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Children are far more interesting to work with than grownups. They're incredibly honest. They'll tell you exactly what they think.

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For A Parent Whose Children Are Far Away

FOR A PARENT WHOSE CHILDREN ARE FAR AWAY

For a parent whose children are far away
There is much loneliness-
The love we have for our children
Exceeds in our old age all others-
We do not know how to stop praying for them -
Oh God who I fear and love
Forgive us for all our failures of You
And bless them
With good lives and families

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Far More Pretty Than The Flowers Hanging On The Branches

Far more pretty than the flowers hanging on the branches,
more glamorous than the sun in the blue sky,
much closer than the birds in their flight
you come into my life by your own will,

you bring comfort to the daily longing
and constantly return from work.
Far more pretty than the flowers hanging on the branches,
more glamorous than the sun in the blue sky,

the depth of our love sometimes scares me;
for getting hurt these feelings are sometimes renowned
but our love makes my humanity lustrous
and constantly you are
far more pretty than the flowers hanging on the branches,
more glamorous than the sun in the blue sky.

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Being Aware And Conscious Of It

I know who has been on my side,
And who hasn't.
That has been my one weakness,
And flaw.

Being aware and conscious of it,
Around those still connected to nonsense...
Will get comments made from those,
Who have yet to identify themselves...
With feelings they project on others.
And the depth of what being human means.

Many have not awakened from their delusions.
And I have never been given the opportunity,
To find my own.
None to pretend I was better than someone else.

'I have never heard you talk about yourself! '

Why should I do that...
If no one has express the interest?

I rather like to hear,
Those perceptions made of me.
They are far more interesting,
Than the reality lived I know.

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The Children Are The Future Of Humanity

The children are the future of Humanity so teach the children well
And as their teacher your knowledge of Life and Nature to them you ought to tell
And teach them to respect our Mother Earth the one who feeds us all
And in years from now to you they will be grateful when memories of you they will recall.

The children are the future of Humanity but for guidance on you they do depend
They need you as a mentor and they need you as a friend
Children are innocent and easily led astray good role models they do need
That you have been chosen as their mentor to you is a great honour indeed.

Children who do not have good role models in life are easily led astray
That they do not receive a fair go does seem so sad to say
Far too many young children become victims of abuse
For wronging children in any way there cannot be an excuse.

As the teacher of the children you've been chosen for to lead
And though of good mentors and teachers we seldom hear about or read
That you do your best as a teacher for you enough of success
To young people that you mentor you bring hope and happiness.

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The Calm

Brothers, have you observed the calm?
Even the leaves of that symbolic palm
That denotes peace, political and otherwise, are scarcely stirred
By the faintest breath of controversy. Not a word
Is heard,
Excepting, here and there, the belated spouting
Of some overcharged politician giving his vocabulary an outing.
Brothers, what does this denote?
Is there no longer any competition for your precious vote?
Nay, have you ever heard that alleged political axiom over which the
wily old campaigners oft make goodly sport:
'The memory of the sap-headed elector is short.'
Do you believe the allegation, brothers, or do you doubt it?
And, anyhow, what are you going to do about it?


Brothers, if ever you hope to know enough to come in out of the wet,
Mark this: They are giving you time to forget!
What of those great National Questions,
Those fine, broad, far-seeing and statesman-like suggestions,
Those urgent matters of life and death,
About which the politicians were so busy talking a while ago that they
had hardly time to draw breath?
Are they dead?
Have they been fatally bashed on the head?
Have they been decently interred attended by those solemn obsequies
usually afforded the remains of respectable and right-thinking
persons who impressed us in this life with their top-hats?
Rats!
What of the settlement of the Northern Territory?
Is this an abandoned story?
What of our sea defence?
Has this question been cast hence
Into the outer darkness and the gloom
Of the tomb?
What of efficient Protection?
Is this now merely a matter for maundering retrospection.
Amongst senile and toothless old parties whose minds ever dwell amongst
the dead and mouldy things of the past?
Oh, Blast, brothers! BLAST!
Blast those rocks of apathy that bind your sense of true citizenship!
Get a fresh grip.
Spring off your tall!
Give your political perspicaciousness a ball,
Revive it with a long, cool, refreshing drink,
And sit down and THINK....

