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ASF Poetry Thread

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insider said:
Beans BEans they're good for your heart
the more you eat the more you fart CHARMING
Click to expand...
Lol, vitamin F mate - works a charm.

FOOD for ACNE and ZULUS.

If we read what we're pitched, food is protein-enriched
So we'll flatten our feeble opponents,
And its only a matter - without getting fatter -
(and planning and forethought - and fish without batter)
of feeding our fragment components.

Once a vitamin A kept my acne at bay
now a B helps my back in romance,
and a vitamin C keeps me calmly carefree
- but a D makes me drop all and dance.
And a vitamin E keeps my eyelids goo-free
and an F keeps be flatulent - frugal,
and a G helps my golf, helps my hipsters revolfe,
And an H helps me swim like Geoff Hugal.

And a J keeps the jetpropelled motor in tune,
and a K keeps me kool under stress,
and the L lets me love neath the ivory moon
till the Missus's makeup's a mess.
For the Potion of life is a passionate wife,
and a Quid for each time that I've said it,
and a vitamin T is the tonic we see,
(assuming no crosseyes and sobriety)
when we wink to each other - on credit.

And if that doesn't work, then Viagras the lurk
As the smiling results are attested.
Or - there's one final lulu - that's used by the Zulu,
(they sell it in drums called "labido refueloo")
(it's made from the bladders of warthog and mooloo)
[editor's note:...large herbivore, moos, rhymes with zulu]
(it was much in demand by those men who play "pu-loo"
[editor's note:...snobbish game played on horses,ditto]
...
but careful, you might be arrested.
 
I don't know if you remember, but the latest war on Iraq was announced just b4 the Daylight saving weekend, 2003. - when the clocks are wound back 1 hour. Like, we live the same 60 minutes twice. (like in the autumn/fall - as in "Spring forward, Fall back").

THE HOUR OF WISDOM

What did you do with THAT hour, my friend
That they granted us all last night?
The "lonnng" weekend that they give us each year
When they tell us the clocks just aren't right?
Well, me, I dreamt me a word : "de-ja-vise"
Its a mixture of de, ja, and vu,
And the verb to be, and the will to be wise,
And the skill to revise in review.

So at 2am Mickey's big hand is wound back
And a full 60 minutes is turned,
And I dreamt the next hour, every thought intact,
Cos I'd done it before and I'd learned.
- Like at 1.15a the first time round,
I stood on a floorboard that creaked
So at 1.15b, there was no single sound,
- I knew where to tread cos Id peaked.

And at 1.20a I took the left road,
And at 1.20b took the right,
And at 1.30a I found myself lost,
And at 1.30b saw the light.
And at 1.40a the words came out wrong,
And at 1.40b they were kinder,
And in all "second takes" I rewrote my mistakes,
Where I’d tied up my thumb as reminder.

With this power, we get it so right, my friend
So different when second guessed,
But the word only lasted THAT hour, my friend
And I’m back in confusion confessed.
There was just one more - they were closing the door
On my dream that was turning to smoke,
Cos with one second more - someone started a war,
And the second time round,
...I just cant be sure,
...Did they do it again, please please I implore,
Noooooooooooo, my wisdom was gone
....I awoke.

PS It was only "Fall" for Sth hemishere - maybe USA didnt have the luxury of such a hour of wisdom.
 
Found this on the web. Written by a 14 year old girl.


"HI, my name is Cortney Creamer. I live in Mansfeld Ohio. I am 14. Here is a poem I wrote.

Was the night before Christmas, he lived all alone
In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give
And to see just who in this home did live.

I looked all about, a strange sight I did see
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the mantle just boots filled with sand
On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds.
A sober thought came through my mind.

For this house was the home of a soldier.

once i could see clearly, the soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone
curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.
the face was so gentle, the room in such disorder
not how i pictured the home of a soldier.

was this the hero of whom i'd just read?
curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families that i saw this night
owed their lives to these soldiers all willing to fight.

soon, round the world the children would play
and grownups would celebrate a bright christmas day.
they all enjoyed freedom each month of the year
because of the soldiers like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold christmas in a land far from home.
the very thought brought a tear to my eye
i dropped to my knees and started to cry.

