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The Push

Becos a crook done in a prince, an' narked an Emperor,
An' struck a light that set the world aflame;
Becos the bugles East an' West sooled on the dawgs o' war,
A bloke called Ginger Mick 'as found 'is game
Found 'is game an' found 'is brothers, 'oo wus strangers in 'is sight,
Till they shed their silly clobber an' put on the duds fer fight.

Yes, they've shed their silly clobber an' the other stuff they wore
Fer to 'ide the man beneath it in the past;
An' each man is the clean, straight man 'is Maker meant 'im for,
An' each man knows 'is brother man at last.
Shy strangers, till a bugle blast preached 'oly brother'ood;
But mateship they 'ave found at last; an' they 'ave found it good.

So the lumper, an' the lawyer, an' the chap 'oo shifted sand,
They are cobbers wiv the cove 'oo drove a quill;
They knut 'oo swung a cane upon the Block, 'e takes the 'and
Uv the coot 'oo swung a pick on Broken 'Ill;
An' Privit Clord Augustus drills wiv Privit Snarky Jim
They are both Australian soljers, w'ich is good enough fer 'im.

It's good enough fer orl uv 'em, as orl uv 'em 'ave seen
Since they got the same glad clobber next their skins;
An' the bloke 'oo 'olds the boodle an' the coot wivout a bean,
Why, they knock around like little Kharki twins.
An' they got a common lingo, w'ich is growin' mighty thick
Wiv ixpressive contributions frum the stock uv Ginger Mick.

'E 'as struck it fer a moral. Ginger's found 'is game at last,
An' 'e's took to it like ducklin's take to drink;
An' 'is slouchin' an' 'is grouchin' an' 'is loafin' uv the past
'E's done wiv 'em, an' dumped 'em down the sink.
'E's a bright an' shinin' sample uv a the'ry that I 'old:
That ev'ry 'eart that ever pumped is good fer chunks o' gold.

Ev'ry feller is a gold mine if yeh take an' work 'im right:
It is shinin' on the surface now an' then;
An' there's some is easy sinkin', but there's some wants dynermite,
Fer they looks a 'opeless prospect - yet they're men.
An' Ginger - 'ard-shell Ginger's showin' signs that 'e will pay;
But it took a flamin' world-war fer to blarst 'is crust away.

But they took 'im an' they drilled 'im an' they shipped 'im overseas
Wiv a crowd uv blokes 'e never met before.
'E rowed wiv 'em, an' scrapped wiv 'em, an' done some tall C.B.'s,
An' 'e lobbed wiv 'em on Egyp's sandy shore.
Then Pride o' Race lay 'olt on 'im, an' Mick shoves out 'is chest
To find 'imself Australian an' blood brothers wiv the rest.

So I gits some reel good readin' in the letter wot 'e sent

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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.

I tones the langwidge down to soot the ears
Of sich as me an' you resorts wiv now.
If I should give it jist as it appears
Partic'lar folk might want ter make a row.
But say, yeh'd think ole Ginger wus a pote
If yeh could read some juicy bits 'e's wrote.

It's this noo pal uv 'is that tickles me;
'E's got a mumma, an' 'is name is Keith.
A knut upon the Block le used to be,
'Ome 'ere; the sort that flashes golden teeth,
An' wears 'or socks, an' torks a lot o' guff;
But Ginger sez they're cobbers till they snuff.

It come about like this: Mick spragged 'im first
Fer swankin' it too much abroad the ship.
'E 'ad nice manners an' 'e never cursed;
Which set Mick's teeth on edge, as you may tip.
Likewise, 'e 'ad two silver brushes, w'ich
'Is mumma give 'im, 'cos 'e fancied sich.

Mick pinched 'em. Not, as you will understand,
Becos uv any base desire fer loot,
But jist becos, in that rough soljer band,
Them silver-backed arrangements didn't soot:
An' etiket must be observed always.
(They fetched ten drinks in Cairo, Ginger says.)

That satisfied Mick's honour fer a bit,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Battle Of The Wazzir

If ole Pharaoh, King of Egyp', 'ad been gazin' on the scene
'E'd' ave give the A.I.F. a narsty name
When they done their little best to scrub 'is dirty Kingdom clean,
An' to shift 'is ancient 'eap uv sin an' shame.
An' I'm tippin' they'd 'ave phenyled 'im, an' rubbed it in 'is 'ead.
But old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e is dead.

So yeh don't 'ear much about it; an' it isn't meant yeh should,
Since 'is Kingship wasn't there to go orf pop;
An' this mishunery effort fer to make the 'eathen good
Wus a contract that the fellers 'ad to drop.
There wus other pressin' matters, so they 'ad to chuck the fun,
But the Battle uv the Wazzir took the bun.

