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Active Retirees : Active Retirees Aug-Sept 2012
Active RetireesTM | 65 view from the chair We need you! Lift the mighty pen – send in your poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction, jokes, recipes, or anything else you have created. Not only will you have a chance of seeing your work in print, you’ll also be in the running to win the annual Paul Henningham Award for Literary Excellence. e: email@example.com P: Smile! Active Retirees magazine 369a Darling St Balmain NSW 2041 Legendary Jack They talk about the droughts And they sing about the rains But I have never seen the like Of those blackened sun- parched plains. There were skeletons of cattle Bones bleached by sun and rains, And I witnessed feral pigs Splashing down the table drains. I've been surrounded by two mighty floods In far out old Bourke town. I've seen yellow bellies swimming And a roo that wouldn't drown. But of all the tall tales told Of the unknown and outback There is no one who can spin them Like the legendary Jack. Every day at eighteen thirty Jack would take up his customary space In the front bar of the Oxley, What he called his judgment place. A middy glass of Tooth's old Was all that he would shout Though Jack confessed that in his young day He'd touch nothing but Sheaf's Stout. 'Sit back me boy and listen And I'll tell a tale or two Of how a land that's hell on earth Is kindness through and through. In my youth I was a shearer And travelled many a road With me swag upon me shoulder And no family for load. I shore sheep at Dunlop station I have shorn with the best, I shore two hundred sheep at Warren Without taking off my vest. I've tramped the miles to Hungerford And camped by many a creek But in nineteen hundred and fifty six Our situation was mighty bleak. The shearers went on strike And the cockies cursed the commies But we retaliated: saying They were unreconstructed pommies I never was a bloody scab, So I couldn't work the sheds But I needed beer and tucker To keep the inner mannie fed. May the Lord above Send down a dove With wings as sharp as razors – To cut the throats of bloody scabs – Who cut down poor men’s wages. I was sitting in this very pub, Just wondering what to do, When I noticed on the outside, A bucking kangaroo. My eyes are playing tricks, I thought, Strewth Bluey what's to do? But Bluey nodded his red head And said "I've seen it too". We downed our beer and went outside To join the gathering throng, When strike me lucky the big white roo Struck up the shearers' song. This isn't right I shouted out, This is a cockies' plot, I'll spike that ruddy kangaroo, And drop him on the spot. I started forward with a roar, The big roo turned around, And kicking high, it punched me out Then jumped me with a bound. I spat two teeth and ran at him, But the kangaroo was cunning, He dodged my fist and went tut tut, Then off he went a running. He reached the end of Oxley Street, And turned and raised his head. "You'll never earn another pound Until you work the shed." I scratched my head, I looked at him And wondered what's to do. No way will I be beaten By a bucking kangaroo. I stood my ground and shouted "Old rates for one and all, To hell with scabs and bludgers, For the working man stands tall." Well that was it, he ran away, It was all a bloody mystery, But the strike was won, the men went back, And the rest they say is history'. Warwick Dalzell, Pittwater Men’s Probus Poetry SMILe
Active Retirees June-July 2012
Active Retirees Oct-Nov 2012