The soldier awakened and i heard a rough voice,
"santa don't cry, this life is my choice.
I fight for freedom, i don't ask for more
my life is my god, my country, my corps.
the soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep
I couldn't control it, i continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours, so silent and still
and we both shivered from the night's cold chill.
I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark night
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.

then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure whispered, "carry on santa, it's christmas day: all is secure.
"one look at my watch and i knew he was right.
"merry christmas my friend and to all a good night.""
 
123enen said:
Found this on the web. Written by a 14 year old girl.
Click to expand...
Gr8 poem 123 - I think I'd add the word "allegedly" written by 14 yr old.

Why do I think probably older? 15 at least lol?
words like "corps" - of course tieing Santa to recognition of the military ... mmm incrediblly politically savvy kid lol.

eg "I fight for freedom, i don't ask for more
my life is my god, my country, my corps."

BUT I'd prefer not to be the one to get political on this thread tho
We've gotta try to keep at least one thread around here neutral to that sorta thing.
Gr8 poem mate - lets assume 14 yr old, and very patriotic - as kids tend to be in USA. - Not much different to CJ Dennis's "Digger Smith" - and soldiers who returned home from WWI to live a reclusive life. (poor bugas - we owe em bigtime) post #49 :-

"But there was debts we can't repay
Piled up on us one single day --
When that first list come out.
There ain't no way to pay that debt.
Do wot we can - there's somethin' yet"

PS wierd isn't it - If that poem had started "my name is charlie and I live in Bourke" then I probably wouldnt have challenged it as I did - what is it about US credibility at the moment? - I probably owe that kid from Ohio an apology
 
seriously trivial cra* this one - but then again maybe some housewife out there can empathise with this poor chicken lol.

MOTIVES OF ROAD CROSSING CHICKENS

Why did the chicken cross over that road? There's one I've pondered before -
Can't recall what the right answer was then, Sure that I'm still quite unsure.
Maybe a poem can discover the cause, Sprawling in wild speculation;
Superimpose some old jaywalking laws, Cross-refer chicken migration.

Easiest answer is this side's pecked out, There it's much greener and wormier;
Lacking such evidence this is in doubt, Why not adventurous journeyer?
Praps it's a call from a far distant friend, Drives on each homesickened leg;
Praps in her henhood her heart needs to mend, Henhood regression to egg.

Praps she's rebelled, tired of munching on meal, Spitting out eggs in some hut;
'Part from the fact that it drains all her zeal, Eggs are a pain in the butt.
Praps she read somewhere that traveled minds broaden, Gain almost mystic dimension;
Praps she's discovered some gap in the cordon, Praps pure escape's her intention.

Praps she's just itchin' to leap from some kitchen bench, Worldly ways make worldly wise;
Praps its an eyeful of Eiffel inspires her, That and a hundred odd spires.
Praps she's just tired of a life passing by, like Trucks on a long endless run;
Beethoven had just one UNfinished symphony, She's now Hell bent to have none.

Who knows "the why" in that small chicken breast, Prancing on drumsticks like Sherpas?
But ..
Certain I am that its genesis rests in some Fowl or impeckable purpose.
 
GOLD BLUDY FEVER

Johnny found a gold pan , lying near a stream,
Johnny shook some mud around & thought he saw a gleam,
Pulse became a Latin dance and life a grinning dream,
Since then Johnny's featured in a mental health scheme.!! -
Double check the barricades and lock the little lever,
Johnny's gotta bad case of gold bludy fever.

Billy found a slot machine and stuck in twenty cents
Watched eleven little lemons line up like a fence
Coin-tray just kept overflowing, even filled the Gents,
Billy got a funny look… - then popped his common sense !!-
Straight jacket over here, he's singing like a diva,
Here's another case of the gold bludy fever.