Now, Ginger Mick 'e writes to me a long, ixcited note,
An' 'e writes it in a whisper, so to speak;
Fer I guess the Censor's shadder wus across 'im as 'e wrote,
An' 'e 'ad to bottle things that musn't leak.
So I ain't got orl the strength uv it; but sich as Ginger sends
I rejooce to decent English fer me friends.

It wus part their native carelessness, an' part their native skite;
Fer they kids themselves they know the Devil well,
'Avin' met 'im, kind uv casu'l, on some wild Australian night-
Wine an' women at a secon'-rate 'otel.
But the Devil uv Australia 'e's a little woolly sheep
To the devils wot the desert children keep.

So they mooches round the drink-shop's, an' the Wazzir took their eye,
An' they found old Pharoah's daughters pleasin' Janes;
An' they wouldn't be Australian 'less they give the game a fly . . .
An' Egyp' smiled an' totted up 'is gains.
'E doped their drinks, an' breathed on them 'is aged evil breath . . .
An' more than one woke up to long fer death.

When they wandered frum the newest an' the cleanest land on earth,
An' the filth uv ages met 'em, it wus 'ard.
Fer there may be sin an' sorrer in the country uv their birth;
But the dirt uv cenchuries ain't in the yard.
They wus children, playin' wiv an asp, an' never fearin' it,
An' they took it very sore when they wus bit.

First, they took the tales fer furphies.. when they got around the camp,
Uv a cove done in fer life wiv one night's jag,
But when the yarns grew 'ot an' strong an' bore the 'all-mark stamp
Uv dinkum oil, they waved the danger flag.
An' the shudder that a clean man feels when 'e's su'prized wiv dirt
Gripped orl the camp reel solid; an' it 'urt.

There wus Bill from up the Billabong, 'oo's dearest love wus cow,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Introduction to Ginger Mick

Jist to intraj'uice me cobber, an 'is name is Ginger Mick
A rorty boy, a naughty boy, wiv rude impressions thick
In 'is casu'l conversation, an' the wicked sort o' face
That gives the sudden shudders to the lor-abidin' race.

'Is name is on the records at the Melbourne City Court,
Fer doin' things an' sayin' things no reel nice feller ort;
An 'is name is on the records uv the Army, over there,
Fer doin' things - same sort o' things that rose the Bench's 'air.

They never rung no joy-bells when 'e made 'is first de- boo;
But 'e got free edjication, w'ich they fondly shoved 'im thro';
Then turned 'im loose in Spadger's Lane to 'ang around the street
An' 'elp the cop to re-erlize the 'ardness uv 'is beat.

Then 'e quickly dropped 'is aitches, so as not to be mistook
Fer an edjicated person, 'oo 'is cobbers reckoned crook;
But 'e 'ad a trick wiv figgers that ud make a clerk look sick;
So 'e pencilled fer a bookie; an' 'e 'awked a bit, did Mick.

A bloke can't be partic'lar 'oo must battle fer a crust;
An' some, they pinch fer preference, an' some, becos they must.
When times is 'ard, an' some swell coves is richer than they ort;
Well, it's jist a little gamble fer a rise, agin the Court.

Now, Mick wus never in it as a reel perfeshnal crook,
But sometimes cops 'as slabs uv luck, so sometimes 'e wus took,
An' 'e got a repitation, thro' 'im bein' twice interned;
But 'e didn't skite about it, 'cos 'e felt it wasn't earned.

I reckerlect one time a Beak slings Mick a slab uv guff,
Wiv 'Thirty days or forty bob' (Mick couldn't raise the stuff) -
An' arsts 'im where 'is conshuns is, an' w'y 'e can't be good,
An' Mick jist grins, an' takes it out, an' never understood.

An' that is orl there wus to Mick, wiv orl 'is leery ways.
If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to blame or praise,
Whenever some sich bloke as 'im wus tucked away fer good
I'd chalk them words above 'is 'ead: ''E never understood.'

If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to judge the game,
I'd look around fer chance to praise, an' sling the flamin' blame;
Fer findin' things in blokes to praise pays divvies either way;
An' wot they're blamed fer yesterd'y brings 'earty cheers to-day.

Yes, 'earty cheers frum thortless coots 'oo feel dead sure their God
Would never 'ave no time fer crooks 'oo does a stretch in quod;
'Oo reckon 'eaven is a place where orl folk tork correck,
An' judgment, where the 'vulgar' gits it solid in the neck.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Call Of Stoush

Wot price ole Ginger Mick? 'E's done a break -
Gone to the flamin' war to stoush the foe.
Wus it fer glory, or a woman's sake?
Ar, arst me somethin' easy! I dunno.
'Is Kharki clobber set 'im off a treat,
That's all I know; 'is motive's got me beat.

