Soldier Boy

Oh won't you tell me, my soldier boy
What did you do to make them send you off to war
Why did they send you to that alien place
With all their lies, and all that mud across your face?

It nearly broke my heart, my soldier boy
You were my one and only son, my pride and joy
I kept your letters to read and read
I'll keep them safe until the day that you are freed.

And I believe in you no matter what they say
The time will come, you'll see I'm right
When all the fools are made to see the light of day
Together we will win the fight, my soldier boy.

I heard their whisp'rings, my soldier boy
Their secret schemes and plans, I knew their every ploy
And with the loaded gun ready to misfire
I took my case to that authority much higher.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Depression

My liking for life has been stolen,
A thief came and took it away;
A visitor bent on destruction,
A burglar from hell, you might say.

I see via dark tunnel vision,
With the edges so dim and opaque;
My senses have been all but flattened,
My sanity now is at stake.

I see nothing good in the present,
My past is a far nicer place;
Of the future I may have been due to,
I see not a feasible trace.

The burden of living is heavy,
So heavy, and hauling me down;
A quagmire of dark contradictions,
Swamping my smile with a frown.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Sausage Sam

Our Sam is quite fussy when it comes down to food,
Unless it's just right she'll just sit there and brood;
But if truth it be told, when she's in the right mood,
She sure does love her sausages.

Now a sausage is only a long tube of meat,
That you cook on a grill in a great deal of heat;
But for these our Sammy would fly down the street,
'Cause she sure does love her sausages.

'The bigger the better' I once heard her say,
'I could eat two big jumbos then go out to play;
And for supper I'll eat two again, If I may,
'Cause I sure do love them sausages.'

A nice piece of lamb isn't her cup of tea,
And what she DOES eat wouldn't fill up a flea;
But at fighting I think she would kill forty-three
If they stood in the way of her sausages.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Little Kalyn

I met a little girl this week
A girl I've never seen,
Not in the flesh at any rate,
But she's a beauty queen.

Her hair is soft and silky
And tied back with two clips,
Her eyes are ocean blue and...
What a smile from those two lips!

I let her get to know me
Just as slowly as I could,
I wanted to make friends so much
With this my flesh and blood.

She looked me up and down a while
Pretending to be shy,
But gave a little grin when Daddy said,
'Grandpa says Hi.'

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poem by John Carter Brown
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My Dad (The Gardener)

My Dad has got green fingers,
He's always been that way;
He grew veg' in his younger days,
He grows them now he's grey.

Tomatoes are his forte,
No finer can be found;
He eats them by the dozen,
And sells them by the pound.

He grows a vast amount, and now
Two greenhouses he owns;
Tomato juice is in his blood,
And marrow in his bones.

His spuds are so delicious,
Their praises I must sing;
So fresh and full of flavour,
And fit for any king.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Great Brown Family Tree

Hey mum, where's all this info'
You said you'd send to me
About the dear departed
That comprise our family tree?
I need this information
To complete my little chart;
So here's a little poem
To help you make a start.

Please write out all the details
From certificates of birth,
Of you and dad, you never know
Just what they may be worth;
And gran's and grandad's too
I thought I'd ask: can you remember
If details of their birth are kept
By any family member?

Who knows what little secrets
My searching might lay bare,

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Paranoid

They're drawing us in
By their subtle design,
Desiring to know
What's your and what's mine.

We wake every morning
And rise up, quicksticks,
We're booting up smartly
And seeking our fix.
We think surfing's private,
But I think you'll find
That they're waiting to see
If we step out of line.

We buy our computers
(our joy and our pride)
Have we any idea
What goes on inside?
I know not one person
Who doesn't use Windows,

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poem by John Carter Brown
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James Crawford-King Junior

James Crawford-King junior esquire
The man with a price on his head,
Was a lone desperado from Texas
And was wanted, living or dead.

A runner of guns and a killer
A thief, and a gambler of note;
A mean looking dude in his leathers,
With a stetson tied under his throat.

Sherrif Cody had sworn he would find him
For the innocent lives that he took;
This Crawford-King junior esquire
Who had slung both his guns and his hook.

Away o'er the dry golden prairies
He'd gone, so the sheriff was told;
So he headed that way with his posse,
But the trail was now hopelessly cold.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Ethel Winterbottom

Ethel was an ugly girl
But this was not her fault;
It stemmed from drinking beer with men
While standing in the 'vault.'

A Winterbottom through and through,
At fighting she was good;
And thick brown stout ran through her veins
Instead of pure red blood.

Yes Ethel was a bruiser,
Just like her dear old dad;
Some people reckoned she
And all her family were mad.

Her tongue was like a bayonet
And she'd cut you to the quick
For any little trifle,
Such as calling Ethel thick.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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On the Move Again

We'll soon be on the move again
Just like we've done before,
Although it won't be far this time:
We're going to live next door!

It seems we're getting expert
At this removals lark;
We've moved at every time of day
And even after dark.

We're better than professionals
At packing up our stuff;
We know the routine backwards,
Seems we've never had enough.

Four times in just three years
We've flitted with our goods;
We've gone from being urban
To living near the woods.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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