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Thanks for Sharing

Cast: Gwyneth Paltrow, Mark Ruffalo, Pink, Joely Richardson, Tim Robbins, Josh Gad, Patrick Fugit, Carol Kane, Emily Meade, Poorna Jagannathan

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Narrative [ My Perspective ]

Patrick Jonathan Derilus
Mr. Filie
Period 6/7
Poetry

My Perspective

Patrick Jonathan Derilus is a young boy trying to turn his life around by defeating the demons that continue to destroy him….His life is somewhat different from how society sees everything else….
Feeling as if he is a cursed child …Cursed as if he is forever trapped in a cold cell…”Understanding” reality and how things happen is one of the things that attempts to get the best out of him and ironically it is succeeding…
But Patrick tries to look on the bright side of things and persists to becoming the best of the best…but there are spawns in which the devil created that prevents the young warrior from doing so…
“Depression”, “Doubt” and “Self Confidence” are some of the demons capable of easily annihilating Patrick…addressing these entity’s…Patrick is half way through this mile run..
But not aware of what goes on in his Penetrable temple, Destruction carries on to running amuck..
Patrick can hardly make it through the day when these Demons try to pursue him…Blood is spilled, but the low class warrior is still persistently consistent…
The only things that keep him alive are “Hope”, “Faith”, and the little confidence he has left…Inside the doors of the devil, as a New Jack; Patrick was clueless on how and why he reacts to things a certain way…Also to the way he is to this very day…Feeling like he was being controlled by a puppet master, he foolishly is put into one of Satan’s traps..As years went by, Patrick slowly began to picking up things in his mind and how it worked…
He learned on how to adapt and respond to these subliminal messages… but in time, Satan is able to quickly counteract on anything Patrick optimistically attempted to do. Leaving him with loopholes that would destroy Patrick from the inside…”WHY DOES MY MOOD AND PERSONALITY CONTINUE TO FLUCTUATE…? ” Patrick asks himself. So many questions asked but none of them answered… Satan has Patrick right where he wants him. “If I can’t rid of Patrick any other way, I can only destroy him mentally in which Patrick is easily fooled” Satan says.
Once internally defeated, pessimistic venoms leak into the sanctum of Patrick’s temple and slowly it is melting...”WHY ME? ! ” Patrick asks. Having the ability to even think for himself, Patrick wonders if he shall continue to fight off these Demons or become feasted upon…”Words coming from another voice will not be able to help me” Patrick says. Solutions being formed in his mind are to making the evil Entity’s disappear for good by finding an antidote to purifying Patrick’s mind…
But believing they are “antidotes” is too good to be true…Satan has created a loophole for everything in order to rid of Patrick anyway he can… Then realizing Patrick is seemingly hopeless on what to do for himself to Destroy Satan, He comes to the conclusion that Satan cannot destroy what does not exist… “WHEN MY SHACKLES OF DEPRESSION ARE BROKEN, I SHALL FIND TRUE HAPPINESS” Patrick sadly says. But he does not believe he shall rid of himself… He believes he shall continue to fight this everlasting war with Satan until these Demons are extinguished from the inside...Until he is Mentally Strong and is at peace with his mind…Patrick has vowed to attempting to destroy “Depression”, “Doubt” and “Negativity” in order to becoming the Man that he intends to be…Trying to recover from his internal scars.

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The Lawyer’s First Tale: Primitiæ or Third Cousins