Ole Mick 'e's trainin' up in Cairo now;
An' all the cops in Spadger's Lane is sad.
They miss 'is music in the midnight row
Wot time the pushes mix it good an' glad.
Fer 'e wus one o' them, you understand,
Wot 'soils the soshul life uv this fair land.'

A peb wus Mick; a leery bloke wus 'e,
Low down, an' given to the brinnin' cup;
The sort o' chap that coves like you an' me
Don't mix wiv, 'cos of our strick bringin's-up.
An' 'e wus sich becos unseein' Fate
Lobbed 'im in life a 'undred years too late.

'E wus a man uv vierlence, wus Mick,
Coarse wiv 'is speech an' in 'is manner low,
Slick wiv 'is 'ands, an' 'andy wiv a brick
When bricks wus needful to defeat a foe.
An' now 'e's gone an' mizzled to the war,
An' some blokes 'as the nerve to arst 'Wot for? '

Wot for? gawstruth! 'E wus no patriot
That sits an' brays advice in days uv strife;
'E never flapped no flags nor sich like rot;
'E never sung 'Gawsave' in all 'is life.
'E wus dispised be them that make sicg noise:
But now - O strike! - 'e's 'one uv our brave boys.'

'E's one uv our brave boys, all right, all right.
'Is early trainin' down in Spadgers Lane
Done 'im no 'arm fer this 'ere orl-in fight:
'Is loss o' culcher is 'is country's gain.
'Im wiv 'is carst-ir'n chiv an' leery ways -
An' swell tarts 'eavin' 'im sweet words o' praise.

Why did 'e go? 'E 'ad a decent job,
'Is tart an' 'im they could 'a' made it right.
Why does a wild bull fight to guard the mob?
Why does a bloomin' bull-ant look fer fight?
Why does a rooster scrap an' flap an' crow?
'E went becos 'e dam well 'ad to go.

'E never spouted no 'igh-soundin' stuff

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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.

An' now - well, wot's the odds? I'm only one:
One out uv many 'oo 'as lost a friend.
Manlike, I'll bounce again, an' find me fun;
But fer Poor Rose it seems the bitter end.
Fer Rose, an' sich as Rose, when one man dies
It seems the world goes black before their eyes.

Ar, well; if Mick could 'ear me blither now,
I know jist wot 'e'd say an' 'ow 'e'd look:
'Aw, cut it out, mate; chuck that silly row!
There ain't so sense in takin' sich things crook.
I've took me gamble; an' there's none to blame
Becos I drew a blank; it's in the game.'

A parson cove he broke the noos to Rose
A friend uv mine, a bloke wiv snowy 'air,
An' gentle, soothin' sort o'ways, 'oo goes
Thro' life jist 'umpin' others' loads uv care.
Instid uv Mick - jist one rough soljer lad -
Yeh'd think 'e'd lost the dearest friend 'e 'ad.

But 'ow kin blows be sof'n'd sich as that?
Rose took it as 'er sort must take sich things.
An' if the jolt uv it 'as knocked me flat,
Well, 'oo is there to blame 'er if it brings
Black thorts that comes to women when they frets,
An' makes 'er tork wild tork an' foolish threats.

An' then there comes the letter that wus sent

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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To The Boys Who Took The Count

See, I'm writin' to Mick as a bloke to a bloke
To a cobber o' mine at the front
An' I'm gittin' full up uv the mullock they poke
At the cove that is bearin' the brunt.
Fer 'e mus'n't do this an' 'e shouldn't do that,
An' 'e's crook if 'e looks a bit shick,
An' 'e's gittin' too uppish, an' don't touch 'is 'at
But 'ere's 'ow I puts it to Mick.

Now it's dickin to style if yer playin' the game.
If it's marbles, or shinty, or war;
I've seen 'em lob 'ome 'ere, the 'alt an' the lame,
That wus fine 'efty fellers before.
They wus toughs, they wus crooks, they wus ev'ry bad thing,
But they mixed it as gentlemen should.
So 'ere's to the coot wiv 'is eye in a sling,
An' a smile in the one that is good.

It wus playin' the game in the oval an' ring
An' playin' fer orl it wus worth
That give 'em the knack uv a punch wiv a sting
When they fought fer the land uv their birth.
They wus pebs, they wus narks, they wus reel naughty boys,
But they didn't need no second 'int,
So ere's to the bloke wiv 'is swearin' an' noise,
An' 'is foot in a fathom uv lint.

