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Dummy Bridge

'If I'd 'a' played me Jack on that there Ten'
Sez Peter Begg, 'I might 'a' made the lot.'
''Ow could yeh?' barks ole Poole. ''Ow could yeh, when
I 'ad me Queen be'ind?' Sez Begg, 'Wot rot!
I slung away me King to take that trick.
Which one! Say, ain't yer 'ead a trifle thick?'

'Now, don't yeh see that when I plays me King
I give yer Queen a chance, an' lost the slam.'
But Poole, 'e sez 'e don't see no such thing,
So Begg gits 'ot, an' starts to loose a 'Damn.'
'E twigs the missus jist in time to check,
An' makes it 'Dash,' an' gits red down 'is neck.

There's me an' Peter Begg, an' ole man Poole
Neighbours uv mine, that farm a bit close by
Jist once a week or so we makes a school,
An' gives this game uv Dummy Bridge a fly.
Doreen, she 'as her sewing be the fire,
The kid's in bed; an' 'ere's me 'eart's desire.

'Ome-comfort, peace, the picter uv me wife
'Appy at work, me neighbours gathered round
All friendly-like - wot more is there in life?
I've searched a bit, but better I ain't found.
Doreen, she seems content, but in 'er eye
I've seen reel pity when the talk gits 'igh.

This ev'nin' we 'ad started off reel 'ot:
Two little slams, an' Poole, without a score,
Still lookin' sore about the cards 'e'd got
When, sudden-like, a knock comes to the door.
'A visitor,' growls Begg, 'to crool our game.'
An' looks at me, as though I was to blame.

Jist as Doreen goes out, I seen 'er grin.
'Deal 'em up quick!' I whispers. 'Grab yer 'and,
An' look reel occupied when they comes in.
Per'aps they'll 'ave the sense to understand.
If it's a man, maybe 'e'll make a four;
But if' - Then Missus Flood comes in the door.

'Twas ole Mar Flood, 'er face wrapped in a smile.
'Now, boys,' she sez, 'don't let me spoil yer game.
I'll jist chat with Doreen a little while;
But if yeh stop I'll be ashamed I came.'
An' then she waves a letter in 'er 'and.
Sez she, 'Our Jim's a soldier! Ain't it grand?'

'Good boy,' sez Poole. 'Let's see. I make it 'earts.'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Soul Surfing

Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack it up, jack up
Jack up, jack up
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, with your help, with your with your with your help
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on
With your help, turn you on

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song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peter Bell, A Tale

PROLOGUE

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I 'have' a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go--and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!

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poem by William Wordsworth
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Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think youre too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin behind an losin yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of lifes busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin up
If the wine dont come to the top of yer cup
If the winds got you sideways with with one hand holdin on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the woods easy findin but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin and the street gets too long
And you start walkin backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrows mornin seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin
And yer rope is a-slidin cause yer hands are a-drippin
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipes a-pourin
And the lightnins a-flashing and the thunders a-crashin
And the windows are rattlin and breakin and the roof tops a-shakin
And yer whole worlds a-slammin and bangin
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didnt they tell me the day I was born
And you start gettin chills and yer jumping from sweat
And youre lookin for somethin you aint quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole worlds a-watchin with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and shes long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when theyre fryin
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bells bangin loudly but you cant hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyesve turned filthy from the sight-blindin dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin three queens
And its makin you mad, its makin you mean
Like in the middle of life magazine
Bouncin around a pinball machine
And theres something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin
But its trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin in bed
And no matter how you try you just cant say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head

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song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Possum

Jist 'ere it gripped me, on a sudden, like a red-'ot knife.
I wus diggin' in the garden, talkin' pleasant to me wife,
When it got me good an' solid, an' I fetches out a yell,
An' curses soft down in me neck, an' breathes 'ard fer a spell.
Then, when I tries to straighten up, it stabs me ten times worse.
I thinks per'aps I'm dyin', an' chokes back a reel 'ot curse.