Dave and missus found a seat be-side the roulette table
"Check out all the colours here!" he said to his Mabel,
Put on all his chips like a tower of bludy Babel, and
THAT's where it landed! - and they all became unstable.!!
Tie em up with two inch rope and hide the meat cleaver,
Two more blatant cases of the gold bludy fever.

Molly found a ticket in a lot-to draw,
Headed home and kicked the TV, guess what sight she saw?,
There were all her numbers rolling out the little door,
Now she's in a home crying "MORE MORE MORE!!"
Pick up any telephone and tell the nice receiver,
”GIVE A BLUDY MISS TO THE GOLD BLUDY FEVER".

Get a dose of common cold, lasts about a week,
Get a dose of flu' you'll find you're temporary "meek",
But get the ole gold fever, you'll go madder than a Shiek,
And then it's all downhill my friend, you're past your bludy peak.!!
Work from nine to five my friend, like eager bludy beaver,
Forget the bludy gold or you'll catch its bludy fever.
 
TRICKS I PICKED UP AT THE BOOKSHOP

Once at the bookshop I spied a wee book - "How to get wealthy - Please buy it"
Nothing to lose so I took a wee look - Spasms took hold and my ears and nose shook, Hip-pocket nerve just came right off the hook ,
Cross-eyed I yelled out " I'LL TRY IT !!".

Next morning early I jumped out of bed, with Gold pan and ripe for adventures
Ran to some creek where some local path lead , Swirled the pan twice and then threw back my head , "Gold EVRYwhere !!!... woops - forget what I said" ,
There staring back were my dentures...

Tried the casino (I'd practiced my dice) , Craps table onslaught my plan,
Thought to myself well a 6 would be nice , Shane-Warne-like runup with spin should suffice , After I'd leg-breaked three chairs, then two vice
squad and , Bouncers appeared - and I ran.

Next door had bandits (one armed) like a zoo , (no members badge so I made up one)
Found me a lever, said "this one will do" , Lemons went blurring past, oranges too , No coins came out so I staged a small coup,
Half-nelson tortured, it paid up one.

Walking back homeward I found me a school , Held on some Sundays on corners
Some call it "Two-up" - all male as a rule , Someone said "throw the coins skyward you fool" , Heaved , and they landed in some neighbour's pool,
I Left them all looking like mourners.

Ready to give up, I found some old shares, Thrown out - some company was folding ;
Went to the board meeting , one of three there , Someone elected me GM and Chair , Next day they struck oil god-Only-knows-where ,
Four million bucks I was holding. !!

so…..Now I am writing my own book (or three) , "How to get wealthy - I did it"
..."Carefully constructed, this book holds the Key, Follow the wisdom and rules to a tee".. (Some say that luck played a small part for me ,
- But don't expect me to admit it.)
 
SEVEN DAYS TO MAKE IT, SEVEN DAYS TO BREAK IT.

On Monday I woke to a world of “green”
And I walked in a forest grand,
And the trees were as tall as I’d ever seen,
So I felled the whole lot with one hand;

On Tuesday I thought about CO2,
But the weather was too damned hot,
So I sat in my airconditioned zoo,
And I revved ‘em for all that they’ve got;

On Wednesday I looked at my acres of dust,
and my bores and my roots and my toil,
But I must've screwed up cos a salty crust
was killing my rooted soil.

On Thursday I drove in my 5 litre bus,
Cos there’s plenty of oil!! – it’s my turn !!
And the birds can get plastered with thick black pus,
And so what if the oilwells burn;

On Friday I didn’t recycle because
I treated it all as a joke…….
And on Saturday, Hell, the wheels fell off,
And on Sunday ……it went up in smoke.
 
THE QUANDARY OF THE SILENT TREE IN THE FOREST,

if a “Tree should fall” in some far off sprawl,
was a Sound made unless it was heard??
if I live, deaf and dumb, in the bush unsawn,
do I Sing my songs undeterred,
and if Song to be sung isn’t heard to be sung,
is it Song or merely mime?
and if Mime isn’t seen, is it mime or dream,
and if Dream, is it mine or thine??
 