There wus fellers I knoo in the soft days uv peace;
An' I didn't know much to their good;
An' they give more 'ard graft to the overworked p'leece
Than a reel puffick gentleman should.
They wus lookin' fer lash long before it wus doo;
When it come, they wus into it, straight.
So 'ere's to the bloke wiv 'is shoulder shot thro'
'Oo is cursin' the days 'e's to wait.

Ar, dickin to swank! when it comes to a mill,
It's the bloke wiv a punch 'oo's yer friend.
An' a coarse, narsty man wiv the moniker Bill
Earns the thanks uv the crowd in the end.
(An' when I sez 'earns' I am 'opin' no stint
Will be charged agin us by-an'-bye.)
So 'ere's to the boy wiv 'is arm in a splint
An' a 'don't-care-a-dam' in 'is eye.

'Cos the fightin's too far fer to give us a grip
Of the 'ell full uv slaughter an' noise,
There's a breed that gives me the particular pip
Be the way that they torks uv the boys.
0, they're coarse, an' they're rude, an' it's awful to liv

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Spookses' Pass

I.
WE'D camped that night on Yaller Bull Flat,--
Thar was Possum Billy, an' Tom, an' me.
Right smart at throwin' a lariat
Was them two fellers, as ever I see;
An' for ridin' a broncho, or argyin' squar
With the devil roll'd up in the hide of a mule,
Them two fellers that camp'd with me thar
Would hev made an' or'nary feller a fool.
II.
Fur argyfyin' in any way,
Thet hed to be argy'd with sinew an' bone,
I never see'd fellers could argy like them;
But just right har I will hev to own
Thet whar brains come in in the game of life,
They held the poorest keerds in the lot;
An' when hands was shown, some other chap
Rak'd in the hull of the blamed old pot!
III.
We was short of hands, the herd was large,
An' watch an' watch we divided the night;
We could hear the coyotes howl an' whine,
But the darned critters kept out of sight
Of the camp-fire blazin'; an' now an' then
Thar cum a rustle an' sort of rush--
A rattle a-sneakin' away from the blaze,
Thro' the rattlin', cracklin' grey sage bush.
IV.
We'd chanc'd that night on a pootyish lot,
With a tol'ble show of tall, sweet grass--
We was takin' Speredo's drove across
The Rockies, by way of "Old Spookses' Pass"--
An' a mite of a creek went crinklin' down,
Like a "pocket" bust in the rocks overhead,
Consid'able shrunk, by the summer drought,
To a silver streak in its gravelly bed.
V.
'Twas a fairish spot fur to camp a' night;
An' chipper I felt, tho' sort of skeer'd
That them two cowboys with only me,
Couldn't boss three thousand head of a herd.
I took the fust of the watch myself;
An' as the red sun down the mountains sprang,
I roll'd a fresh quid, an' got on the back
Of my peart leetle chunk of a tough mustang.
VI.
An' Possum Billy was sleepin' sound
Es only a cowboy knows how to sleep;
An' Tommy's snores would hev made a old
Buffalo bull feel kind o' cheap.

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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Duck an' Fowl

Now, when a bloke 'e cracks a bloke fer insults to a skirt,
An' wrecks a joint to square a lady's name,
They used to call it chivalry, but now they calls it dirt,
An' the end of it is cops an' quod an' shame.
Fer insults to fair Gwendoline they 'ad to be wiped out;
But Rosie's sort is jist fair game-when Ginger ain't about.

It was Jimmie Ah Foo's cook-shop, which is close be Spadger's Lane,
Where a variegated comp'ny tears the scran,
An' there's some is 'tup'ny coloured,' an' some is 'penny plain,'
Frum a lawyer to a common lumper-man.
Or a writer fer the papers, or a slaver on the prowl,
An' noiseless Chows a-glidin' 'round wiv plates uv duck an' fowl.

But if yeh wanted juicy bits that 'ung around Foo's perch
Yeh fetched 'em down an' wolfed 'em in yer place.
An' Foo sat sad an' solim, like an 'oly man in church,
Wiv an early-martyr look upon 'is face;
Wot never changed, not even when a toff upon a jag
Tried to pick up Ginger's Rosie, an' collided wiv a snag.

Ginger Mick's bin at the races, an' 'e'd made a little rise,
'Avin' knowed a bloke wot knowed the trainer's cook.
An' easy money's very sweet, as punters reckernise,
An' sweetest when yeh've prized it orf a 'book.'
So Ginger calls fer Rosic, an' to celerbrate 'is win
'E trots 'er down to Ah Foo's joint to splash a bit uv tin.

There wus lights, an' smells of Asia, an' a strange, Chow-'aunted scene;
Floatin' scraps of forrin lingo 'it the car;
But Rose sails in an' takes 'er scat like any soshul queen
Sich as stokes 'erself wiv foy grass orl the year.
'Duck an' Fowl' 's 'er nomination; so ole Ginger jerks 'is frame
'Cross to git some fancy pickin's, an' to give 'is choice a name.