'I've worked too fast,' I tells Doreen. 'Me backbone's runnin' 'ot.
I'm sick! I've got-0o, 'oly wars! I dunno wot I've got!
Jist 'ere - Don't touch! - jist round back 'ere, a blazin' little pain.
Is clawin' up me spinal cord an' slidin' down again.'
'You come inside,' she sez. 'Per'aps it's stoopin' in the sun.
Does it 'urt much?' I sez, 'Oh, no; I'm 'avin' lots o' fun.'

Then, cooin' to me, woman-like, she pilots me inside.
It stabs me every step I takes; I thort I could 'a' died.
'There now,' she sez. 'Men can't stand pain, it's alwus understood.'
'Stand pain?' I owls. Then, Jumpin' Jakes! It gits me reely good!
So I gets to bed in sections, fer it give me beans to bend,
An' shuts me eyes, an' groans again, an' jist waits fer the end.

'Now, you lie still,' she orders me, 'until I think wot's best.
Per'aps 'ot bran, or poultices. You jist lie still, an' rest,'
Rest? 'Oly Gosh! I clinched me teeth, an' clawed the bloomin' bunk;
Fer a red-'ot poker jabbed me ev'ry time I much as wunk.
I couldn't corf, I couldn't move, I couldn't git me breath.
'Look after Bill,' I tells Doreen. 'I feels that… this is… death.'

'Death, fiddlesticks,' she laughs at me. 'You jist turn over now.'
I 'owls, ''Ere! Don't you touch me, or there'll be a blazin' row!
I want to die jist as I am.' She sez, 'Now, Bill, 'ave sense.
This 'as to go on while it's 'ot.' I groans, 'I've no defence.'
An' so she 'as 'er way wiv me. An', tho' I'm suff'rin' bad,
I couldn't 'elp but noticin' the gentle touch she 'ad.

That ev'nin', when the doctor come, sez 'e, 'Ah! 'Urtin' much?
Where is the trouble?' I sez, 'Where you ain't allowed to touch!'
'E mauls an' prods me while I 'owls to beat the bloomin' band.
Gawbli'me! I'd 'a' cracked 'im if I'd strength to lift me 'and.
'Discribe yer symtims now,' sez 'e. I fills meself wiv wind,
An' slung 'im out a catalog while 'e jist stood an' grinned.

'Ar, bar!' 'e sez. 'Sciatiker! Oh, we'll soon 'ave yeh well.'
'Sciatiker?' sez I. 'Yer sure yeh don't mean Jumpin' 'Ell?
It ain't no privit devil wiv a little jagged knife?'
'Tut, rut,' 'e grins. 'You'll soon be right. I leaves yeh to yer wife.'
I looks at 'er, she smiles at me, an' when I seen that smile:
'Aw, poultices!' I groans. An' she injoys it all the while!

But I'm marri'd to a woman; an', I gives yeh my straight tip,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Jim

'Now, be the Hokey Fly!' sez Peter Begg.
'Suppose 'e comes 'ome with a wooden leg.
Suppose 'e isn't fit to darnce at all,
Then, ain't we 'asty fixin' up this ball?
A little tournament at Bridge is my
Idear,' sez Peter. 'Be the Hokey Fly!'

Ole Peter Begg is gettin' on in years.
'E owns a reel good farm; an' all 'e fears
Is that some girl will land 'im, by an' by,
An' shar it with 'im - be the Hokey Fly.
That's 'is pet swear-word, an' I dunno wot
'E's meanin', but 'e uses it a lot.

'Darncin'!' growls Begg. We're fixin' up the 'all
With bits uv green stuff for a little ball
To welcome Jim, 'oo's comin' 'ome nex' day.
We're 'angin' flags around to make things gay,
An' shiftin' chairs, an' candle-greasin' floors,
As is our way when blokes comes 'ome from wars.

'A little game uv Bridge,' sez Peter Begg.
'Would be more decent like, an' p'r'aps a keg
Uv somethin' if the 'ero's feelin' dry.
But this 'ere darncin'! Be the Hokey Fly,
These selfish women never thinks at all
About the guest; they only wants the ball.

