like Joan of Awk, ouah native land.
Foah a really fraightful monstah is preparing to devouah
All that's uppab-clauss and propah and quaite naice;
And if we should be behaind
In the battle aye shall faind
All ouah priveleges vanish in a traice.
O, it makes me shuddah, ladies, when Ai ventuah to reflect
On the ravages this mongstah contemplates.
He will break up all ouah homes,
And where'er the creatuah roams,
We'll be sundered from ouah lawful Tory mates.
We'll be tawn from ouah poah husbands in a most fe-rocious way,
0, deah ladies, can you realise ouah lot?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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