I

‘Dearest of boys, please come to-day,
Papa and mama have bid me say,
They hope you’ll dine with us at three;
They will be out till then, you see,
But you will start at once, you know,
And come as fast as you can go.
Next week they hope you’ll come and stay
Some time before you go away.
Dear boy, how pleasant it will be,
Ever your dearest Emily!’
Twelve years of age was I, and she
Fourteen, when thus she wrote to me,
A schoolboy, with an uncle spending
My holidays, then nearly ending.
My uncle lived the mountain o’er,
A rector, and a bachelor;
The vicarage was by the sea,
That was the home of Emily:
The windows to the front looked down
Across a single-streeted town,
Far as to where Worms-head was seen,
Dim with ten watery miles between;
The Carnedd mountains on the right
With stony masses filled the sight;
To left the open sea; the bay
In a blue plain before you lay.
A garden, full of fruit, extends,
Stone-walled, above the house, and ends
With a locked door, that by a porch
Admits to churchyard and to church;
Farm-buildings nearer on one side,
And glebe, and then the countrywide.
I and my cousin Emily
Were cousins in the third degree;
My mother near of kin was reckoned
To hers, who was my mother’s second:
My cousinship I held from her.
Such an amount of girls there were,
At first one really was perplexed:
’Twas Patty first, and Lydia next,
And Emily the third, and then,
Philippa, Phoebe, Mary Gwen.
Six were they, you perceive, in all;
And portraits fading on the wall,
Grandmothers, heroines of old,
And aunts of aunts, with scrolls that told
Their names and dates, were there to show
Why these had all been christened so.

[...] Read more

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Pink Pink

pink pink
Confirmed that it was armed
pink pink
Was right to be alarmed
pink pink
Ensured that nought was harmed
pnk pink
Steady hand and mind
pink pink
Micro-chip designed
pink pink
The password was declined
pink pink
Another course to take
pink pink
Caution not to shake
pink pink
Captivity a mistake
pink pink
Beads upon the brow
pink pink
Experience the how
pink pink
No chance to turn back now
pink pink
Be certain not to slip
pink pink
One last wire to snip
pink pink
Two hearts that skip a beat
penk penk
The sound that gives a lift
penk penk
Time to collect the gift
penk penk
The robbery will be swift

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John Dryden

Palamon And Arcite; Or, The Knight's Tale. From Chaucer. In Three Books. Book III.

The day approached when Fortune should decide
The important enterprise, and give the bride;
For now the rivals round the world had sought,
And each his number, well appointed, brought.
The nations far and near contend in choice,
And send the flower of war by public voice;
That after or before were never known
Such chiefs, as each an army seemed alone:
Beside the champions, all of high degree,
Who knighthood loved, and deeds of chivalry,
Thronged to the lists, and envied to behold
The names of others, not their own, enrolled.
Nor seems it strange; for every noble knight
Who loves the fair, and is endued with might,
In such a quarrel would be proud to fight.
There breathes not scarce a man on British ground
(An isle for love and arms of old renowned)
But would have sold his life to purchase fame,
To Palamon or Arcite sent his name;
And had the land selected of the best,
Half had come hence, and let the world provide the rest.
A hundred knights with Palamon there came,
Approved in fight, and men of mighty name;
Their arms were several, as their nations were,
But furnished all alike with sword and spear.

Some wore coat armour, imitating scale,
And next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail;
Some wore a breastplate and a light juppon,
Their horses clothed with rich caparison;
Some for defence would leathern bucklers use
Of folded hides, and others shields of Pruce.
One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow,
And one a heavy mace to stun the foe;
One for his legs and knees provided well,
With jambeux armed, and double plates of steel;
This on his helmet wore a lady's glove,
And that a sleeve embroidered by his love.

With Palamon above the rest in place,
Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;
Black was his beard, and manly was his face
The balls of his broad eyes rolled in his head,
And glared betwixt a yellow and a red;
He looked a lion with a gloomy stare,
And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair;
Big-boned and large of limbs, with sinews strong,
Broad-shouldered, and his arms were round and long.
Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old)
Were yoked to draw his car of burnished gold.

[...] Read more

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Pink

A blush of pink:
She'd caught a roving eye -
He gave a wink.
Her smile had played a shy
And quaint florescence;
The siren of pubescence
Drew him in.