'Now, cards,' sez Begg, 'amuses ev'ry one.
An' then our soldier guest could 'ave 'is fun
If 'e'd lost both 'is legs. It makes me sick
'Ere! Don't spread that candle-grease too thick
Yeh're wastin' it; an' us men 'as to buy
Enough for nonsense, be the Hokey Fly!'

Begg, 'e ain't never keen on wastin' much.
'Peter,' I sez, 'it's you that needs a crutch.
Why don't yeh get a wife, an' settle down?'
'E looks reel fierce, an' answers, with a frown,
'Do you think I am goin' to be rooked
For 'arf me tucker, jist to get it cooked?'

I lets it go at that, an' does me job;
An' when a little later on I lob
Along the 'omeward track, down by Flood's gate
I meet ole Digger Smith, an' stops to state
Me views about the weather an' the war…
'E tells me Jim gets 'ere nex' day, at four.

An' as we talk, I sees along the road

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Rot Stuff

Sittin' here eatin' my heart out waitin'
Waitin' for this funeral to end
Dug up about a thousand graves lately
My tastes are what some might call
A little more then just off the wall

Lookin' for some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
I want some rot stuff baby this evenin'
Gotta have some rot stuff
Gotta have your corpse tonight
Rot stuff
I need rot stuff
I want some rot stuff

Lookin' for a lover who's 6 feet under
Don' t want another night on my own
Wanna share my fetish with a cold blooded lover
Wanna bring a dead man back home

Gotta have some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
I want some rot stuff baby this evenin'
Gotta have something cold
Gotta have something rotting under me tonight
I need rot stuff
Cold rot
Lookin' for cold rot

Rot, rot, rot, rot stuff
Rot, rot, rot
Rot, rot, rot, rot stuff
Rot, rot, rot

How's about some rot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some rot stuff baby tonight
Gimme a little rot stuff this evenin'
Rot stuff baby
Gonna need your corpse tonight
Rot stuff
I need something cold and rotting
Lookin' for some rot stuff
Wanna make love to a dead man tonight

Sittin' here eatin' my heart out
No more listening to this funeral march can I do
Won't waste another night or moment on my own
I've dug up about a hundred graves baby
I'm bound to find somebody as horny as I am tonight

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poem by Ramona Thompson
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Pilot Cove

'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Young friend! Well, spare me days!
Yeh'd think I wus 'is own white 'eaded boy
The queer ole finger, wiv 'is gentle ways.
'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I wish't yeh bofe great joy.'
The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy
Fair tickles me. The way 'e bleats an' brays!
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Yes, my Doreen an' me
We're gettin' hitched, all straight an' on the square.
Fer when I torks about the registry
O 'oly wars! yeh should 'a' seen 'er stare;
'The registry?' she sez, 'I wouldn't dare!
I know a clergyman we'll go an' see . . .
'Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' then 'e chats me straight;
An' spouts o' death, an' 'ell, an' mortal sins.
'You reckernize this step you contemplate
Is grave?' 'e sez. An' I jist stan's an' grins;
Fer when I chips, Doreen she kicks me shins.
'Yes, very 'oly is the married state,
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' then 'e mags a lot
Of jooty an' the spitichuil life,
To which I didn't tumble worth a jot.
'I'm sure,' 'e sez, 'as you will 'ave a wife
'Oo'll 'ave a noble infl'ince on yer life.
'Oo is 'er gardjin?' I sez, ''Er ole pot'
'Young friend!' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez. 'Oh fix yet thorts on 'igh!
Orl marridges is registered up there!
An' you must cleave unto 'er till yeh die,
An' cherish 'er wiv love an' tender care.
E'en in the days when she's no longer fair
She's still yet wife,' 'e sez. 'Ribuck,' sez I.
'Young friend!' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez - I sez, 'Now, listen 'ere:
This isn't one o' them impetchus leaps.
There ain't no tart a 'undreth part so dear
As 'er. She 'as me 'eart and' soul fer keeps!'
An' then Doreen, she turns away an' weeps;
But 'e jist smiles. 'Yer deep in love, 'tis clear
Young friend,' 'e sez.