While Ginger paws the tucker, an' 'as words about the price,
There's a shickered toff slings Rosie goo-goo eyes.
'E's a mug 'oo thinks 'e's 'it a flamin' 'all uv scarlet vice
An' 'e picks on gentle Rosie fer a prize.
Then 'e tries to play at 'andies, an' arrange about a meet;
But Rosie fetches 'im a welt that shifts 'im in 'is seat.

Ginger's busy makin' bargins, an' 'e never seen the clout;
'E is 'agglin' wiv Ah Foo fer 'arf a duck;
But the toff's too shick or silly fer to 'cave 'is carkis out,
An' to fade while goin's good an' 'e's in luck.
Then Ginger clinched 'is bargin, an', as down the room 'e came,
'E seen the toff jump fritm 'is seat, an' call the girl a name.

That done it. Less than larf a mo, an' 'ell got orf the chain;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Brus Book XVIII

Only Berwick remains in English hands; a burgess offers to betray it]

The lordis off the land war fayne
Quhen thai wist he wes cummyn agan
And till him went in full gret hy,
And he ressavit thaim hamlyly
5 And maid thaim fest and glaidsum cher,
And thai sa wonderly blyth wer
Off his come that na man mycht say,
Gret fest and fayr till him maid thai.
Quharever he raid all the countre
10 Gaderyt in daynte him to se,
Gret glaidschip than wes in the land.
All than wes wonnyn till his hand,
Fra the Red Swyre to Orknay
Wes nocht off Scotland fra his fay
15 Outakyn Berwik it allane.
That tym tharin wonnyt ane
That capitane wes of the toun,
All Scottismen in suspicioun
He had and tretyt thaim tycht ill.
20 He had ay to thaim hevy will
And held thaim fast at undre ay,
Quhill that it fell apon a day
That a burges Syme of Spalding
Thocht that it wes rycht angry thing
25 Suagate ay to rebutyt be.
Tharfor intill his hart thocht he
That he wald slely mak covyne
With the marchall, quhays cosyne
He had weddyt till him wiff,
30 And as he thocht he did belyff.
Lettrys till him he send in hy
With a traist man all prively,
And set him tym to cum a nycht
With leddrys and with gud men wicht
35 Till the kow yet all prively,
And bad him hald his trist trewly
And he suld mete thaim at the wall,
For his walk thar that nycht suld fall.

[The marischal shows the letter to the king,
who seeks to avoid jealousy between Douglas and Moray]

Quhen the marchell the lettre saw
40 He umbethocht him than a thraw,
For he wist be himselvyn he
Mycht nocht off mycht no power be
For till escheyff sa gret a thing,
And giff he tuk till his helping

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poem by John Barbour
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Old Spense

You've seen his place, I reckon, friend?
'Twas rather kind ov tryin'.
The way he made the dollars fly,
Such gimcrack things a-buyin'--
He spent a big share ov a fortin'
On pesky things that went a snortin'

And hollerin' over all the fields,
And ploughin' ev'ry furrow;
We sort ov felt discouraged, for
Spense wusn't one to borrow;
An' wus--the old chap wouldn't lend
A cent's wuth to his dearest friend!

Good land! the neighbours seed to wunst
Them snortin', screamin' notions
Wus jest enough tew drown the yearth
In wrath, like roarin' oceans,
'An' guess'd the Lord would give old Spense
Blue fits for fightin' Pruvidence!'

Spense wus thet harden'd; when the yearth
Wus like a bak'd pertater;
Instead ov prayin' hard fur rain,
He fetched an irrigator.
'The wicked flourish like green bays!'
Sed folks for comfort in them days.

I will allow his place was grand
With not a stump upon it,
The loam wus jest as rich an' black
Es school ma'am's velvet bunnit;
But tho' he flourish'd, folks all know'd
What spiritooal ear-marks he show'd.

Spense had a notion in his mind,
Ef some poor human grapples
With pesky worms thet eat his vines,
An' spile his summer apples,
It don't seem enny kind ov sense
Tew call that 'cheekin' Pruvidence!'

An' ef a chap on Sabbath sees
A thunder cloud a-strayin'
Above his fresh cut clover an'
Gets down tew steddy prayin',
An' tries tew shew the Lord's mistake,
Instead ov tacklin' tew his rake,

He ain't got enny kind ov show

[...] Read more

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Sari Bair

So, they've struck their streak o' trouble, an' they got it in the neck,
An' there's more than one ole pal o' mine 'as 'anded in 'is check;
But Ginger still takes nourishment; 'e's well, but breathin' 'ard.
An' so 'e sends the strength uv it scrawled on a chunk uv card.

