Quotes about mick, page 19

Mick Jagger
Is a beer blagger
Appeared on Saga
Gives Jerry daggers
Tight pants, a nagger
A bum bum waggler

Hearsay
Go away don't come
Again another day

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poem by Jasmine Maddock
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Me

if you weren't you, who would you like to be?

Paul McCartney Gustav Mahler
Alfred Jarry John Coltrane
Charlie Mingus Claude Debussy
Wordsworth Monet Bach and Blake

Charlie Parker Pierre Bonnard
Leonardo Bessie Smith
Fidel Castro Jackson Pollock
Gaudi Milton Munch and Berg

Belà Bartók Henri Rousseau
Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns
Lukas Cranach Shostakovich
Kropotkin Ringo George and John

William Burroughs Francis Bacon
Dylan Thomas Luther King
H. P. Lovecraft T. S. Eliot

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poem by Adrian Henri
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Sigerson Clifford Sung Of

Sigerson Clifford sung of the The Boys of Barr Na Sraide the happy boys who hunted for the Wran
The boys who grew up to be freedom fighters Who took on the British troops The Black and Tan
He glorified them in his famous ballad the brave young rebels of his Kerry Town
The boys of Caherciveen and Barr Na Sraide to fight for Ireland their claim to renown
Sigerson Clifford sung of his gentle teacher the likeable and pleasant Brother Mick
The one who introduced Humanity to his classroom who banished the strap that pained and burnt the stick
A better and by far a more successful teacher than those who took delight in the usage of the cane
He was so different to his other teachers that he and his school mates wondered was he sane
Sigerson Clifford sung about the Irish Travellers of them some famous ballads he did write
He was the uncrowned Poet Laureate of Kerry other his songs sing and his poems do recite
His songs and poems are full of joy and pathos the one who was born with the gift of rhyme
In death he remains as a poetic legend and he was a legend in his own lifetime
Sigerson Clifford sung of the Boys of Barr Na Sraide and in Irish literature the renowned Kerry poet
Lives in his poems and songs as one remembered he was indeed a literary man of note.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Famous Dog Story

The story I am about to tell you it well may be true
For the one who told it to me for to give him his due
Is one who does not make up stories nor neither is he
One prone to imagine it would seem to me.

We were swapping dog stories myself and old Lew
Of dogs we heard tell of and dogs that we knew
Of dogs who are honoured in story and rhyme
The history of their greatness has lived on in time.

But the best dog story he told me was one I heard before
When I was a young school-boy going back five decades or more
The greatest dog story that he can recall
Perhaps is the greatest dog story of all.

A story from early Spring the weather was cold
The red shorthorn calf had strayed from her mother a young five days old
In the field by the farm-yard the cow bellowed around
But her calf did not reply and was not to be found.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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We Thank Them For The Memories

Boxing had Muhammad Ali his greatness beyond dispute
And cricket had Don Bradman and baseball had Babe Ruth
And rock and roll had Elvis referred to as the king
And hurling had it's hero in Cork's own Christy Ring.

Gaelic football had Mick O Connell in his code best of all
And soccer had Brazil's great Pele the black prince of football
And Hollywood had Norma Jean alias Marilyn Monroe
A legendary beauty of the silver screen some forty years ago

And athletics had Carl Lewis and Jesse Owens, Zatopek and Nurmi and Australia's best athlete
Herb Elliot the legendary miler who never tasted defeat
And tennis had Maureen Connolly the legendary Little Mo
Though she died young her fame still lives from all those years ago.

In the swimming pool Dawn Fraser at three Olympics won sprint gold
And of the greatness of the winter Olympian Jean Claude Killy we've been told
And in basketball Michael Jordan is man of the century
And in rugby union David Campese made his own history.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The 'Bulletin' Stairs

The Mecca of Bohemian men
Was Archibald's untidy den.
Firm-footed near the portals there
Uprose, as now, a spacious stair
That carried nearer to the sky
Their inky hopes in days forebye.

This ladder to Parnassus, they
Expectant climbed - as still one may.
Oft-times upon its steps appeared
The wiry brush of Daley's beard,
Of Henry Lawson's drooped moustache
Would upward glide and downward dash.

Betimes - a gem his pocket in -
Meandered upward Ronald Quinn,
Or Bayldon bore a sonnet new,
Or Broomfield occupied the view
Insistent, in a manner vain,
On making passes with his cane.

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poem by Edwin James Brady
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There used to be a ballpark here

The Ghosts of Ruth and Gehrig sat
Up in Tier 35
And wiped tears from translucent cheeks
As the final anthem died.

DiMaggio brought the popcorn
The Mick supplied the beer
He bought it up in heaven
Cause it’s cheaper there than here.

“An epic game”, the Babe enthused
“The best I ever saw”
he chowed down on some hot dogs
And looked around for more.

Gehrig glanced out at his bat
Atop the center pole
And wished to get it in his hands
And feel its weight once more.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Early Morning bar room,1919

English pub by hienbau_photos

Early Morning Bar room,1919

I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.

Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?

I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.

Mom and child were doing well

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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American Dream

“American Dream”

Attention all able body masses that focus on verbal harasses
Racism is donating get out of jail free passes
To the whites in denial and even the blacks who are holy
All you got to do is wrestle a book open like Mick Foley
And achieve the American Dream of being free
So that maybe you men might be able to take your wife on a shopping spree
But as for me I’m stuck being a Chad-moru born of sackies
Unable to support President Bush’s decision to bomb Iraqis
For like Martin Luther King, I have been trying to beat racism’s team
To ensure that no colored person ends up on the flip-side of the American Dream
A saying from James Adam that states equality will be given to every culture or race
Yet why is it such a big disgrace to be born from my birthplace
A place were different repercussions are taken to the same simple laws
A land were like caged dogs, I have been trying to dig an escape with my bare paws
Burrowing away from the earthquake of the Queen’s son
Flying sky high to avoid the tsunami of the rising sun
While knowing that it’s inevitable to stop the President’s nuclear invasion

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poem by Poetic Philosopher
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Since the Country Carried Sheep

We trucked the cows to Homebush, saw the girls, and started back,
Went West through Cunnamulla, and got to the Eulo track.
Camped a while at Gonybibil - but, Lord! you wouldn't know
It for the place where you and Mick were stockmen long ago.

Young Merino bought the station, fenced the run and built a 'shed',
Sacked the stockmen, sold the cattle, and put on sheep instead,
But he wasn't built for Queensland. and every blessed year
One hears of 'labour troubles' when Merino starts to shear.

There are ructions with the rouseabouts, and shearers' strikes galore!
The likes were never thought of in the cattle days of yore.
And slowly, round small paddocks now, the 'sleeping lizards' creep,
And Gonybibil's beggared since the country carried sheep.

Time was we had the horses up ere starlight waned away,
The billy would be boiling by the breaking of the day;

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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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