Do you imagine for one moment that old 'Party Government' is asleep?
Do you picture it sunk in slumbers deep?
If you do, brothers, you never made a bigger mistake.
It is very, very wide awake.
That fine, old British institution, Party Government, that was
introduced into this suffering country before the thistle and
previous to the rabbit,
And nursed so assiduously by politicians till our acceptance of it has
become a sinful habit -
This pestiferous System, my brothers, never sleeps;
Watch and ward it keeps.
And while you are mooning, sporting, smoodging, drinking, dreaming,
It is engineering, planning, plotting, scheming.
The Hon. Mr. Black is aiming at the political downfall of the Hon. Mr.
White;
While the Hon. Mr. White is playing for the shoving of the Hon. Mr.
Black and his friends into the darkness and gloom and solitude of
political night.
But both, my brothers, both are toiling with the energy of a 200-h.p.
triple cylinder motor,
With the object of eventually and effectively sprinkling a little salt
upon the tail of that dull but desirable bird, the free and independent
voter.
Brothers, do ye feel like taking tickets on yourselves? Do ye feel
flattered and exalted?
For, behold, ye are to be numbered among the salted!
And, while these plots and plans are brewing,
What, my brothers, are ye doing?
Whilst the wily politician is chewing
The cud of sinful reflection, with his eye upon your votes,
Are uou acting otherwise than after the manner and fashion of unreflective
goats?
While you, brother, are canoodling with a soft and fluffy person, in a
Magyarblouse, upon the silvery beach,
Striving to convince her that you think she is a perfect peach;
And while you, brother, are vainly endeavoring at the races,
To watch the impossible nags you back run into places;
And while you, brother, are sinking the long 'un, and the gin-squash, and
the soder-with-dash.
And recklessly doing in your cash;
Sly old Party Government and its minions
Are busy manufacturing your political opinions.
Yes, you, the intelligent electors, fine fellows of quite unusual
brain and brawn,
Are each of you regarded merely as a puppet, a pawn
In the Game.
Shame!

Attention, and I shall tell you exactly what old Party Government is doing
at this precise moment, if you wish.
He is busily engaged in the manufacture of fish.
Fish, brothers, herrings, red herrings which it is his intention to draw
across the track
Of great National Issues, because he is too tired to deal with them, and
work gives him a pain in the back.
And in full cry, like a foolish and deluded pack
Of unintelligent beagles, you will chase wildly after the remains of that
unpleasant, defunct and odorous fish.
And you will think you are doing it because it is your own free wish.
You will open your mouths and howl, and go and record your votes at the
polls,
And fondly imagine that you are expressing the earnest convictions of your
inmost and invincible souls.
I fear me, my brothers, that the tart, and the prad, and the long beer, and
the midnight cray that bringeth early indigestion
Have far more attraction for you than any great National Question.
Go to!
There is no fun and small profit in attempting to act Diogenes to such as

Brothers, I bid ye a sad farewell.
So many poor, misguided people, who grabbed their opinions ready-made at the
last moment, have gone before us that there is, nowadays, some difficulty
in keeping the lid on Hell.
Brothers, with that innate dignity that is characteristic, I retire
To contemplate further insults, which I shall deliver as occasion may
require.

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There are far more important things in life than making a putt or missing a putt or winning a championship or losing a championship.

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New Life

So mad am I,
people are always
walking all over me.

Children are always
marking up my face
with colored chalk.

They're hop scotch
freaks, always jumping
on me, all the time.

Even the day I
was born and still wet,
hand prints, and names they
wrote on me.