'On the day we 'it the transport there wus cheerin' on the pier,
An' the girls wus wavin' hankies as they dropped a partin' tear,
An' we felt like little 'eroes as we watched the crowd recede,
Fer we sailed to prove Australia, an' our boastin' uv the breed.

'There wus Trent, ex~toff, uv England; there wus Green, ex-pug, uv 'Loo;
There wus me, an' Craig uv Queensland, wiv 'is 'ulkin' six-foot-two:
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, 'oo 'owled a rag-time air.
On the day we left the Leeuwin, bound nor'-west for Gawd-knows-where.

'On the day we come to Cairo wiv its niggers an' its din,
To fill our eyes wiv desert sand, our souls wiv Eastern sin,
There wus cursin' an' complainin'; we wus 'ungerin' fer fight -
Little imertation soljers full uv vanity an' skite.

'Then they worked us - Gawd! they worked us, till we knoo wot drillin' meant;
Till men begun to feel like men, an' wasters to repent,
Till we grew to 'ate all Egyp', an' its desert, an' its stinks:
On the days we drilled at Mena in the shadder uv the Sphinx.

'Then Green uv Sydney swore an oath they meant to 'old us tight,
A crowd uv flarnin' ornaments wivout a chance to fight;
But little Smith uv Collin'wood, he whistled 'im a toon,
An' sez, 'Aw, take a pull. lad, there'll be whips o' stoushin' soom.'

'Then the waitin', weary waitin', while we itched to meet the foe!
But we'd done wiv fancy skitin' an' the comic op'ra show.
We wus soljers - finished soljers, an' we felt it in our veins
On the day we trod the desert on ole Egyp's sandy plains.

'An' Trent 'e said it wus a bore, an' all uv us wus blue,
An' Craig, the giant, never joked the way 'e used to do.
But little Smith uv Collin'wood 'e 'ummed a little song,
An' said, 'You leave it to the 'eads. O now we sha'n't be long!'

'Then Sari Bair, O Sari Bair, 'twus you wot seen it done,
The day the transports rode yer bay beneath a smilin' sun.
We boasted much, an' toasted much; but where yer tide line creeps,
'Twus you, me dainty Sari Bair, that seen us play fer keeps.

'We wus full uv savage skitin' while they kep' us on the shelf -
(Now I tell yeh, square an' 'onest, I wus doubtin' us meself):
But we proved it, good an' plenty, that our lads can do an' dare,
On the day we walloped Abdul o'er the sands o' Sari Bair.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

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poem by Tom Zart
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In Spadger's Lane

Ole Mother Moon 'oo yanks 'er beamin' dile
Acrost the sky when we've grown sick o' day,
She's like some fat ole Jane 'oo loves to smile
On all concerned, an' smooth our faults away;
An', like a woman, tries to 'ide again
The sores an' scars crool day 'as made too plain.

To all the earth she gives the soft glad-eye;
She picks no fav'rits in this world o' men;
She peeps in nooks, where 'appy lovers sigh,
To make their job more bonzer still; an' then,
O'er Spadger's Lane she waves a podgy 'and,
An' turns the scowlin' slums to Fairyland.

Aw, strike! I'm gettin' soft in my ole age!
I'm growin' mushy wiv the passin' years.
Me! that 'as called it weakness to ingage
In sloppy thorts that coax the pearly tears.
But say, me state o' mind I can't ixplain
When I seen Rose lars' night in Spadger's Lane.

'Twas Spadger's Lane where Ginger Mick 'ung out
Before 'e took to follerin' the Flag;
The Lane that echoed to 'is drunken shout
When 'e lobbed 'omeward on a gaudy jag.
Now Spadger's Lane knows Ginger Mick no more,
Fer 'e's become an 'ero at the War.

A flamin' 'ero at the War, that's Mick.
An' Rose - 'is Rose, is waitin' in the Lane,
Nursin' 'er achin' 'eart, an' lookin' sick
As she crawls out to work an' 'ome again,
Givin' the bird to blokes 'oo'd be 'er 'friend,'
An' prayin', wiv the rest, fer wars to end.

Quite right; I'm growin' sloppy fer a cert;
But I must git it orf me chest or bust.
So 'ere's a song about a grievin' skirt,
An' love, an' Ginger Mick, an' maiden trust!
The choky sort o' song that fetches tears
When blokes is full o' sentiment-or beers.

Lars' night, when I sneaks down to taste again
The sights an' sounds I used to know so well,
The moon wus shinin' over Spadger's Lane,
Sof'nin' the sorrer where 'er kind light fell:
Sof'nin' an' soothin', like it wus 'er plan
To make ixcuses fer the sins uv man.

