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On one fine but fatal morning in the early Eocene,
Lo, a brawny Bloke set out to dig a hole:
First of men to put a puncture in the tertiary green
Was this early, neolithic, human mole.
Gladsomely the toiler hefted his ungainly wooden spade,
As he scarified the bosom of old earth;
And our Progress forthwith started when his first spade-thrust was made,
While the cult of Work, or Graft, was given birth.

Oh, he flung the clods about him with a gay and prideful jerk,
Did this bright and early anthropoidal Bloke.
With the crowd that gathered, goggle-eyed, to watch him at his work
He would crack a pleasant, prehistoric joke.
And they gazed at him in wonder; for the custom of the mob,
When not occupied in inter-tribal strife,
Hitherto had been to eat, and sleep, and hunt, and cheat, and rob
Quite a simple and uncomplicated life.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Jonah’s Luck

OUT OF LUCK, mate? Have a liquor. Hang it, where’s the use complaining?
Take your fancy, I’m in funds now—I can stand the racket, Dan.
Dump your bluey in the corner; camp here for the night, it’s raining;
Bet your life I’m glad to see you—glad to see a Daylesford man.
Swell? Correct, Dan. Spot the get up; and I own this blooming shanty,
Me the fellows christened ‘Jonah’ at Jim Crow and Blanket Flat,
’Cause my luck was so infernal—you remember me and Canty?
Rough times, those—the very memory keeps a chap from getting fat.

Where’d I strike it? That’s a yarn. The fire’s a comfort—sit up nearer.
Hoist your heels, man; take it easy till Kate’s ready with the stew.
Yes, I’ll tell my little story; ’tain’t a long one, but it’s queerer
Than those lies that Tullock pitched us on The Flat in ’52.
Fancy Phil a parson now! He’s smug as grease, the Reverend Tullock.
Yes, he’s big—his wife and fam’ly are a high and mighty lot.
Didn’t I say his jaw would keep him when he tired of punching mullock?
Well, it has—he’s made his pile here. How d’you like your whisky—hot?

Luck! Well, now, I like your cheek, Dan. You had luck, there’s no denying.
I in thirty years had averaged just a wage of twenty bob—

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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Les Bijoux (The Jewels)

La très chère était nue, et, connaissant mon coeur,
Elle n'avait gardé que ses bijoux sonores,
Dont le riche attirail lui donnait l'air vainqueur
Qu'ont dans leurs jours heureux les esclaves des Mores.

Quand il jette en dansant son bruit vif et moqueur,
Ce monde rayonnant de métal et de pierre
Me ravit en extase, et j'aime à la fureur
Les choses où le son se mêle à la lumière.

Elle était donc couchée et se laissait aimer,
Et du haut du divan elle souriait d'aise
À mon amour profond et doux comme la mer,
Qui vers elle montait comme vers sa falaise.

Les yeux fixés sur moi, comme un tigre dompté,
D'un air vague et rêveur elle essayait des poses,
Et la candeur unie à la lubricité
Donnait un charme neuf à ses métamorphoses;

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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In hatred as in love, we grow like the thing we brood upon. What we loathe, we graft into our very soul.

quote by Mary Renault
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Anti-graft campaign is going on

Anti-graft campaign is going on
Come on and join if you are honest
And if you are really honest
Have a helping hand to make
The land best.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Graft has Got Independence

The graft has got much independence
and the greased hands demand reverence.
Put them in jails for long
to pass time with like throng.
To frame laws 'gainst it, who has penitence? .

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Laziness

'Idleness is the Enemy of the Soul'
Said St. Benedict.
He was a godly man.
A hard day's graft makes a good disciple!
Personally I'm a Heathen,
I lie in bed till noon
And worship the Bone Idol!

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Graft

from a tree without fruit
the one that is about to be an uproot
God did graft
a twig with three green leaves
glossy on the bark
and so
fully alive,

this is what had been prayed
and this is what has been granted.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Though we hear various reports of his existence we can never find the young wizard who is able so they say to graft the soul of a girl to the soul of her lover so that not even the sharp scissors of the Fates can ever sever them apart.

quote by Harry Crosby
Added by Lucian Velea
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Confusion Homeless

confusion
heartache
to care to much
in a world
that cares too little

what joy
in making money
taken from new homeless
new recruits
first world workers

joining homeless millions
joining starving millions
smoke screen politicians
cutting secret graft deals
beating around profit bush

thus is proud nations birthright sold

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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