Now many years
have I been here
time is catching
up with me.

Cracks all over
my body, now today
given new life.

So many ages will
I be here for you
to walk on this sidewalk.

wrote 4-9-07

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Children Are Not Possessions

Your children are not your children;

They are the sons and daughters life
longing for itself

They come through you but not from you,
Though they are with you they're not possessions

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts

You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls live in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, even in your dreams

You may strive to to be like them,
But seek not to make them like you
For life goes backward and lingers not with yesterday

You are the bows from which your children,
As living arrows are cast forth

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the Infinite,
And God Himself fills you with His Might that His
Arrows may go swift and far

Kahlil Gibran

(Interpretation by ROTMS)

Read more writings by ROTMS at http: //rotms.blogspot.com

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When My Dreams Say, ' We Are No More There

When my dreams say, ' We are no more there'
I shall sail unto an island far off.
There I shall have the sapling of a dream tree planted
And it will grow.

When my dream tree begins to bloom
I will never pluck its flowers ever,
So will when its fruits begin to ripe
I remain hungry and thirsty there.

I shall lie in the shade of the tree
Without ever dreaming to have a dream for me.
Then I shall climb its branches and see for myself
The vast expanse of water green or blue.

I shall hoot from the top of it like an own
Blind often or blinded by the dreams of the past.
I shall shout unto the skies blue
About having dreams aplenty and not still having them.

When I once return to the home in the mainland,
I shall carry one hundred fruits from the dream tree,
I shall give them to men and women I like most
And nay, I will never give them to children ever.

I shall play hide and seek with children
And shall tell about the need for climbing the dream trees
Which will grow and touch the sky once
Even as they might still be dreaming a lot.

But I am afraid, friends,
Even as my dreams have begun to fade out
My island withers out further
And I am left with a rudderless boat
To sail unto that green paradise of my Utopia!