'Young friend,' 'e sez - an tears wus in 'is eyes
'Strive 'ard. Fer many, many years I've lived.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Termarter Sorce

It wasn't kid stakes. I 'ad no crook lurk
To act deceivin', or to treat 'er mean.
I'm old enough to know them games don't work
Not with Doreen.
Besides, deceit ain't in me bag uv tricks.
I got a few; but there is some that sticks.

Sticks in me gizzard. Some blokes sees no wrong
In workin' points, an' thinks it bonzer sport
To trifle with a wife's belief, so long
As they ain't cort.
But, when yeh play the game on dead straight lines,
It 'urts to be accused uv base designs.

It starts this mornin'. I wake with a tooth
That's squirmin' like a basketful uv snakes.
Per'aps I groan a bit, to tell the truth;
An' then she wakes,
An' arsts me wot I'm makin' faces for.
I glare at 'er, an' nurse me achin' jor.

That was no very 'appy mornin' song.
I ain't excusin' my end uv the joke;
But, after that, things seem to go all wrong.
She never spoke
One narsty word; but, while the chops she serves,
'Er shrieks uv silence fair got on me nerves.

She might 'ave arst wot ailed me. Spare me days I
She seen that I was crook. She seen me face
Swelled like a poisoned pup's. She only says,
'Please to say grace.'
I mumbles ... Then, in tones that wakes brute force,
She twitters, 'Will yeh take termarter sorce?'

I could n't eat no breakfast. Just the sight
Uv sweet things give me tooth a new, worse ache.
Sez she: 'You seem to lost yer apetite.
'Ave some seed cake.'
Seed cake! Gawstruth! I'm there in agerny,
An' she, 'oo swore to love, sits mockin' me.

At last, when our small son gits orf to school,
I goes an' sits down sulkin' on a couch.
''Ave you a toothache, Bill?' sez she, quite cool,
'Or jist plain grouch?
Yer face looks funny. P'raps yer gittin' fat.'
I glare at 'er an' answer, 'Huh!' . . like that.

That one word, 'Huh,' said in a certain way,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Peter Bell The Third

BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all-damned!

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.

Ophelia.-What means this, my lord?
Hamlet.-Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
~Shakespeare.

PROLOGUE
Pet er Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be.-
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes-
(This was learned from Aldric's themes)
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter-he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe,
His substantial antitype.-
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream.-
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-
Go and try else,-just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from that world into this.
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,-

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Over the Fence

'Taint my idea uv argument to call a man a fool,
An' I ain't lookin' round for bricks to 'eave at ole man Poole;
But when 'e gets disputin' 'e's inclined to lose 'is 'ead.
It ain't so much 'is choice uv words as 'ow the words is said.

'E's sich a coot for takin' sides, as I sez to Doreen.
Sez she, ''Ow can 'e, by 'imself?' Wotever that may mean.
My wife sez little things sometimes that nearly git me riled.
I knoo she meant more than she said be that soft way she smiled.

Today, when I was 'arrowin', Poole come down to the fence
To get the loan uv my long spade; an' uses that pretence
To 'ave a bit uv friendly talk, an' one word leads to more,
As is the way with ole man Poole, as I've remarked before.

The spade reminds 'im 'ow 'e done some diggin' in 'is day,
An' diggin' brings the talk to earth, an' earth leads on to clay,
Then clay quite natural reminds a thinkin' bloke uv bricks,
An' mortar brings up mud, an' then, uv course it's politics.

Now Poole sticks be 'is Party, an' I don't deny 'is right;
But when he starts abusin' mine 'e's lookin' for a fight.
So I delivers good 'ome truths about 'is crowd, then Poole
Wags 'is ole beard across the fence an' tells me I'm a fool.

