An Inequitable Impost

The first one with conviction penned:
“This conflict in seven weeks will end.”

Another, later in the war,
Gave Germany just one month more.

Since then I’ve read predictions free –
They dribble in unceasingly.

All wrong. And still the critics say
When it will finish to the day.

Hughes should get cash in mighty sacks
From his proposed War Prophets Tax.

poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Auction

'Who'll bid? Who'll bid? ' the question rang
Where throned Death was calling.
I seemed to sense his charnel tang,
Mephitic air appalling;
And every tick I heard the clang
Of his steel hammer falling.

Come great men who upon our earth
Had held a lofty mission,
The spacious ones of lordly birth,
The cunning politician,
And gentlemen of holy worth
Or wondrous erudition.

One buyer in a corner trolls
Beyond the ghastly revel.
He buys by lots or single souls,
His voice is low and level.
And paltry is the price he doles.
The buyer is the Devil!

poem by Edward George Dyson
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Why Spring Fell Flat

The Spring is gone. I have not seen
Its fairies tripping on the Block,
Arcadians in grey and green,
The happy flapper in a frock
So dainty that the breezes fret
It like the smoke of cigarette.

I’ve seen no pixies of the pave
The season deck with flower and plume;
No slim, entrancing elves that wave
Their gossamers like wattle bloom;
But only staid, trim maids arrayed
In Autumn costumes tailor-made.

Not like a garden poppy strewn
And scented as an Eden fair
Has been the Block at afternoon.
So Spring came not to me this year.
Curse on the greedy profiteer
Who made the dear ones all too dear!

poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Weeds

Brown passed away, and Mrs Brown,
In weeds all smothered, went through town
By Brown's neat grave to take her stand,
And hold a metaphoric hand.
She diligently drove away
The sorrel springing every day.

When Mrs. Robert Wittle died
Poor Bob would sit her grave beside
On Sunday afternoons, and shed
His briny tribute to the dead;
And dimpled Mrs. brown and he
Had quite a bond of sympathy.

But presently, I understand,
'Twas Bob who held the widow's hand.
She decker herself in orange spray,
And all her weeds she cast away.
Now where the sorrel sheds its seeds
Brown's grave is thick with widow's weeds.

poem by Edward George Dyson
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Highly Desireable

The boarder in the bar-room rose,
A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann,
“I bear,” he said, “the worst of woes,
And suffer torments no one knows,
For do my best I never can
Have sleep like any other man.

“I have insomnia,” said he.
“At times it drives me mad outright.
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Its just the same – so sleep for me.
You won’t believe for three years quite
I haven’t slept two hours a night.”

Boss-cocky Billson softly swore,
And turning from his chestnut cob.
“What’s that?” he questioned from the door.
“You say that you don’t sleep no more
Than two hours? I pay thirty bob.
Now, mister, do you want a job?”

poem by Edward George Dyson
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Quits

Ben Unger’s wife was dark and small,
With little, round, black eyes;
Ben Unger started at her call,
For Ben had been made wise.
No dirge could crush his spirit but
The one by Annie sung;
No whip-lash ever made could cut
Like Annie Unger’s tongue.

But Annie had a round, red cheek,
A figure like a plum,
And Henderson from up the creek
In courtship sly would come.
Then Annie voiced no angry call,
Here dirge remained unsung,
And very gentle was the fall
Of Annie Unger’s tongue.

Ned Holman went to Ben upon
The hill in Colter’s hay.

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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My Typewriter

I have a trim typewriter now,
They tell me none is better;
It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
And neat is every letter.
I tick out stories by machine,
Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,
And lathe them off in manner slick.
It is so easy, and it’s quick.

And yet it falls short, I’m afraid,
Of giving satisfaction,
This making literature by aid
Of scientific traction;
For often, I can’t fail to see,
The dashed thing runs away with me.
It bolts, and do whate’er I may
I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,
And endless are my verses,

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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Cricket Is A Serious Thing

In politics there’s room for jest;
With frequent gibes are speeches met,
And measures which are of the best
Are themes for caustic humor yet.
E’en though the pulpiteer we fret
With sundry quiddities we fling,
We pray you never to forget
That cricket is a serious thing.

The crowd assembles at a Test,
And Hobbs at length is fairly set,
Though Gregory rocks ‘em in with zest;
The barrackers may fume and fret
When Parkin has contrived to get
Five men of ours – we feel the sting,
And give expression to regret,
For cricket is a serious thing.

They have the lead; we would arrest
A sort of rot. No epithet

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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When Beauty Is Bald

I’ve sung of Honor’s golden hair
And Hero’s auburn tresses,
Of Bella’s back abundance, where
The sun throws his caresses;
I’ve sung of curl, and coil, and braid;
On meshes I’ve dilated,
Until at last I’m sore afraid
There’s nothing re the hair of maid
That I have left unstated.

‘Twill much relieve the constant strain
Of rhyming to extol her
When on the roof of Sophie’s brain
Appears a bright cupola.
The poet’s verse will freshly run,
Effects will come much faster,
If he may tell the darling one
Her skull is glowing like the sun
And smooth as alabaster.

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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To A Politician

There was a moment when of you
A splendid hope I had to tell,
Believing 'Here is one man who
Will serve our waiting country well.'

I saw you sedulous and keen,
I heard the burning words you spoke.
It seemed that you were hard and clean,
And rapier sharp your every stroke.

Then came success, and in a night
An impish thing you stood apart,
All empty-handed for the fight,
With worse, alas! an empty heart.

Success had spoiled you, said your friends,
It was not so, for naught was there
To spoil but means to petty ends.
At last men saw you bleak and bare.

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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