REUNION OF MANKIND

supPosin’ you found a Blarney stone, that granted one wish if you ask
like a Gifted year on permanent loan , and nothin too great a task,
I Wonder which option of thousands we’d choose , and if Bronze or silver or gold
or Affairs of the heart or courage or booze, or Whether it’s humble or bold.

a Family reunion is one thought that comes , to Mind – coz it matters to me
and my Granfathers’ dads and my grandmothers’ mums , and Back through the family tree,
and Each little branch and leaf and twig , and Paleozoan “thing”
and Peasant and pauper and pirate and prig , and Kinsman and knight and King.

for my Grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s dad , was a Grandson himself in his day,
and I’m Sure that he finds it a wee bit sad , that he Didn’t meet us on the way,
so we’d Give him a place at the head (near the men’s) , with a Big stick to bang on the ground
and a Hearing aid maybe and bifocal lens , and a Map of the world that is round.

and we’ll Roll the dice for a year long since gone , and the Theme would regress to suit
but the Gallery of offspring would still tag along , and could Watch to discuss and to “root”
“good to Meet you old man”, “take a seat here near Gran” , “what an honour madam to shake hands”
“wow the Same nose and chin”, “why, hellooo Gunga Din”, “my-o My ! – from so many far lands”.

and we’d Chat on regardless for months at a time , and of Things that we’d learnt from life
with Grandpa Neandathol learning to mime , and Promising “me no club wife”,
and Attillah the Hun would be served only “lights” , and he’d Grin at his varied descendants
with some Businessmen there mid the fiercest fights , and some Nun’s here adjusting their pendants.

yep I Reckon I’d really enjoy such a year , if my Wish could come true as described
but withOut it I’ll just have to smile through my beer , and to Talk to my “fellow-imbibed”
and to Listen to strangers and people I meet , - no Help from such kind wishing wells
and in Any case, .....
Hell, the “man in the street” , is Probably one of my rels!!!.

(SURE to be one of my rels, more like, lol)
PS Everything's relative as they say.
Where I come from everyone's a relative as well.
Go to family reunions to pick up chicks lol.
 
ADVICE TO AN HEIR TO FICKLE FORTUNE

Son I recall a good year maybe two -you were just a child at my knee
and the land that we see which Ill give to you is the same that was given to me
In those years my boy we'd just fenced the back paddock with gum posts and strained the barbed wire
But then son no sooner we laid down the mattock - than that was the year of the fire.

Son I recall when we built the top shed, and we'd spent all our funds on planting
The sun got so hot that the calves dropped dead, and the dogs just sat around panting
We watched as the shoots came up and then wilted, and fell back as infants slain
And that was the year that the billabong silted, and the first of ten without rain.

Son I must leave now, good luck on this plot, just bury me, six feet of toil
Near where my father was laid to rot, though his soul lives on in this soil
The year that he died son, the rainclouds went mad, and wept till the land became mud
And it kept on raining till good turns bad - and that was the year of the flood.

Son I must leave now, good luck on this plot, I hope it gets kinder with time
Son dont forget that the sheep must be shot, when the salty ground looks like lime
Son dont forget that the first sign of strife is dead trees - like those over there -
And son, for God's sake - though it costs you your life - dont pass to your son to bear.

....
son, make a vow on the kiss of your wife ...dont pass to your son and heir.
 
http://www.stlyrics.com/songs/j/joseph15191/pharaosdreamexplained406661.html
Speaking of biblical predictions of drought durations etc...and of course the grasshopper mentality of preparing for it.
When you sing this you have to impersonate Elvis - Hencewise (I guess?) it's titled the Song of the King

SONG OF THE KING (to JOSEPH)

Well I was wandering along by the banks of the river - When seven fat cows came up out of the Nile, uh-huh
And right behind these fine healthy animals came - Seven other cows, skinny and vile, uh-huh
Well the thin cows ate the fat cows which I - Thought would do them good, uh-huh
But it didn't make them fatter like such - A monster supper should
Well the thin cows were as thin - As they had ever, ever, ever been
.....
Well this dream has got me baffled - Hey, Joseph, won't you tell me what it means?
Well you know that kings ain't stupid - But I don't have a clue
So don't be cruel Joseph - Help me I beg of you