Now that's the dizzy limit; so I lays aside the reins,
An' starts to prove 'e's storin' mud where most blokes keeps their brains.
'E decorates 'is answers, an' we're goin' it ding-dong,
When this returned bloke, Digger Smith, comes sauntering along.
Poole's gripped the fence as though 'e means to tear the rails in two,
An' eyes my waggin' finger like 'e wants to 'ave a chew.
Then Digger Smith 'e grins at Poole, an' then 'e looks at me,
An' sez, quite soft an' friendly-like, 'Winnin' the war?' sez 'e.

Now, Poole deserves it, an' I'm pleased the lad give 'im that jolt.
'E goes fair mad in argument when once 'e gets a holt.
'Yeh make me sad,' sez Digger Smith; 'the both uv you,' sez 'e.
'The both uv us! Gawstruth!' sez I. 'You ain't includin' me?'

'Well, it takes two to make a row,' sez little Digger Smith.
'A bloke can't argue 'less 'e 'as a bloke to argue with.
I've come 'ome from a dinkum scap to find this land uv light
Is chasin' its own tail around an' callin' it a fight.

'We've seen a thing or two, us blokes 'oo've fought on many fronts;
An' we've 'ad time to think a bit between the fightin' stunts,
We've seen big things, an' thought big things, an' all the silly fuss,
That used to get us rattled once, seems very small to us.

'An' when a bloke's fought for a land an' gets laid on the shelf

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Holy War

'Young friend!' . . . I tries to duck, but miss the bus.
'E sees me first, an' 'as me by the 'and.
'Young friend!' 'e sez; an' starts to make a fuss
At meetin' me. 'Why, this,' 'e sez, 'is grand!
Events is workin' better than I planned.
It's Providence that I should meet you thus.
You're jist the man,' 'e sez, 'to make a stand,
An' strive for us.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'allow me to explain
But wot 'e 'as to say too well I knows.
I got the stren'th uv it in Spadgers Lane
Not 'arf an hour before'and, when I goes
To see if I could pick up news uv Rose,
After that dentist let me off the chain.
('Painless,' 'e's labelled. So 'e is, I s'pose.
I 'ad the pain.)

'Young friend,' 'e sez. I let 'im 'ave 'is say;
Though I'm already wise to all 'e said
The queer old parson, with 'is gentle way
('E tied Doreen an' me when we was wed)
I likes 'im, from 'is ole soft, snowy 'ead
Down to 'is boots. 'E ain't the sort to pray
When folks needs bread.

Yeh'd think that 'e was simple as a child;
An' so 'e is, some ways; but, by and by,
While 'e is talkin' churchy-like an' mild,
Yeh catch a tiny twinkle in 'is eye
Which gives the office that 'e's pretty fly
To cunnin' lurks. 'E ain't to be beguiled
With fairy tales. An' when I've seen 'em try
'E's only smiled.

'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I am beset by foes.
The Church,' 'e sez, 'is in a quandary.'
An' then 'e takes an' spills out all 'is woes,
An' 'ints that this 'ere job is up to me.
'Yer aid - per'aps yer strong right arm,' sez 'e,
'Is needed if we are to rescue Rose
From wot base schemes an' wot iniquity
Gawd only knows.'

This is the sorry tale. Rose, sick, an' low
In funds an' frien's, an' far too proud to beg,
Is gittin' sorely tempted fer to go
Into the spielin' trade by one Spike Wegg.
I knoo this Spike uv old; a reel bad egg,
'0o's easy livin' is to git in tow

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Digger Smith

'E calls me Digger; that's 'ow 'e begins.
'E sez 'e's only 'arf a man; an' grins.
Judged be 'is nerve, I'd say 'e was worth two
Uv me an' you.
Then 'e digs 'arf a fag out uv 'is vest,
Borrers me matches, an' I gives 'im best.

The first I 'eard about it Poole told me.
'There is a bloke called Smith at Flood's,' sez 'e;
'Come there this mornin', sez 'e's come to stay,
An' won't go 'way.
Sez 'e was sent there be a pal named Flood;
An' talks uv contracts sealed with Flanders mud.