Frum shadder inter shadder, up the street,

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Upon the Arid Lakes

Someplace
A field of flowers
Rousing under remnants of the dawn:
Out there! from death, I rose
Above the silent many –
A distant will-o'-the-wisp
Reflecting under airs of minor ninths –
How rich the ambience they threw!

What theme of prosody
Had rendered me? –
Tho’ silent were its words:
A broken soul in pulsing pain –
Thou mustn’t guess what goes behind
The sick and ghostly screen of war!

In sallow-grey and other ashen hues,
Disrobed of warming flesh
That reassures the bones,
A twisted pose
Portrayed my physicality –
Not unlike the carcass of a prey;

But as a cloud of thought, I mused,
Exacerbating woes
Collected in a life dispatched
In freely flowing blood,
Conferring crimson shades
Upon the arid lakes aflood
With glorious tides of nascent buds
Begetting innocence.

And as we glowed in ruddy shades,
I asked: ‘What future lies ahead?
What terror trades? ’

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Straight Griffin

''Eroes? Orright. You 'ave it 'ow yeh like.
Throw up yer little 'at an' come the glad;
But not too much 'Three-'Earty-Cheers' fer Mike;
There's other things that 'e'll be wantin' bad.
The boys won't 'ave them kid-stakes on their mind
Wivout there's somethin' solider be'ind.'

Now that's the dinkum oil frum Ginger Mick,
In 'orspital, somew'ere be'ind the front;
Plugged in the neck, an' lately pretty sick,
But now right on the converlescent stunt.
'I'm on the mend,' 'e writes, 'an' nearly doo
To come the 'ero act agen - Scene two.'

I'd sent some papers, knowin' 'ow time drags
Wiv blokes in blankits, waitin' fer a cure.
'An' 'Struth!' Mick writes, 'the way they et them rags
Yeh'd think that they'd bin weaned on litrachure.
They wrestled thro' frum 'Births' to 'Lost and Found';
They even give the Leaders 'arf a round.'

Mick spent a bonzer day propped up in bed,
Soothin' 'is soul wiv ev'ry sportin' page;
But in the football noos the things 'e read
Near sent 'im orf 'is top wiv 'oly rage;
The way 'is team 'as mucked it earned 'is curse;
But 'e jist swallered it - becos uv nurse.

An' then this 'eadline 'it 'im wiv bokays;
'Australian Heroes!' is the song it makes.
Mick reads the boys them ringin' words o' praise;
But they jist grins a bit an' sez 'Kid stakes!'
Sez Mick to nurse, 'You tumble wot I am?
A bloomin' little 'ero. Pass the jam!'

Mick don't say much uv nurse; but 'tween the lines -
('Im bein' not too strong on gushin' speech)
I seem to see some tell-tale sort o' signs.
Sez 'e, 'Me nurse-girl is a bonzer peach,'
An' then 'e 'as a line: ''Er sad, sweet look.'
'Struth! Ginger must 'a' got it frum a book.

Say, I can see ole Ginger, plain as plain,
Purrin' to feel the touch u'v 'er cool 'and,
Grinnin' a bit to kid 'is wound don't pain,
An' yappin' tork she don't 'arf understand,
That makes 'er wonder if, back where she lives,
They're all reel men be'ind them ugly chivs.

But that's orright. Ole Ginger ain't no flirt.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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War

'E sez to me, 'Wot's orl this flamin' war?
The papers torks uv nothin' else but scraps.
An'wot's ole England got snake-'eaded for?
An' wot's the strength uv callin' out our chaps?'
'E sez to me, 'Struth! Don't she rule the sea?
Wot does she want wiv us?' 'e sez to me.

Ole Ginger Mick is loadin' up 'is truck
One mornin' in the markit feelin' sore.
'E sez to me, 'Well, mate, I've done me luck;
An' Rose is arstin', 'Wot about this war?'
I'm gone a tenner at the two-up school;
The game is crook, an' Rose is turnin' cool.

'E sez to me, ''Ow is it fer a beer?'
I tips 'im 'ow I've told me wife, Doreen,
That when I comes down to the markit 'ere
I dodges pubs, an' chucks the tipple, clean.
Wiv 'er an' kid alone up on the farm
She's full uv fancies that I'll come to 'arm.

''Enpecked!' 'e sez. An' then, 'Ar, I dunno.
I wouldn't mind if I wus in yer place.
I've 'arf a mind to give cold tea a go
It's no game, pourin' snake-juice in yer face.
But, lad, I 'ave to, wiv the thirst I got.
I'm goin' over now to stop a pot.'

