Emily Ann

Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
Order insulted, authority spurned,
Dread and distraction wherever he turned
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.

Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring -
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.

And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left,
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
And, at least once a minute, asked, 'What's to be done?'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Introduction: Rose of Spadgers

I've crawled; I've eaten dirt; I've lied a treat;
I've dodged the cops an' led a double life;
I've readied up wild tales to tell me wife,
W'ich afterwards I've 'ad to take an' eat
Red raw. Aw, I been goin' it to beat
A big massed band: mixin' with sin an' strife,
Gettin' me bellers punchered with a knife
An' all but endin' up in Russell Street.

I've mixed it - with the blessin' uv the church -
Down there in Spadgers, fightin' mad, an' blind
With 'oly rage. I've 'ad full leaf to smirch
Me tongue with sich rude words as come to mind,
Becos I 'ated leavin' in the lurch
Wot Ginger Mick, me cobber, left be'ind.

Don't git me wrong. I never went an' planned
No gory all-in scraps or double deals.
But one thing follered on another 'eels,
Jist like they do in life, until I land

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Seer

Somewhere or other, 'tis doubtful where,
In the archives of Gosh is a volume rare,
A precious old classic that nobody reads,
And nobody asks for, and nobody heeds;
Which makes it a classic, and famed thro' the land,
As well-informed persons will quite understand.

'Tis a ponderous work, and 'tis written in prose,
For some mystical reason that nobody knows;
And it tells in a style that is terse and correct
Of the rule of the Swanks and its baneful effect
On the commerce of Gosh, on its morals and trade;
And it quotes a grave prophecy somebody made.

And this is the prophecy, written right bold
On a parchment all tattered and yellow and old;
So old and so tattered that nobody knows
How far into foretime its origin goes.
But this is the writing that set Glugs agog
When 'twas called to their minds by the Mayor of Quog:

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Kid

My son! . . . Them words, jist like a blessed song,
Is singin' in me 'eart the 'ole day long;
Over an' over; while I'm scared I'll wake
Out of a dream, to find it all a fake.

My son! Two little words, that, yesterdee,
Wus jist two simple, senseless words to me;
An'now—no man, not since the world begun,
Made any better pray'r than that…. My son!

My son an' bloomin' 'eir . . . Ours! . . . 'Ers an' mine!
The finest kid in—Aw, the sun don't shine
Ther' ain't no joy fer me beneath the blue
Unless I'm gazin' lovin' at them two.

A little while ago it was jist 'me'
A lonely, longin' streak o' misery.
An' then 'twas ''er an' me'—Doreen, my wife!
An' now it's ''im an' us' an'—sich is life.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Faltering Knight

It knocks me can in, this ere game uv life,
A bloke gets born, grows up, looks round fer fun,
Dreams dilly dreams, then wakes to find a wife
An' fambly round 'im - all 'is young days done.
An', gazin' back, sees in 'is youth a man
Scarce reckernised. It fair knocks in me can!

Ther's me. I never seemed to mark no change
As I mooched on through life frum year to year;
An' yet, at times it seems to me dead strange
That me, uv old, is me, 'oo's sittin' 'ere.
Per'aps it ain't. 'E was a crook young coot,
While I'm a sturdy farmer, growin' froot.

But, all the same, 'e wouldn't back an' fill,
An' argue with 'imself, an' 'esitate,
Once 'e 'ad seen the way. 'E'd find the will
To go an' do the thing 'e 'ad to, straight.
That's 'ow I was; an' now-Ar, strike a light!
Life gits so mixed I can't git nothin' right.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Vision

Of things that roam about the bush I ain't got many fears,
For I knows their ways an' habits, and I've chummed with them for years.
For man or beast or gully ghost I've pluck enough to spare;
But I draws the line at visions with the sunlight in their hair.

When a man has fought an' conquered it is good in many ways:
There's the pride in having done it, an' the other fellows' praise;
There's the glory an' the standin' that you get among the men
All their looks are more respectful since I socked it into Ben.