She bade him touch her hair,
Suggesting that he dare
To kiss her pulsing lips!
E'er the fool a man, he did:
The drips of blood began to cheer -
And so, another rid:

Tips of fangs are sharp, you know -
Dancing ivory feeds her soul -
See her claim a howl upon a chilling wind!

Slain, he lay across a crimson floor:
She grinned in her repletion.

A blush of pink;
Beneath a glowering sky
Her savoured drink
Was done.


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010


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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim

Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.

He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.

He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday

Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.

Fastest man for miles around
To part with the green back pound
In him you'll find nothing cheap
Money he can't seem to keep.

He's a happy sort of bloke
Happy even when he's broke
He's got the right mentality
Never down, always carefree.

Likes his guinness doesn't like beer
Drinks his liquor with good cheer,
Whiskey makes the man walk tall
And he likes whiskey best of all.

He is merciful though strong
And without good reason won't do wrong
But do him wrong and he will fight
And with his fists he'll put things right.

He'd prefer to crack your jaw
Than chastise you with the law
Solves his problems like a man
That's the way it is with Dan.

And though when need arise he can be hard
Dan the frog is no blaghguard
But his type you don't kick around
As men like him do not yield ground

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William Butler Yeats

Narrative And Dramatic The Wanderings Of Oisin

BOOK I

S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain

[...] Read more

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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

[...] Read more

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Thomas Hardy

Additions

The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's

THEY had long met o' Zundays--her true love and she--
And at junketings, maypoles, and flings;
But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he
Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be
Naibor Sweatley--a gaffer oft weak at the knee
From taking o' sommat more cheerful than tea--
Who tranted, and moved people's things.

She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on;
The couple stood bridegroom and bride;
The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone
The folks horned out, "God save the King," and anon
The two home-along gloomily hied.

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear
To be thus of his darling deprived:
He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, and mere,
And, a'most without knowing it, found himself near
The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear,
Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived.

The bride sought her cham'er so calm and so pale
That a Northern had thought her resigned;
But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal,
Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battlefield's vail,
That look spak' of havoc behind.

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain,
Then reeled to the linhay for more,
When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain--
Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might and wi' main,
And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light,
Through brimble and underwood tears,
Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright
In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' fright,
Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from sight,
His lonesome young Barbree appears.

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views

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Thomas Hardy

The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's

They had long met o' Zundays--her true love and she--
And at junketings, maypoles, and flings;
But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he
Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be
Naibor Sweatley--a gaffer oft weak at the knee
From taking o' sommat more cheerful than tea--
Who tranted, and moved people's things.

She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on;
The couple stood bridegroom and bride;
The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone
The folks horned out, "God save the King," and anon
The two home-along gloomily hied.

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear
To be thus of his darling deprived:
He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, and mere,
And, a'most without knowing it, found himself near
The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear,
Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived.

The bride sought her cham'er so calm and so pale
That a Northern had thought her resigned;
But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal,
Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battlefield's vail,
That look spak' of havoc behind.

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain,
Then reeled to the linhay for more,
When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain--
Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might and wi' main,
And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light,
Through brimble and underwood tears,
Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright
In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' fright,
Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from sight,
His lonesome young Barbree appears.

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views
Played about by the frolicsome breeze,
Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes,

[...] Read more

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Pink Pussycat

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pink pussycat
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pink pussycat
Where are you
Pink pussycat
Im looking for you
Pink pussycat
Meow meow meow
Pink pussycat
Where ya hiding puss
Pink pussycat
Im coming after you
Im gonna mix yer meow-meows
Pink pussycat
Got you in the car
Pink pussycat
Got you in the backseat
Pink pussycat
I wanna touch yer fur
Pink pussycat
Im gonna see you dance
Pink pussycat
Im gonna stand yer fur on end
Pink pussycat
Sleep inside you
Pink pussycat
Lick you clean
Pink pussycat
Gonna mess you up
Pink pussycat
Im a dog
Pink pussycat
Bow wow wow
Pink pussycat
Gonna chase you
Pink pussycat
Gonna catch you
Pink pussycat
Gonna bite you
Pink pussycat
Tear yer little ears off
Pink pussycat
Meow meow meow
Pink pussycat
Im so stroft