'E goes acrost to find a pint a 'ome;
An' meets a pal an' keeps another down.
Ten minutes later, when 'e starts to roam
Back to the markit, wiv an ugly frown,
'E spags a soljer bloke 'oo's passin' by,
An' sez 'e'd like to dot 'im in the eye.

'Your sort,' sez Mick, 'don't know yer silly mind!
They lead yeh like a sheep; it's time yeh woke
The 'eads is makin' piles out uv your kind!'
'Aw, git yer 'ead read!' sez the soljer bloke.
'Struth! 'e wus willin' wus that Kharki' chap;
I 'ad me work cut out to stop a scrap.

An 'as the soljer fades acrost the street,
Mick strikes a light an' sits down on 'is truck,
An' chews 'is fag - a sign 'is nerve is beat
An' swears a bit, an' sez 'e's done is luck.
'E grouches there ten minutes, maybe more,
Then sez quite sudden, 'Blarst the flamin'war!'

Jist then a motor car goes glidin' by

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Silly, Silly Fool

(kenneth gamble / leon huff)
Such a silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i
Oh, i, just a silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i
Hey, I should have never fallen
Back in love with you
Knowin how you get a pleasure
Breaking my poor heart in two
You made it sound so convincin
When you said
Im your woman, youre my man
Now I really need you
And I sit here a loser again
I guess Im just a silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i, oh i
Im such a silly, silly, silly, silly, fool am i, mmm
I should have never trusted
In my heart to lead the way
Now my mind is all busted
Thats a fools price to pay
You made it sound so convincin
When you said youd never, never go away
I should have never listened
To anything you had to say
Im such a silly, silly, silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i, yes I am
Im such a silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i, oh
Such a silly, silly, dilly, silly, dilly fool am i, oh yeah
Im such a silly, silly, silly, silly, silly fool am i, oh yes I am
Im such a silly, silly, dilly, silly, dilly, silly fool am i, oh yeah
Im such a silly, dilly, silly, dilly, silly fool am i, oh
Silly, dilly

song performed by Dusty Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Game

'Ho! the sky's as blue as blazes an' the sun is shinin' bright,
An' the dicky birds is singin' over'ead,
An' I'm 'ummin', softly 'ummin', w'ile I'm achin' fer a fight,
An' the chance to fill some blighter full of lead.
An' the big guns they are boomin', an' the shells is screamin' past,
But I'm corperil - lance-corperil, an' found me game at last!'

I ixpects a note frum Ginger, fer the time wus gettin' ripe,
An I gits one thick wiv merry 'owls uv glee;
Fer they've gone an' made 'im corperil - they've given 'im a stripe,
An' yeh'd think, to see 'is note, it wus V.C.
Fer 'e chortles like a nipper wiv a bran' noo Noah's Ark
Since forchin she 'as smiled on 'im, an' life's, no more a nark.

'Ho! the sky along the 'ill-tops, it is smudged wiv cannon smoke,
An' the shells along the front is comin' fast,
But the 'eads 'ave 'ad the savvy fer to reckernise a bloke,
An' permotion's gettin' common-sense at last.
An' they picked me fer me manners, w'ich wus snouted over 'ome,
But I've learned to be a soljer since I crossed the ragin' foam.

'They 'ave picked me 'cos they trust me; an' it's got me where I live,
An' it's put me on me mettle, square an' all;
I wusn't in the runnin' once when blokes 'ad trust to give,
But over 'ere I answers to the call;
So some shrewd 'ead 'e marked me well, an' when the time wus ripe
'E took a chance on Ginger Mick, an' I 'ave snared me stripe.

'I know wot I wus born fer now, an' soljerin's me game,
That's no furphy; but I never guessed it once;
Fer when I 'it things up at 'ome they said I wus to blame,
An' foolish beaks they sent me up fer munce.
But 'ere - well, things is different to wot sich things wus then.
Fer me game is playin' soljers, an' me lurk is 'andlin' men.

'Me game is 'andlin' men, orl right, I seen it in the parst
When I used to 'ead the pushes in the Lane.
An' ev'ry bloke among 'em then done everythin' I arst,
Fer I never failed to make me feelin' plain.
Disturbers uv the peace we wus them days, but now I know
We wus aimin' to be soljers, but we never 'ad a show.

'We never 'ad no discipline, that's wot we wanted bad,
It's discipline that gives the push its might/
But wot a tie we could 'ave give the coppers if we 'ad,
Lord! We'd 'ave capchered Melbourne in an night.
When I think uv thngs that might 'ave been I sometimes sit an' grin,
Fer I might be King uv Footscray if we'd 'ad mor discipline.

'I've got a push to 'andle now wot makes a soljer proud.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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