'No matter wot they say, 'e only grins,'
Sez Poole. ''E's rather wobbly on 'is pins.
Seems like a soldier bloke. An' Peter Begg
'E sez one leg
Works be machinery, but I dunno.
I only know 'e's there an' 'e won't go.

''E grins,' sez Poole, 'at ev'rything they say.
Dad Flood 'as nearly 'ad a fit today.
'E's cursed, an' ordered 'im clean off the place;
But this cove's face
Jist goes on grinnin', an' he sez, quite carm,
'E's come to do a bit around the farm.'

The tale don't sound too good to me at all.
'If 'e's a crook,' I sez, ''e wants a fall.
Maybe 'e's dilly. I'll go round and see.
'E'll grin at me
When I 'ave done, if 'e needs dealin' with.'
So I goes down to interview this Smith.

'E 'ad a fork out in the tater patch.
Sez 'e, 'Why 'ello, Digger. Got a match?'
'Digger?' I sez. 'Well, you ain't digger 'ere.
You better clear.
You ought to know that you can't dig them spuds.
They don't belong to you; they're ole Dad Flood's.'

'Can't I?' 'e grins. 'I'll do the best I can,
Considerin' I'm only 'arf a man.
Give us a light. I can't get none from Flood,
An' mine is dud.'
I parts; an' 'e stands grinning at me still;
An' then 'e sez, ''Ave yeh fergot me, Bill?'

I looks, an' seen a tough bloke, short an' thin.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Rose

'Ah, wot's the use?' she sez. 'Lea' me alone!
Why can't I go to 'ell in my own way?
I never arst you 'ere to mag an' moan.
Nor yet,' she sez, 'to pray.
I'll take wot's comin', an' whine no excuse.
So wot's the use?

'Me life's me own!' she sez. 'You got a nerve
You two - to interfere in my affairs.
Git out an' give advise where it may serve:
Stay 'ome an' bleat yer pray'rs.
Did I come pleadin' for yer pity? No!
Well, why not go?'

Pride! Dilly pride an' down-an'-out despair:
When them two meet there's somethin' got to break.
I got that way, to see 'er sittin' there,
I felt like I could take
That 'arf-starved frame uv 'er's by might an' main,
An' shake 'er sane.

That's 'ow it is when me an' parson roam
Down to the paradise wot Spadgers knows,
To find the 'ovel that she calls 'er 'ome,
An' 'ave a word with Rose.
Imgagin' 'igh-strung cliners in dispute
Ain't my long suit.

'Huh! Rescue work!' she sneers. 'Er eyes is bright;
'Er voice is 'ard. 'I'm a deservin' case.
Me? Fancy! Don't I look a pretty sight
To come to savin' grace?
Pity the sinner - Aw, don't come that trick!
It makes me sick!'

'Isterical she was, or nearly so:
Too little grub, an' too much time to fret
Ingrowin' grouch sich as few women know,
Or want to know - an' yet,
When I glance at the parson, there I see
Raw misery.

I've knowed ole Snowy since the days uv old;
Yet never 'ad I got so close to see
A world-wise man 'oo's 'cart is all pure gold
An' 'uman charity.
For, all that girl was suff'rln', well I knoo,
'E suffered too.

'My child,' 'e sez, 'I don't come 'ere to preach.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jist then a motor car goes glidin' by

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dad

I've knowed ole Flood this last five year or more;
I knoo 'im when 'is Syd went to the war.
A proud ole man 'e was. But I've watched 'im,
An' seen 'is look when people spoke uv Jim:
As sour a look as most coves want to see.
It made me glad that this 'ere Jim weren't me.

I sized up Flood the first day that we met
Stubborn as blazes when 'is mind is set,
Ole-fashioned in 'is looks an' in 'is ways,
Believin' it is honesty that pays;
An' still dead set, in spite uv bumps 'e's got,
To keep on honest if it pays or not.