Well I was standing doing nothing in a field out of town - When I saw seven beautiful ears of corn, uh-huh
They were ripe, they were golden and - You've guessed it, Right behind them came seven other ears, Tattered and torn, uh-huh -
Well the bad corn ate the good corn - They came up from behind yes they did
Now Joseph here's the punch line - It's really gonna blow your mind, baby -
Well the bad corn was as bad as it had ever, ever ever been -
....
Well this dream has got me all shook up - Treat me nice and tell me what it means....
Hey, hey, hey Joseph !!!!
Won't you tell poor old Pharaoh !!!!
What does this crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy dream mean?
Oh, yeah


PHARAO's DREAM EXPLAINED (JOSEPH)

Seven years of bumper crops are on their way - Years of plenty, endless wheat and tons of hay
Your farms will boom, there won't be room - To store the surplus food you grow
After that, the future doesn't look so bright - Egypt's luck will change completely overnight
And famine's hand will stalk the land - With food an all-time low
Noble king, there is no doubt - What your dreams are all about
All these things you saw in your pajamas - Are a long range forecast for your farmers
And I'm sure it's crossed your mind -What it is you have to find
Find a man to lead you through the famine - With a flair for economic planning
But who this man could be
I just don't know - Who this man could be
I just don't know - Who this man could be
I just don't know
 
THE PERSON WHO NEVER MADE A MISTAKE

they Call him the guy immune from mistakes, he's one of the brightest of men,
he Watches his wife as she irons and bakes , and scalds her hand yet again,
"how Stupid" he said to her "I don't come close, to even the slightest burn!!"
so she Tied his leg to the ironing board post, and told him politely "YOUR TURN!"

i've Paid for the right (though through different toil ), to make my share of mistakes
and for Every gold ounce (or barrell of oil) I dug up a mountain of fakes
and so Many live castle-bound, drawbridge-raised, and hope it will all "go away",
and they Fear a decision and easily phased, with the risk of it going "a-gley".

and the Man who never made one mistake, made NAUGHT (or somehow deferred em),
or the Poli that never lost one debate, it's prob'ly cos no-one heard em,
- there's No-one who erred not once in his life,
- be it Staunch theologian - or surgeon with knife
- be it Howard or Blair ....
......... or Dubya's wife!!
reductio ad absurdum.
 
Andrew Lloyd Webber . You hear the songs - they are brilliant in themselves!! - the words are also magic
As for the second poem "past the point of no return" - I'd say even Lord Byron never got close to this sorta passion lol.

PS When they bring the Phantom to Sydney, at least we'll have enough in the budget to get the poor ole Phantom a full mask and not just a half like he had to make do with in Melbourne l

 
Greatest contradiction of the 20th Century - How Michael Crawford could play the role of Frank in "some Mothers do have em - and also the Phantom.
- and as he said "also in West Side Story - but , just like the Phantom, they wanted me to play a Jet" - funny funny dude and so bludy talented
Man's a genius! And when he sings any of Webber's songs (brief sample only in previous post) ... sheesh - such artistry. (imho)
 
DON’T FOLLOW ME, I'M LOST

Don't follow me, I'm lost-
Unless you want to try to find, Some freedom from the daily grind, Some place where you can stretch your mind
Or like a salad tossed.

Don’t follow me, I jaywalk,
I usually have my pup in tow, Or viceaversa - hard to know, "Philosophising" as we go
our "easy-lead-astray walk".

Don’t follow me, I'm lost,
I'm walking through a jungle green, The vines are like Jack's tangled bean, It's like a towering wide-eyed dream
Into a land of moss.

Don’t follow me, I'm spaced out,
‘Specially on a sunny day, When dogs and men come OUT TO play, and poetry comes INTO play
and all is interlaced.