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Patrick White

My Eyes Are Getting Better

My eyes are getting better
as I get older
despite the sunspots
and leggy eclipses
and when I look back
I can see further than I ever did
except it isn't the light
that illuminates things any more
it's time
and that's a whole other palette
with colours of its own
wavelengths faster than light.
When you see things with your eyes
the past may be red deepening into black
and the future a furious white-blue
that pushes the darkness back
a T Tauri star or two
but when you see things
with the whole of your being
it isn't time that's passing
it's you
and it turns out linear perspective isn't true
and things in the distance aren't blue
because there are as many farewells
in the foreground
as there are the prophetic yellows
of intimate tomorrows
that haven't happened yet
way at the back.
Memory isn't the distilled essence of existence
you can swill in your hand
like a glass of brandy in front of the fireplace
to keep warm when it's cold outside.
Memory doesn't drink out of a glass
like sacrificial blood out of a thermometer.
It scoops the moon out of the nightstream
and drinks with both hands.
It revels in its madness
like Li Po's poetry
not the prose of a vain Narcissus.
It isn't the pale reflection
of what was once vital.
It walks with those
who haven't been born yet
as easily as it talks to ghosts
without changing the subject.
I've got future memories
I've carried around inside myself for years
like the embryos of what's become of yesterday.
There are sorrows up ahead
I haven't endured yet
that I've already cried for
well in advance of my tears.
Is a river the past
or the future of the sea
and which one's the prophet
and which one's the prophecy
that didn't come to pass?
Does the man head back to the boy he used to be?
A couple of earthquakes
it was hard to stand up to
and the cornerstone of my youth
sank through the quicksand of my maturity
like a California sabre-tooth
that won't be discovered
until thousands of years from now
when archaeologists start looking
for missing links in the fossils of the truth.
Tomorrow's late
and yesterday can't catch up
but the thing that I like best about now
is that it never hesitates
to be where it will when it wants
without worrying about where everyone else is.
At least that's what I tell myself
when I can't stop thinking about you
like someone who will never happen again
the way love first said your name
as if a word
were destined
to become more famous
than the voice that said it
like an afterlife
reclaimed from the lost and found.
Where are you now
who came like a deathwish
to the geni in the lamp
of an unknown constellation
who wouldn't give you what you wanted?
Did you ever forgive me?
Sometimes it's more dangerous to be deceived
than it is to be haunted by a truth
you never believed in.
You wanted to live in the moment
as if time were the homogeneity of space
and I tried to tell you that it wasn't midnight everywhere
and somewhere the sun was still shining
but there are some clouds
that prefer shrouds to happy linings
and I don't remember which one of us died first
but to this day
when anyone rubs me the wrong way
I grant them three curses.
And of the three.
Loving someone unconditionally is the worst.
And neither of the other two
are much better than the first
when you're asked to decide
between truth and compassion
as if you were tasked
to divide the baby like Solomon
between two mothers
and you suddenly realize
how hard it is to choose
which one of your eyes to put out
in the name of the other
like a candleflame with a forked tongue
that sees everything
as if it had two shadows
and one of them was longer than the other
like the short and the long straw
of a subjective risk
that couldn't bridge the gap
between the cool lucidities
of the fireflies of insight
that tried to make constellations out of everything
and the way
you kept splitting the tree of knowledge
like a wishbone
down the middle
between my uncertain intensities
and the unlikely absolutes
of your pre-emptive lightning strikes.
Caesar may have accidentally burned down
the library at Alexandria
where seventy-two imminently isolated scholars
wrote the exact same Septuagint
to prove the divinity of its revelation
but a greater loss
than the amassed wisdom of the past
is the way your intellect
wouldn't take the lid off
a masonjar full of fireflies
you jammed like stars
into a moment you wanted to preserve forever.
I meet the past everywhere on the road I'm on now
coming back from the future
as if I had all the time in the world
to recall tomorrow
without a sense of urgency.
Or as I once said to a beautiful young artist
when she was poor and nameless.
Until you've bought
your own work back
at a garage sale
for next to nothing
you can't be sure
you're going to be famous.
And there's no way
you can trick yesterday
out of the arms of the past
like the new moon
out of the arms of the old.
I was one of the tantric children
of literature once
an enfant terrible like Rimbaud.
I got a taste of fame.
I spit it out
like bottled water
from the wellsprings of the muses
who found their inspiration in clean living
but never got fired up
by the lack of truth in their diet.
I shut my mouth.
I was as precocious as a highchair.
I would go to a poetry reading
and turn it into a riot.
Fire on the water.
Autumn trees on the Fall River.
I was an arsonist
in a volunteer fire brigade
witching for water in hell.
Now I'm the emergency exit
at the end of a long line
of alarm bells
I'm swinging on like Quasimodo
in self-defence.
I don't need a mirror
to know
what the lucky don't see
in what's ugly.
Beauty falls in love with the Beast.
But I haven't been to church in awhile
since my soul
took out a restraining order
to keep the priest away from the child.
Early autumn along the backroads into heaven.
The sumac's burning.
The sumac's burning.
The phoenix is on its pyre.
Is this a birth?
Is this a death?
Or just where highway seven
meets the five eleven
and time intersects the timeless
like the red yellow and green
of stop pause and go
that hangs its streetlight
like the stages of a ripening pepper
above the kids in the crosswalk
of another Halloween
that walks with the dead
all the way to the other side of the living
like a ghost in a bedsheet
with a bagful of jelly beans?
Let the living and the dead alike
grasp what little they can
of happiness
but if your hands are full of nothing
there isn't much room
for anything else.
Let go of it.
Throw it down.
Nothing's free
if it's still void-bound.
Then sit down on the ground
and have a good laugh
at your own expense
when you see the dark abundance
in the bright vacancy
like black matter
through a gravitational lens
that expends ninety-six percent of itself
on a universe
to keep the lights on
the other four parts we can see.
But isn't it good to know
there's so much in life
we'll never get our hands on?
That so much that's out there
wants nothing to do with anyone
either of us will ever be?
That you and I
and what we remember
of the way we created each other in agony
in love and lust and jealousy
and all those little endearing ways
we couldn't be each other when we had to
and these hills I keep retiring
more and more to at night alone
just to be closer to the stars
and the stars themselves
exhausting the last of their farewells
on a summer that's already turned its back
and gone down over the hills
and the way memory over the years
stops opening itself up like a family album
and begins to take on the image
of anyone who's standing
near enough to the mirror
for it to appear
in the guise of what it's become?
Isn't it good to know
that memory is the mother of the muses
and that the past
isn't a museum of dead artifacts
and teeth missing from elusive jawbones
grinning at the absurdity
of what does and doesn't last
and how luxuriously the present cherishs
the garbage of the past?
Isn't it good to know
memory is the watershed of inspiration
that flows down the world mountain
to keep the sea's glass full
of the mystic wine
that can drown a drunk in a dropful
and rescue the moon from the eyes of the blind
who refuse to get into the lifeboat
when they're asked to leave
everything else behind?
Isn't it good to know
however many fools go to school
and fall in love with knowledge
like ladders with windows
they can look at the world through
like enlightened towers
with an elevated view
of what surrounds them out there
that even when we die to one another
we're still exceptions to eternity
and not the rule?
That we remember each other creatively
and not as we were
once and for all forever for good
as the people way back when
who misunderstood
when you leave someone
you don't add them
to the great resevoir of the past
like a future you left behind you
that couldn't last
because time had done with it
the same thing it does
to the emotional life
of any other pyramid
lost the sands of an hourglass.
The future's just a ruse of time
that sucks us into
accepting the present
as a provisional compromise
with the moment at hand
as if history without a past
were the only alternative left
to living forever.
But however we refine clarity
it's still not enlightenment
if you're still telling the story
and the story isn't telling you
at the same time
in another universe
stranger than this one
that makes us up as it goes along
out of whatever it comes upon
like someone far away we'll never meet
but we keep looking for in the eyes
of every human we greet
like a myth of origins
taking its seat around the fire
like a house of the zodiac
that bears credible witness
to the truth of the fact
that time is more of a maniac
than a liar.

