Me OLD Mate JOE
My old mate Joe, his body has departed. My golfing mate, my Community involved mate, me Theater person mate, and then somewhere, somehow he sticks things in my mind. Knew and have known him. Joe is a real mate.
Some words from Joe.
Me names Joe, sometimes Joseph, and yes me coat was of many colours brave.
But I’m just an ordinary bloke, so it won’t take long, your precious time, I’ll try hard to save.
I loved me friends at the Unit, overalls resplendent orange colour bold.
I didn’t give much ceremony for acrimony, but I did my duties told.
Well, they indicated “procuring”, and in my chosen field I did sound.
I was the store man, I procured things you might say, but I lifted stuff, all for Mullumbimby bound.
Fire fronts, cookin’ stuff, liven’ rough, and I did that and some more.
Look at you, you RFS, eat me food get a break, then put the peddle to the floor.
And was I an ordinary golfer? The “Swamp Pheasants”, Mullumbimby Golf Club is well known.
Handicap? Golfer? What’s that? When me mates wanted points, well, suddenly stableford has grown.
Every Monday, me mates and I would go to do the battle.
Never won a lot, a golf ball here, two bob here, so lets’ go on with the prattle.
Beth Wicks, all off this, a profession will be unfolden’, the SEA HORSE SINGERS, and Byron Shire is the place that is beholden’.
I had a job, prop manager, curtain puller, our shows were for the locals.
Never seen so many folk, given’it out, singn’it out. Good on ya Geoff Dart’s focal vocals.
And then, OH boy, they put me in the show and then Goldilocks’ I was bound and more.
The Vegemite Kids, I’m on the skids, makeup makes us good I’m sure.
Marginally attractive, curiously distractive, I think ugly is the word, the inscription.
Joe’s me name, and I’m on me way and had a good time, on me cemetery description.
Have a little tipple climb every mountain, me partner Coral won’t object.
She had the job of carer, and it wasn’t good, that I expect.
I was just an ordinary bloke, I got more than I gave.
Help me settle down, depart this life, and don’t you be so grave.
Will you have a talk, but don’t talk of sad, and I’m certain Coral she won’t billya’.
Have a cuppa’, have a snack.
Now pour a little drink for me, willya’.
John Farley and Joe, © 2008
poem by John D. Farley
Added by Poetry Lover
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