Poor ole Dad Flood, 'e is too old to fight
By close on thirty year; but if I'm right
About 'is doin's an' about 'is grit,
'E's done a fair bit over 'is fair bit.
They are too old to fight, but, all the same,
'Is kind's quite young enough to play the game.

I've 'eard it called, this war - an' it's the truth
I've 'eard it called the sacrifice uv youth.
An' all this land 'as reckernized it too,
An' gives the boys the praises that is doo.
I've 'eard the cheers for ev'ry fightin' lad;
But, up to now, I ain't 'eard none for Dad.

Ole Flood, an' all 'is kind throughout the land,
They aint' been 'eralded with no brass band,
Or been much thought about; but, take my tip,
The war 'as found them with a stiffened lip.
'Umpin' a load they thought they'd dropped for good,
Crackin' reel 'ardy, an' - jist sawin' wood.

Dad Flood, 'is back is bent, 'is strength is gone;
'E'd done 'is bit before this war come on.
At sixty-five 'e thought 'is work was done;
'E gave the farmin' over to 'is son,
An' jist sat back in peace, with 'is ole wife,
To spend content the ev'nin' of 'is life.

Then comes the war. An' when Syd 'esitates
Between the ole folk an' 'is fightin' mates,
The ole man goes outside an' grabs a hoe.
Sez 'e, 'Yeh want to, an' yeh ought to go.
Wot's stoppin' yeh?' 'E straightens 'is ole frame.
'Ain't I farmed long enough to know the game?'

There weren't no more to say. An' Syd went - West:

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cow

Aw, go write yer tinklin' jingle, an' yer pretty phrases mingle,
Fer the mamby-pamby girl, all fluffy frill an' shinin' silk.
Them's the sort ter fetch yer trouble, when yer tries 'em, in the double.
Blow yer beauty! Wot's the matter with the maiden 'oo kin milk?
Them there rhymers uv the wattle! An' the bardlet uv the bottle -
'Im that sings uv sparklin' wine, an' does a perish fer the beer;
An' yer slap-dash 'orsey po-it! Garn! If you blokes only know it,
You 'ave missed the single subjec' fit ter rhyme about down 'ere.
An' although I ain't a bard, with bloomin' bays upon me brow,
I kinsider that it's up ter me ter sing about The Cow.
Cow, Cow
(Though it ain't a pretty row,
It's a word that 'ipnertises me; I couldn't tell yer 'ow.)
Though I ain't a gifted rhymer,
Nor a blamed Parnassus climber,
I'm inspired ter sing a tune er two about the Blessed Cow.

0h, the cow-bells are a-tinklin', and the daisies are a twinklin'
Well, that ain't the style ersackly I intended fer to sing.
'Ark, was over music greater then the buzzin' sepy-rater,
Coinin' gaily money daily fer the - no, that's not the thing!
'Omeward comes the cows a-lowin', an' the butter-cups are blowin';
But there's better butter in the - Blarst ! That ain't the proper way
See the pretty milkmaid walkin' - aw, it ain't no use er talkin'.
Listen 'ere, I want ter tell yer this: A cow's ther thing ter pay!
Sell yer 'orses, sell yer arrers, an' yer reapers, an' yer plough;
If yer want yer land ter pay yer, sacrifice yer life ter Cow
Cow, Cow
Sittin' underneath the bough,
With a bail, an' with a pail, an' with a little stool, an' thou
Kickin' when I pull yer teat there,
Swishin' flies, the pretty creatur.
Ah, there ain't no music sweeter - money squirtin' from the Cow.