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Far More Satisfying

The moment expectations become,
More important than a relationship...
One is led to believe,
Is shared with someone...
And a lack of feeling,
Verifies something is missing...
And has gone.
Those expectations,
Become less important to fulfill...
Than talking on the telephone,
With an obscene caller.
And far more satisfying,
Each time those obscenities are placed.

'I'm busy right now.
But...
Is it possible you can call back,
At eight thirty?
I'm sure my mate and I will not be speaking,
At that time.'

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mmm...How More Interesting Can This Get?

They've grown accustomed to my name.
And believe they are also,
Aware of my frame of mind.
They perceive this can be determined,
Because I might write something they dissect...
As inviting to an insight I expose and divulge.

mmm...
How more interesting can this get?

I may give up a nibble and a clue with a bite.
But my present state of mind and my life now lived,
Will always be one I regard...
As absolutely private.
Howver I do love those assumptions made.
Since they are the ones that motivate and inspire.

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The Moderns

To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.

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There Are Many More Like Me To See

Is there any 'particular' reason why you question me?
Any reason at all you question my integrity with intensity?
My experience and acquired wisdom you detect as delusional.
Or believe me to fantasize the real issues to minmize?
Why?

Is it that I do not expose wounds or scars left by obstacles?
Am I not reflecting enough pain from a suffering done,
To buffer the sounds of groans I've numbed...
From the taking of drugs or the drinking of alcohol,
And thrown out of local bars when I've gone too far?
To be seen stumbling around until I fall and discovered bawling?

I've been through all of that.
Long before you began to probe with xrays and radar.