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The Great Hunger

I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,

[...] Read more

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The Ballad Of Betsy

Betsy now pulls the cart towards sweet home that day
Her size makes pulling baby carts as mere child's play
She's huge, a Labrador, obtained from Russian friend
Trained by cop, we'll call Tim - that isn't his real name

Tim can slug between the eyes crooks across the street
His temper's short, but long the distance he'd shoot straight
His baby, Betsy pulls in cart as they would stroll
Today could be the day, she waits maternal call

So many pats, did Tim bestow on Betsy's head
As due reward for deeds of bravery she'd made
To Betsy it's worth all to life and what it brought
And with her newborn pups, she's bound for added worth

One fateful day, as Tim was out, the stork came in,
And for Betsy it looks like Fate did show her grin,
But as her seventh pup was out, a wolf came by
It bit the baby that so loud it now did cry

Still in maternity, she sprang to guard duty
To give battle, protect her tuft, succeed ably
She'd killed the wolf, at last, but not without its price
Bloodied and stained, she hardly moves from where she lies

But worse is for the fox that now nary is seen,
Concealed in undergrowth from where it once had been
The stench of death will fill the air in future days
Or else its rotted corpse thereat forever stays

As Tim arrives, she thought a pat would ease her pain
She whined a bit to point out to where she'd lain
Tim saw the baby bleeding red from dangling arm
And felt the matching blood on Betsy's face still warm

To Tim this meant a smoking gun that he has found
As victim and the culprit were all still around
Ten years of Police work taught him to act now fast
He struck at Betsy who just stared feeling aghast

The pat that Betsy yearned now came, but seemed too hard
It split her skull and felt as though there flew a shard
Her pups, too, Tim held nothing back, he game them all
She watched with mournful eyes as last of them did fall

She stared at Tim with eyes where now fresh blood had sprung
As if to say, "If you'd kill me, please spare my young, "
"I've only done the best I can, if not enough,
Then punish me, but please, let live a single pup."

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William Butler Yeats

The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I

S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,

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My Fault

the tears run down my face
for yet again they disprove of him
when will they like him cause
I will never date anyone else but him
so I’ll just have to put up with this
shit for two more years
I’m sure if we can make it through that
we can make it through anything

some times I wish for another
but I know I couldn’t be able to brake his heart
for his pain would be so great
that it might kill the both of us
for his pain becomes mine
and mine becomes his
because of the bond of life
has always been there under our noses
we were just to blind to notice
once we did notice we feel hard and fast.
the faster we fell
the harder it was to break us apart
right now I feel as if our bond and our lives
are consumed by our love
neither one of us could live with out the other in our lives
for we feed off of each other
I cant stand being away from him

but yet there is anther that they will approve of.
the other guy(josh) is tearing my heart into two pieces
and my beautiful relationship with my boyfriend
I really don’t want that to happen
so every day I tell my self
I don’t like josh a million times
but once I see him he takes my breath away
he makes me almost faint and as he comes closer to hug me
my knees become week and
I want to given to the little devil on my shoulder that’s saying
look at josh he is gorgeous go with josh
take him into your world and show him a good time
but the angle says no
you love mason take mason into your world and mason is hot
take mason into your world
not josh... no josh..... stay away from him he’s trouble

yes josh is gorgeous but I love mason
and I always will love mason
no matter what happens
not even a huge crush such as josh
cause I’ am mason’s soul mate and he is mine
we belong together and not apart for we are in love

[...] Read more

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Al Cobdogla's Hearse

The mood in the town of Warramine
Was grim, and getting worse,
For stuck on the town's old hump-back bridge
Was Al Cobdogla's hearse,
The brakes had failed and the motor quit
And the footplates wedged each side,
The springs had sprung, and the body hung
On Emily's final ride!