Take away the wine-cup; take it. An' the foamin' flagon, break it.
Brimmin' cups uv butter-milk'll set yer glowin' thro' an' thro';
An' the reason I'm teetotal is becos me thrifty throat'll
Jest refuse ter swaller stuff that's costin' me a precious sou.
Once I wus a sinful spender. Used ter go a roarin' bender
Used ter often spend a thruppence when ther' wasn't any need.
An' the many ways I've busted money, when I should er trusted
It ter cattle an' erconomy, 'ud cause yer 'eart ter bleed
But I'm glad, me friends, that godliness 'as made me careful now;
Tho' I lorst the thing wot's next it when I cottoned ter the Cow.
Cow, Cow
Trudin' thro' the sloppy slough.
Ah, I once despised the Jews, but I kin under-stand 'em now
When they needed elevatin',
An' ole Moses kep' 'em waitin'
Fer religi'n, they went straight 'n' sorter substichooted Cow.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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She's Got The Jack

She gave me the Queen
She gave me the King
She was wheelin' and dealin'
Just doin' her thing
She was holdin' a pair
But I had to try
Her Deuce was wild
But my Ace was high
But how was I to know
That she'd been dealt with before
Said she'd never had a Full House
But I should have known
From the tattoo on her left leg
And the garter on her right
She'd have the card to bring me down
If she played it right
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack
She's got the jack
Poker face was her name
Poker face was her nature
Poker straight was her game
If she knew she could get you
She played 'em fast
And she played 'em hard
She could close her eyes
And feel every card
But how was I to know
That she'd been shuffled before
Said she'd never had a Royal Flush
But I should have known
That all the cards were comin'
From the bottom of the pack
And if I'd known what she was dealin' out
I'd have dealt it back
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, and who knows what else?
She's got the jack, yeah, yeah
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, she's got the jack
She's got the jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack, jack
She's got the jack
She's got the jack, she's got the jack,
Ooh, It was a bad deal, (Jack)
She gave me the (Jack), hey
She's got the (Jack), she's got the (Jack)
She's got the (Jack), ooh can't you tell

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song performed by AC-DC
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End

In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

John Curzon

Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.

Sir Peter

So-
What are their names?

John Curzon

Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-

Sir Peter

What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

John Curzon

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?

Sir Peter

O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.

John Curzon

going.

Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

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poem by William Morris
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Nocturne

I'm standin' at the corner uv the Lane
The Land called Spadgers - waiting fer 'is jills.
The night's come chilly, an' a drizzlin' rain
Falls steady where a near-by street lamp spills
A gashly yeller light on stones all wet,
An' makes the darkest corners darker yet.

Them darkest corners! 'Struth! Wot ain't I 'eard
Uv dark deeds done there in the olden days,
When crooks inticed some silly sozzled bird
Upstage, an' dealt with 'im in unkind ways
Bashed 'im with bottles, woodened 'im with boots.
Spadgers was rood to flush an' festive coots.

If you are flush in Spadgers, 'tain't good form
To git too festive, if you valyer thrift.
To flash yer gilt an' go the pace too warm
Might make the Lane regard yeh as a gift.
Ther's nothin' loose they're likely to ferget;
An' all yeh've left is 'eadache an' regret.

Lestwise, that's 'ow it used to be. They say
The Lane's reformed, an' took to honest trade.
An' so yeh'd think, to see it uv a day,
All prim an' proper. But when ev'nin's shade
Comes down, an' fools as stacks uv beans to spill,
Why, 'umin nacher's 'urnin nacher still.

Don't git me wrong. An' jist in case you might
Misjudge the gents 'oo plys their callin' there,
In Spadgers darkest corners uv a night,
Wot time a shikkered mug 'as gonce to spare,
I'd jist ixplain they takes their point uv view
Frum diff'rint angles to sich birds as you.

F'rinstance, s'posin' blokes like me an' you
('Oo is raspectabil, I 'ope) should see
Some prodigal all 'eadin' fer to do
A one-ack 'Road to Ruin' tragedy,
Would we jist let 'im flop before our eyes
Or, bein' decint 'umins, put 'im wise?

Would we not try to 'alt the wayward feet
Uv this 'ere errin' brother with a word
Before 'is moril knock-out was complete?
O' course we would. Advice is cheap, I've 'eard.
When sinners miss the step ther's few men ain't
Itchin' like 'ell to preach, an' be a saint.

Well, s'pose again, the Lane should see a bloke

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The peter-bird

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!

"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

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poem by Eugene Field
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