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The Faithless Fantods

Bill Barcoo was a station 'and - 'e was a station 'and,
And grafted all the year like Pharaoh's Jews.
But all 'is pay, I grieve ter say, 'e blewed - you understand
This station 'and
Was drinky in his views;
An' 'e was wont ter lash it up on booze.

Fer Bill 'e wandered once a year - exactly once a year
Ter bust his cheque at Casey's Bush 'Otel;
An' drank the stuff - more than enough - that Casey sed wus beer.
An' it wus queer:
When 'e wus on a spell
'E used to 'old 'is sides an' larf like 'ell.

No doubt yer've 'eard of Casey's beer - of Casey's fightin' beer,
An' Casey's Three Star Blue Gum Brandy too,
The stuff that makes the crimson snakes when you get on yer ear.
Such visions queer
Were known ter quite a few;
That's why they called the shanty 'Casey's Zoo.'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Stranger's Friend

The strangest things and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,
To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;
Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—
But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.
I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do
(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).
He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’
And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.’

It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’
For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,
To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—
Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.

In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—
In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—
From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,
He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.

‘The feller as knows, he can battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Outrageous

Outrageous
When I move my body
Outrageous
When I'm at a party
Outrageous
With my sexy jeans
Outrageous
When I'm on the scene
Outrageous
My sex drive
Outrageous
My shoppin' spree
Outrageous
We on a world tour
Outrageous
Let's be it, girl
Sexy as I wanna be
Got these fellas chasin me
It's bout time I hit the streets
All my girls still feelin me

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song performed by Britney Spears
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The 'Viduate Dame

'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
For her acts are light and free.

In a seven-ounce costume
The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
The difficult can-can tryeth.

Ten constables they essay
To bate the dame's halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
Their hands are overflowing,

And they cry: 'Call the National Guard
To quell this parlous muss-
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
Are upon the spree and us!'

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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~ End Not My Inner Swash Slush ~

~ End Not My Inner Swash Slush ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
3 August 2010

Facing infinite sky
Wreathing garland
On your seductress lap
For whom knows who?

Inebriating zephyr
Brings mellow music
So near next spree bilk
Gaga gala gaze why?

Mesmeric mudra
Is it fugacious virtual or
Redundant real unveil
Not why O’ You?

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poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Gentlemen-Rankers

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.
We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa--aa--aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Old Keg Of Rum

My name is old Jack Palmer,
I'm a man of olden days,
And so I wish to sing a song
To you of olden praise.
To tell of merry friends of old
When we were gay and young;
How we sat and sang together
Round the Old Keg of Rum.

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
How we sat and sang together
Round the Old Keg of Rum.

There was I and Jack the plough-boy,
Jem Moore and old Tom Hines,
And poor old Tom the fiddler,
Who now in glory shines;

And several more of our old chums,
Who shine in Kingdom Come,

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Years After the War In Australia

The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’
‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!’—‘stand clear of the blazing shoots!’—
‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’—‘We’ll cut out to-day’—‘Look out for the boss’s boots!’
‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’—‘What price the boys Out Back!’
‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!’
‘Needle and thread!’—‘I have broke my comb!’—‘Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!’
‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’—‘Here’s for the Lachlan side!’
Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,
And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’

I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:
‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’—‘Gor’ bli’me, but that’s red-hot!’
‘It’s Bill the Slogger—poor bloke—he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his;
‘I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’
‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.’
‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.’
‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt;
‘If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;
‘You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Problem Child

(roy orbison)
Roy orbison (sun, 1957)
Well my heartbeat is running wild
Because of you my problem child
Oh-oh baby, don't be running wild
Well cool off baby, don't be a problem child
Well don't you see this shakin' spree
Is bound to be the death of me
Oh baby, don't be running wild
Well cool off baby, don't be a problem child
Well my heartbeat is runnin' wild
Because of you my problem child
Oh baby, don't be running wild
Control yourself, don't be a problem child
Well don't you see this shakin' spree
Is bound to be the death of me
Oh baby, don't be running wild
Well cool off baby, don't be a problem child
Well then i'm gone, that's all she wrote
You'll sing this same song note for note

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song performed by Roy Orbison
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Natural One

I'm the one natural one, make it easy
we can take it inside
where I can love how I like if my woman
whatever keeps me high
yeah, we can take it
good and loose on an endless spree
good because we made it
and when momma's not around there's no telling what we'll do when we're
free
I'm the one natural one, make it easy
we can take it inside
I can have it cause I act like I love it
it's a matter of pride
yeah, we can take it
good excuse on an endless spree
good because we made it
your woman's falling down, you may as well crash with me
when I'm numb natural one
it's the one natural one
there's no telling what we'll do when we're free

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song performed by Folk Implosion
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