The coffin lodged in the back was black,
As black as Emily's sin,
There wasn't a man in the great outback
That hadn't been out and in,
For Emily Gray was more than gay
In the old sense of the word,
She only charged a dollar a spin
Out there in the cattle yard.

For Emily was an outdoor girl
She couldn't abide inside,
She liked the sun on her naked legs
And a good bit more beside,
She'd run stark naked under the trees
When the wattle began to bloom,
And wives would lock their men in the bar
On a Saturday afternoon.

‘The blatant hussy, ' - ‘The brazen bitch! '
The women would often say,
The men would mutter and dropp their heads,
‘It's only Emily Gray! '
They found her lying without a stitch,
Or that's what somebody said,
And beat her bloody with candlesticks,
So now, poor Emily's dead!

She lay in the coffin, wedged in tight,
As tight as the hearse on the bridge,
The men got worried and pulled her out
And stuck her in somebody's fridge!
‘She won't last long in the heat out here,
It's over a hundred today, '
It seemed that the women of Warramine
Were stuck with Emily Gray!

They pushed and heaved, pummelled and thrust
But nothing could budge that hearse,
The only bridge into Warramine
Was blocked, for better or worse,
The farmers couldn't get into the pub,

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Emily Ann

Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
Order insulted, authority spurned,
Dread and distraction wherever he turned
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.


Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring -
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.


And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left,
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
And, at least once a minute, asked, 'What's to be done?'
But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans,
'Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!'


'How now?' cried the King. 'Is there not in my land
One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand:
A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief
I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief
A soldier, a sailor, a - ' Raising his head,
With relief in his eye, 'Now, I mind me!' he said.


'I mind me a Tinker, and what once befel,
When I think, on the whole, he was treated not well.
But he shall be honoured, and he shall be famed
If he read me this riddle. But how is he named?
Some commonplace title, like-Simon?-No-Sym!
Go, send out my riders, and scour Gosh for him.'


They rode for a day to the sea in the South,
Calling the name of him, hand to the mouth.
They rode for a day to the hills in the East,
But signs of a tinker saw never the least.
Then they rode to the North thro' a whole day long,
And paused in the even to hark to a song.

'Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?
Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips,

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Old Paul and Old Tim

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why HE should be pitched upon rather than HIM.
This wasn't the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.

No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either - or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes -
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young EMILY. Let us get on.

No coward's blood ran in young EMILY'S veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise -
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee -
For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she'd marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn't care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
"I'll cover myself with cheap glory - I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

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Carol's Bright Smile

Carol with her sparkly eyes, always has a great big smile.
Happy to see me even when she's blue,
she is sincere person through and through.
Carol is supportive of my writing for she is a loving soul,
Carol compliments me to bring me up when I'm low.
Carol thought of me at Christmastime,
she is very giving and kind.
Carol is always busy and on the go,
she helps her family who loves her so.
Carol loves her grandchild who lives quite near,
she babysits her grandchild when she's here.
Carol has style and dresses quite slick,
she goes out dressed fashionably chick.
I always love how Carol does her hair,
either a ponytail, loose curls with a flair.
Carol's from Boston and soon will go back,
her bright sunshine is what the Dorchester will lack.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on February 5,2012

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Carol's My Friend

Carol with her sparkly eyes, always has a great big smile.
Happy to see me even when she's blue,
she is sincere person through and through.
Carol is supportive of my writing for she is a loving soul,
Carol compliments me to bring me up when I'm low.
Carol thought of me at Christmastime,
she is very giving and kind.
Carol is always busy and on the go,
she helps her family who loves her so.
Carol loves her grandchild who lives quite near,
she babysits her grandchild when she's here.
Carol has style and dresses quite slick,
she goes out dressed fashionably chick.
I always love how Carol does her hair,
either a ponytail, loose curls with a flair.
Carol's from Boston and soon will go back,
her bright sunshine is what the Dorchester will lack.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on February 5,2012

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