Don’t follow me, I'm lost,
Especially when the sunlight rays, Are torchlights through the leafy maze, And as I walk through greens ablaze
It's like a Heaven crossed.

Don’t follow me, I'm dizzy
I force myself to make the time, To taste the fruit of every vine, These gifts of all the Gods combined
And weren't they ever busy.

Don’t follow me, I'm lost,
Especially when I stand in ferns, Just where the creekbed gurgling turns, The soulfood that my heart so yearns
And I am left engrossed.

Don’t follow me, I turn,
When even puppy shows concern, Some relic there, some Grecian urn, I let the trekking brief adjourn
I let the memory "burn".

Don't follow me, I'm drunk
Intoxicated by the sound, Of Mother Nature all around, And Buddha chanting through the ground
the mantra of a monk.

Don’t follow me, I stray,
My puppy tugs, her eyes are glowed, She's chasing leaves back up the road, The next life she'll be frog, me toad -
If Buddha gets his way.

Im sorry if these rude retorts
Have caused offence - on second thoughts..
By all means walk with me - but know
That "lost" is standard "Way-To-Go".

By all means walk with me - and yes,
I'm lost, and love it I confess,
I kneel at Nature's altar… blessed,
And (when I'm lost)… I'm twice caressed.
....

And (when I'm lost)… obsessed.
 
SPIDER AT DUSK

'Twas almost dark when I got home from work, for my customary walk in the bush,
Just a brief exchange with my god - and a gork - and the joy of the evening shush,
And the leaves were moist from a drizzle of rain, and the air was crisp and fresh,
But there.... confronting my face - so plain, was a dewy and spidery mesh.

I knew my dinner was cooking at home, it was bound to be more than I need,
and this poor little spider was forced to comb the forest air for a feed,
And had I not seen him, his web so exposed, and completely blocking my path,
His chances of rebuilding web 'fore he dozed, would be zilch in that aftermath.

Imagine the work of that web in the sky (for the scrappy meal of a moth),
maybe Three foot wide, maybe five feet high, to break it, imagine the wrath,
My dinner would be a lump of beast, and some corn and some pasta and salad,
And the sad comparison - moth to feast - and to break it! how cruel and invalid.

I surveyed his workmanship there in the gloom, - and WHAT had i done today?
and a voice said "Loafer! - return to your room!, and EARN your curds and whey!"
And I turned and returned to my evening chores (for the day had been far from productive),
But at least I had learnt one of Nature's laws, from my eight legged friend, so constructive.

.....
I had learnt the WILL of those cute hairy paws,
The patience and SKILL in that gossamer Gauze
Bob the BRUCE, you DILL! Go win your wars !
...
It was all so damned instructive !!!
 
Way back there (#40) I posted a poem that my dad might have written to me. Here I guess is a reply of sorts. - I mention it purely because it is surely a common wish, a common phenomenon, a common "dream" - to look at a photo of someone who has "shuffled off this moral coil", and to "will them back, if willing could". - Hopefully I avoid being maudlin - (as in "excessively sentimental" , dictionary.com) - last thing I intend. Photo was black-and white . There was also a tree that he sketched - also black-and-white. I guess the conclusion is that most memories are in black-and-white, whereas life is in colour.

THE BLACK AND WHITE PHOTO

I stand now where my father stood,
When he sketched through that autumn hot,
And I’d will him back if willing could,
But it can’t, so I’ll will him not;
But I’d love to have watched him pencilling tones
And his ink, and his softer side,
And to tell him the colourful comfort zones,
When I wear his name with pride.

I gaze now where my father gazed,
Where stood that majestic tree,
Unlike its sketch, now almost erased,
Now a black and white memory;
Just a hint of its former handsome self,
That he sketched as he “convalesced”
And subject and author, like shoemaker’s elf
Have departed at first light, blessed.

I gaze back now at his photo’s gaze
Beside his sketches so wise
And his varied tones in their various greys
And the flashes of light in his eyes,
It’s as if his final sketch was himself,
Like a leaf from that autumn tree,
But it sits, black-and-white, on a lonely shelf,
With his father before him – and me.