I was feelin' fine this mornin' when I started out to work;
An' I caught myself high-steppin' with a boastful sort of jerk;
With my head a trifle higher an' my eye a little stern.
I thought the world was mine for keeps; but I'd a lot to learn.

Young Dick, the Dusty, wasn't half as cheeky as of old;
The men were actin' friendly-like, but I kept kind of cold
An' distant, as becomes a bloke who's scored a knock-out thump
Till just approachin' dinner time; an' then I got my bump.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Gallant Gentleman

A month ago the world grew grey fer me;
A month ago the light went out fer Rose.
To 'er they broke it gentle as might be;
But fer 'is pal 'twus one uv them swift blows
That stops the 'eart-beat; fer to me it came
Jist, 'Killed in Action,' an' beneath 'is name.

'Ow many times 'ave I sat dreamin' 'ere
An' seen the boys returnin', gay an' proud.
I've seen the greetin's, 'eard 'is rousin' cheer,
An' watched ole Mick come stridin' thro' the crowd.
'Ow many times 'ave I sat in this chair
An' seen 'is 'ard chiv grinnin' over there.

'E's laughed, an' told me stories uv the war.
Changed some 'e looked, but still the same ole Mick,
Keener an' cleaner than 'e wus before;
'E's took me 'and, an' said 'e's in great nick.
Sich wus the dreamin's uv a fool 'oo tried
To jist crack 'ardy, an' 'old gloom aside.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ginger's Cobber

''E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth,'
That's wot I reads. It fairly knocked me flat,
'Me soljer cobber, be the name o' Keith.'
Well, if that ain't the limit, strike me fat!
The sort that Ginger Mick would think beneath
'Is notice once. Perjarmers! Cleans 'is teeth?

Ole Ginger Mick 'as sent a billy-doo
Frum somew'ere on the earth where fightin' thick.
The Censor wus a sport to let it thro',
Considerin' the choice remarks o' Mick.
It wus that 'ot, I'm wond'rin' since it came
It didn't set the bloomin' mail aflame.

I'd love to let yeh 'ave it word fer word;
But, strickly, it's a bit above the odds;
An' there's remarks that's 'ardly ever 'eard
Amongst the company to w'ich we nods.
It seems they use the style in Ginger's trench
Wot's written out an' 'anded to the Bench.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Lonely Man

When I'm out among the fellows, with the work to hold my mind,
Then there's heaps of joy in livin' an' the world seems awful kind
Awful kind an' awful jolly, with no trace of melancholy,
An' I tell myself the bloke that don't enjoy it must be blind
When I'm out among the fellows; but, when I am sittin' here,
Dreamin' by my lonely fireside, then the world gets kind of queer.

I suppose it's how you take it: what they call the point of view;
An' a man don't look for dreamin' when there's work for him to do.
But he can't be ever toilin', an' at times he gets to spoilin'
All the joy the day has brought him - when he lets the black thoughts through.
It suppose it's livin' lonely, as a fellow never should;
For a lonely man gets broodin', and the broodin' isn't good.

It's never good, the sayin' is, for man to live alone.
But 'tain't because I like it that I'm batchin' on my own,
For a bloke must take what's goin', an' my life ain't all been growin'
Daffodils and hummin' dance tunes just to give my soul a tone.
It's muscle I've had to grow since days when I was small,
An' all the muscle that I've made is with the axe an' maul.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Git-Yer-Gun

Thus it happened .... Let me mention, lest I raise an unsought quarrel,
This occurred in times long vanished, in the land of Git-yer-gun.
'Tis a quaint, unlikely story; some folk say it has a moral;
But that's a little matter you may settle when I'm done.

Mr. Foodle led a party that was strongly democratic,
And it represented people with the Christian name of Bill.
And in all his hustings speeches Mr. Foodle was emphatic
That his crowd existed solely to uphold the people's will.

Mr. Boodle led a party that was Liberal - or Tory
(Just according to your view-point) - and it represented those
Christened (by immersion) Percy, whose hot socks proclaimed their glory;
And its policy was such as you may readily supose.

So they strove in an election .... (Now, I wish it noted plainly
That this happened years ago, and in the land of Git-yer-gun) ....

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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