The mournful scream of a whistle that pierced the morning air
Awoke in me a memory, from the distant past somewhere A memory I had tried to hide ...... in the darkness of my mind Now that mournful whistle wakes again, the memory of my crime. How many years have passed me by? How many nights have I sat and cried? The tears I’ve shed in guilt’s despair, but forgiveness ..... I could find nowhere. I see her face in all my dreams, and recoil each time I hear those screams All ye who read this.... pity me....who must carry this guilt through eternity.... The Anointed. |
The Anzacs
They were dumped there at Gallipoli And before the sun was set Those men, Recorded in our history lest we ever should forget Were strewn along the surf and sand A tragic waste of men But proud they fought beneath our flag And they did it all again When we went into Korea Again, in Vietnam Our Navy in the gulf war East Timor, Afghanistan And they were out there in the desert Fighting somewhere in Iraq And every war is filled with terror mate Which haunts brave men in the dark So on the twenty fifth of April The Anzac spirit do we praise Not just the boys of world war one But even those who fight today For every one who gives their life Who face death with Aussie pride; Walks out into those fields of blood With an ANZAC by their side…… The Anointed. |
THE SONG OF THE THONG BIRDS.
On the old Barcoo River, where Banjo Paterson wrote his poem "The Bush Christening," at a bush camp site, there is a tree upon which, many visitors over the years have hung their old discarded thongs. One morning while sipping my first cup of steaming hot tea, I listened to this song that the throng birds sang to me.. I heard the Thong Birds in the tree As they sang their foot sore song to me They'd been replaced by brand new shoes And abandoned here by the old Barcoo. They had served their masters, Oh so well Now in their song I hear them tell How their masters walked them o'er this land, Through scorching dust and burning sand And never once did their feet get sore, Now hung and abandoned----They'll walk no more. Come back! Come back! I heard them cry. Come back once more before you die, And sit with us by the old Barcoo And remember the days, we walked with you..... The Anointed. |
THE LIE
Defiantly He stood his ground Surprisingly He made no sound His feet were free His hands still bound This now would be The finale round. Standing there With death so near Amazingly He showed no fear He turned his head As if to hear The barking dogs Still at his rear. Before him shone The searchers lights Torches flashing Oh so bright Exhausted He had run all night Now came the time To stand and fight. Prepared for death He heaved a sigh Why had they all Believed the lie For mercy He would never cry His former friends Must watch him die. That stranger Smooth as he could be Convinced the crowd That it was he The child lay there For all to see As they bound him ‘neath the hanging tree. Warmed by the sun’s First morning ray Why did he have To die this way His friends Like hungry lions at play Would tear him Limb from limb this day. He wonders What they’ll tell his son When they realize What they have done For D.N.A Will prove them wrong But by then the stranger Will be gone............ The Anointed/ |
OLD TIMERS
Here you go old mate, ”I’m buying” Can’t have you sitting here and crying Have a beer and tell me why you look so sad Hell, you must be nigh on eighty Have another drink old matey Lighten up a bit, things can’t be all that bad. You said you just got married To a girl of thirty three And last night it was your honeymoon You was as happy as could be In the cot she was a demon And she could cook a mighty feed. So what’s your flamin problem mate? You’ve got more than most men need If I could have what you got now A thousand quid------ I’d give Hey mate he said, “I’m ----- crying Cos I’ve forgotten where I live”..... The Anointed |
THE CROC SLIDE
Did I tell you ‘bout me father? He took us fishing way out west He loved to catch them Barras and reckons western creeks are best We was fishing on the Flinders in the drought when banks are steep And the waterholes remaining were muddy dark and deep Dad was fishing by the waters edge with his foot against a rock When that waterhole explodes old mate, a ten foot flaming croc Well me dad he’s flying backwards, his bum cheeks working like his feet While that croc keeps lunging at him, then sliding back into the creek When he finally got to safety with the bum worn from his strides He just sat wild eyed and staring, his fear he couldn’t hide And me? I couldn’t say a word, me mouth was locked up in a grin The smell and colour of that water, told, what the croc was sliding in ….The Anointed |
THE STOLEN BIKE
Preaching from the pulpit Was a local parish priest A Parson by the name of Patrick Sykes And he preached a fiery sermon He was absolutely sure Someone in the congregation stole his bike Going through the Ten Commandments And having said, “Thou shalt not steal” He looked around to find the guilty face But all were pure as angels No one even blushed There weren’t a guilty person in the place So he had to keep on going Though he knew he’d lost his bike And when he finally said “Adultery is sin” The sermon stopped abruptly And as calmly as you like He said, “ I just remembered where I left the bluudy ting.” ..... The Anointed. |
AN ILL WIND
I found the place where wild winds go to breed and then to rest Where women winds all whirl and swirl while tending to their nest There the bitter biting blizzard wind of monkey’s brass balls fame Bore twenty torrential breezes to the mighty hurricane And there the mother of all cyclones, mated with the thunder storm And ten tiny twirling twisters from her stormy womb were born. While way out in the distance, where the misfits congregate The ill wind who blows no one no good, was there with her old mate The political wind in labour, who let out a plaintive call Then gave birth to six state premiers, the greatest blowhards of them all. The Anointed, |
B]THE DUSTS OF TIME[/b]
Ah! The droving days are over And no more will we see The dusty pads worn deep by droving teams They’ve long ago been blown away By scorching western winds And big mobs on the move, are now but dreams. Men such as Arthur Hollins Walter Cowan and Jack swan Old drovers names blazed on the trees of time Yet I somehow seem to see them Shadowy figures on the plains With the dust clouds of the cattle close behind. As I read and hear the stories Of these legends from the past On stock routes now forgotten I would ride A star studded roof above me Blazing from a moonless sky By a camp fire near a river dry and wide. Just to be there with those men of iron And round the camp-fire hear their yarns Firelight dancing on their rough and weathered skin To share their whole existence Their good times and their bad Droving on the outback stock-routes once agin. Along the beef roads and the highways Of this unforgiving land The rough diamonds now are driving cattle trains AH, we must accept the world is changing But my heart aches deep inside For the droving days will not be seen again..... The Anointed |
THE BIRD IN THE SNOW
It was late, too late, the snows were here and all the birds had gone They’d heeded natures warnings and had flown to countries warm But one young bird, for reasons that cannot be explained Left her departure far too late, now with cold blood in her veins Her wings were beating feebly, the ice and snow had chilled her through And although she struggled gamely, she couldn’t make it, I think she knew As down she came in an open field of grass and snow and slush And as she lay there freezing, there came a sudden rush Of steaming hot manure, from a bull which grazed that ground And it covered her completely, for awhile she thought she’d drown Then calling on some hidden strength, she fought to struggle free With head exposed she gasped for air, sweet air fresh and clear Within that warm moist mound she lay, until her strength returned Her little heart was pumping fast, as she chirped her species tune When an old tom cat who worked that patch, heard her song of joy And he dug her up and ate her, now she’ll sing her songs no more So next time someone poops on you, they may just be your friend While the one who tries to get you out, could be doing it--- for evil ends. The Anointed, |
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