Is there any 'particular' reason,
Why you address me with disrespect?
Or feel free and okay to express indiginites you think I'll accept?
Is it my appearance, where I live, speak or choose to dress...
That you perceive me as being someone less who's beneath you?

OR...
Could it be I have an identity you don't often enough see?
And you...
From what you have observed from others to view,
Have been conditioned to treat me like dirt?

Well...
I hope you're prepared to be traumatized!
Because there are many more like me to see...
Once the veil has been removed from your tunnel visioned eyes,
To shock and surprise.

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Dogs Are Shakespearean, Children Are Strangers

Dogs are Shakespearean, children are strangers.
Let Freud and Wordsworth discuss the child,
Angels and Platonists shall judge the dog,
The running dog, who paused, distending nostrils,
Then barked and wailed; the boy who pinched his sister,
The little girl who sang the song from Twelfth Night,
As if she understood the wind and rain,
The dog who moaned, hearing the violins in concert.
—O I am sad when I see dogs or children!
For they are strangers, they are Shakespearean.


Tell us, Freud, can it be that lovely children
Have merely ugly dreams of natural functions?
And you, too, Wordsworth, are children truly
Clouded with glory, learned in dark Nature?
The dog in humble inquiry along the ground,
The child who credits dreams and fears the dark,
Know more and less than you: they know full well
Nor dream nor childhood answer questions well:
You too are strangers, children are Shakespearean.


Regard the child, regard the animal,
Welcome strangers, but study daily things,
Knowing that heaven and hell surround us,
But this, this which we say before we’re sorry,
This which we live behind our unseen faces,
Is neither dream, nor childhood, neither
Myth, nor landscape, final, nor finished,
For we are incomplete and know no future,
And we are howling or dancing out our souls
In beating syllables before the curtain:
We are Shakespearean, we are strangers.

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Only to be blamed

We are only to be blamed
No one has so far claimed
The root cause of our down fall
And never responded to real call

Why to blame nature and mentality?
Are we not product of same quality?
Same piece carved out from earthen clay
Different toys given to understand and play

We teach our children not to be fearless
We frighten them with ghost‘s face
We remind them of dark clouds and black night
Forbid them from leaving the house to avoid fight

“Don’t get beaten by any child” we advise
“If you sense the trouble, leave the filed”
Don’t pick unnecessary scuffles and rush to home
We will give them such a teachings which is hostile and unwelcome

Such children may be short sighted and work for narrow interest
They will give more importance to lip services and try to extract best
Such tendency prevails on large scale and hence we can expect no miracle
The whole world revolves round same strategy and with same circle

History has witnessed enough of destruction with no long time solution
Countries come together with bold announcements and resolutions
Yet nothing comes out of it and whole world is on top of volcano
Nobody is sure when it will erupt and work as inferno

We have to change mental out look and education
Recent development is mere repetition and clear indication
We have become intolerant and less receptive
We want others to surrender and remain captive

Let world breath free environment
Same rights for all with common movement
If woman is assured of her rightful place
I think world has reason to have cheers on face

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Far More

Far More
Ooh
Ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh
La-la-la
La-la-la
Mansions, hills and acres
Women, drinks and caterers
I will toast until the break of dawn
Swimming pools and strippers
Conversation six figures
Never crossed my mind to call home
Theres a note on the bathroom mirror
Tellin me that youve had enough
It took, you leavin me
For my, blind eyes to see
That you mean
(Far more) than this planet to me
(Far more) than the air I breathe
(Far more) from here to overseas
(Far more) girl youre all I need
(Far more) than the mountains and trees
(Far more) you mean more than the birds and bees
(Far more) honey take it from me
(Far more) you are all I need
Hangin out with friends
Never calling to check in
Neglecting you in every way
Taking the home front for granted
What was straight is now slanted
And I dont know what to do about this love
Theres a note on the bathroom mirror (ohh)
Tellin me that youve had enough
It took, you leavin me
For my, blind eyes to see
That you mean
(Far more) more than this planet to me
(Far more) more than the air I breathe
(Far more) from here to overseas
(Far more) girl youre all I need
(Far more) than the mountains and trees
(Far more) than the birds and bees
(Far more) honey take it from me
(Far more) youre all I need
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop (ohh)
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop (ohh)
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop
Far more, far more
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop (hip-hop)
Shoo-op, shoo-op
Skiddlily-be-bop, hip-hop (skiddily-be-bop)
Far more t

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But On The Other Hand

Death is Bad;
but it is slimming.