The corner is dimly lit – near the phone
And I smile expecting a ring,
But those beautiful colours of autumn are gone
Now the winter awaits a spring;
It’s a waste of good time, and I shouldn’t so think,
But I long to take out the glass pane,
And I long for some magical life-coloured pink
And to paint Dad - and tree - again.

Just some magical life-giving life-coloured ink
That would pour while we laughed in the rain.
 
THE RUGBY RAINBOW

in Art, it’s the black of a deep despair, or Otherwise various purples,
in the Bush it’s the charcoal that follows the flare, in Banking it signifies surplus,
in Magic - the colour of evil or error, in Metals the colour of lead,
but in Rugby the colour of Kiwi terror, cos the Buggers are raw-meat-fed.

in Art it’s the green of youth and trees, and there’s Much in spring it resembles,
to the Greeks (long ago) it meant victories, in Precious stones, its emeralds,
to Some, the symbol of grass and jokes, when the Traffic lights work, it means “GO”,
on the Rugby field, it’s those Wallaby blokes, and the Smoke when their earlobes glow.

in Art, gold’s the glow of Apollo’s Sun, the Gilt of a valued letter,
while Yellow might mean, well, foolish or fun, the Deeper the gold, it gets better,
in Spain it’s the executioner’s cloak, and he’s Deaf to the cries for mercy,
and for Omelettes you need a broken yoke, and for Rugby supreme - a gold jersey.

in Art it’s the colour of blood or gore, of Fortitude, courage, or bold,
in Love, it’s the colour of deep or pure, or our Heart as we reach to enfold,
in Metals the colour of iron annealed, the Weapons with which we make war,
and in Rugby the rose of the men of steel, as the Balmy tonsils roar.

in Art it’s the colour of purity, truth, just as Jesus is painted in whites,
in Precious stones, it’s the pearl in its booth, one of Nature’s most beautiful sights,
in Metals, its silver, but let’s not suppose that Second best prize is conceded,
cos in Rugby its covered with blood - and a rose, and bare Flesh, before they’re defeated.

so they Take to the field, and the crowd is immersed, with their Colours “nailed to the mast”
and Who is the first to yield to thirst? and Who is the last to outlast?
and they Smash, and they crash, and they make their dash, and it Blurrs in one bloody great “blue”
cos it’s All abot having a bloody great bash, in a Bloody great “rainbow stew”.
 
THERE'S PUDDLES IN THE CREEK

There's puddles in the creek Mum and there's music in the air,
The dog has gone so loopy it's out-looping Fred Astaire
And I'm not talkin jive, I'm talking Highland fling with flair
So fling your shoes and join her flight from care, -
The God of dogs has heard her little prayer.

There's puddles in the creek Mum and it's London to a brick,
It's full of extra vitamins, we'll never more be sick,
It looks and tastes like caramel, you close your eyes and lick,
At least it's wet, at least it doesn't stick
So come and dance the ankle-tapper quick.

There's puddles in the creek Mum and a few of 'em are linked,
The crows are crowing loudly it’s the best they've ever drinked,
The grass is green as dollarsigns just when we thought we're sinked,
The brinksmanship's the closest that we've brinked
I just wish dry old creekbeds were extinct.

A week ago the creekbed was a pile of thirsty stones
A lizard oversunbaked here, and that's his pile of bones
But now the creek is humming like a choir of Xylophones
And birds and lizards staking out their zones,
A mad cacophony of joyous tones.

There's puddles in the creek Mum, and the drought has "sorta" broke
Its just as well cos we were next to go right up in smoke
We almost had to tell the bank to go to hell (and stoke)
And pack up camp and join the city folk
But thanks to puddles that was just a joke.

There's puddles in the creek Mum and the dust has left the trees,
The air is full of moisture and a pleasant zephyr breeze,
The creek smiles as I humbly bend and muddy up my knees …
And meanwhile dog lines up a tree and pees -
No longer need the trees chase dogs for these.
 
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