Life is Good;
Except when it is Bad

Heaven is good
but it is too far away
and I wonder if there
is dating there
or marriage.

Why do Arab Martyrs
get 21 virgins in Heaven?
Where do they come from?

Dying is ok by me
I just don't want it to be unpleasant
and I certainly don't want to watch;
don't want you to watch either.

I like birds
but the way they fly around
seems frivolous.

Happiness is over-rated;
but then again
so is misery.

I like kissing
but the spit part
and the lips-
can't you catch something?

The little girl said
'Sex is like blowing up a balloon
and then the baby cries.'

He said;
'Women are like precious diamonds
hard on the outside
hard on the inside
but make-up and lighting
makes them look shiny.
But they are far more valuable than men.

Men are like custard pie
delicious when fresh
but not fulfilling
enough for dinner;
have them only for dessert
and then only occasionally.

Children make marriages.
Children break marriages.

Thinking is like washing your brain
sometimes after washing
you can do a thing with it and that can make you nervous.

If your favorite pet and your significant other was drowning
who would you save?
This is the single greatest indicator of what stage of life you are in.

Cowardice is the root of all evil.

Complacency is the root of all Cowardice.

Laziness is the root of all Complacency

The root of Laziness is Boredom

The Root of Boredom is the inability
to choose what is interesting.

The root of choosing only the uninteresting
is control from the top

The root of control from the top
is Cowardice.

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He Had So Much Work To Do

Tell a simple little story of a settler in the West,
Where the soldier birds and farmers, and selectors never rest
While the sun shines—and they often work in rainy weather, too:
But it’s all about a young man who had so much work to do.
One of Mason’s sons, Jim Mason, and the straightest of the lot,
(They were all straight for that matter) Jim was working for old Scott—
(Scott that fired at Brummy Hughson, when the “stick-ups” used to be),
Jim was courting Mary Kelly down at Lowes, at Wilbertree.

Jim was trucking for a sawmill to make money for the home,
He was making, out of Mudgee, for the family to come,
And a load-chain snapped the switch-bar, and Black Anderson found Jim,
In the morning, in a creek-bed, with a log on top of him.

There was riding for the doctor—just the same old reckless race:
And a spring cart with a mattress came and took him from the place,
To the hospital at Gulgong—but they couldn’t pull him through—
And Jim said “It seems a pity—I—had so much work to do.”

“There’s the hut—it’s close-up finished; and the forty acres fenced;
And—I’ve cleared enough for ploughin’, but the dam is just commenced!”
Then he said—and for a moment from the nurse his eyes he hid—
“But I’m glad we wasn’t married, for there might have been a kid.”

That was all—at least it wasn’t for he didn’t die until
He had “fixed it up for Mary with a proper lawyer will,”
And the “Forty acre paddick,” “And I only hope,” said he,
“That she’ll get some decent feller when she’s quite got over me.”

Poor old broken-hearted Mason and his “missus” took their spell,
But another son and Mary finished Jim’s work very well.
They have grown-up sons and daughters—some on new selections, too,
And their hands and hearts are fitted for the work they have to do.

Now, my brothers! see the moral, lest the truth should come too late!
We are far too apt to quarrel with the writer’s fancied fate—
Damn the Past! and leave to-morrow: millions are worse off than you!
Think, ere you would “drown your sorrow,” of the work that you should do.

Though the fates have seemed unkind to our unhappy brotherhood,
We are too apt to be blind to our great power to do good;
Many thousands, starved and stinted, for a line of comfort come,
We can write, and have it printed—They must suffer and be dumb.

Think not of the hours we wasted in “oblivion” foully won,
Or the bitter cups we tasted. Let us work! that, when life’s done,
We shall have in bush or city, shaped our future course so true
That theyll say “It is a pity—they had so much more to do.”

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The Captain and the Mermaids

I SING a legend of the sea,
So hard-a-port upon your lee!
A ship on starboard tack!
She's bound upon a private cruise -
(This is the kind of spice I use
To give a salt-sea smack).

Behold, on every afternoon
(Save in a gale or strong Monsoon)
Great CAPTAIN CAPEL CLEGGS
(Great morally, though rather short)
Sat at an open weather-port
And aired his shapely legs.

And Mermaids hung around in flocks,
On cable chains and distant rocks,
To gaze upon those limbs;
For legs like those, of flesh and bone,
Are things "not generally known"
To any Merman TIMBS.

But Mermen didn't seem to care
Much time (as far as I'm aware)
With CLEGGS'S legs to spend;
Though Mermaids swam around all day
And gazed, exclaiming, "THAT'S the way
A gentleman should end!

"A pair of legs with well-cut knees,
And calves and ankles such as these
Which we in rapture hail,
Are far more eloquent, it's clear
(When clothed in silk and kerseymere),
Than any nasty tail."

And CLEGGS - a worthy kind old boy -
Rejoiced to add to others' joy,
And, when the day was dry,
Because it pleased the lookers-on,
He sat from morn till night - though con-
Stitutionally shy.

At first the Mermen laughed, "Pooh! pooh!"
But finally they jealous grew,
And sounded loud recalls;
But vainly. So these fishy males
Declared they too would clothe their tails
In silken hose and smalls.

They set to work, these water-men,
And made their nether robes - but when
They drew with dainty touch
The kerseymere upon their tails,
They found it scraped against their scales,
And hurt them very much.

The silk, besides, with which they chose
To deck their tails by way of hose
(They never thought of shoon),
For such a use was much too thin, -
It tore against the caudal fin,
And "went in ladders" soon.

So they designed another plan:
They sent their most seductive man
This note to him to show -
"Our Monarch sends to CAPTAIN CLEGGS
His humble compliments, and begs
He'll join him down below;

"We've pleasant homes below the sea -
Besides, if CAPTAIN CLEGGS should be
(As our advices say)
A judge of Mermaids, he will find
Our lady-fish of every kind
Inspection will repay."

Good CAPEL sent a kind reply,
For CAPEL thought he could descry
An admirable plan
To study all their ways and laws -
(But not their lady-fish, because
He was a married man).

The Merman sank - the Captain too
Jumped overboard, and dropped from view
Like stone from catapult;
And when he reached the Merman's lair,
He certainly was welcomed there,
But, ah! with what result?

They didn't let him learn their law,
Or make a note of what he saw,
Or interesting mem.:
The lady-fish he couldn't find,
But that, of course, he didn't mind -
He didn't come for them.

For though, when CAPTAIN CAPEL sank,
The Mermen drawn in double rank
Gave him a hearty hail,
Yet when secure of CAPTAIN CLEGGS,
They cut off both his lovely legs,
And gave him SUCH a tail!

When CAPTAIN CLEGGS returned aboard,
His blithesome crew convulsive roar'd,
To see him altered so.
The Admiralty did insist
That he upon the Half-pay List
Immediately should go.

In vain declared the poor old salt,
"It's my misfortune - not my fault,"
With tear and trembling lip -
In vain poor CAPEL begged and begged.
"A man must be completely legged
Who rules a British ship."

So spake the stern First Lord aloud -
He was a wag, though very proud,
And much rejoiced to say,
"You're only half a captain now -
And so, my worthy friend, I vow
You'll only get half-pay!"

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