I’m extremely sorry to have to say,
A terrible thing happened the other day,
On the otherwise beautiful Port Phillip Bay,
An enormous but unspecified degree of destruction
Has pole-axed the bridge which was under construction,
And a number of souls have been spirited away.
Oh appalling thing! Ye girders immersed!
The Westgate Bridge is completely burst,
Such dreadful events could ne’er be rehearsed,
How distressing for the perished, honour their memory,
Some of them probably served with Montgomery,
Although of all their experiences this would be the worst.
It was said by experts that the bridge was all right,
But boy were the experts in for a fright,
When bits of the aforementioned sank out of sight,
With a crash and a hideous graunching sound!
Many fragments on the sea-bed later were found,
And the Westgate Bridge was in a desperate plight.
The Rev. George Gilfillan saw the bridge begin to sway,
A popular and highly moral man which no one can gainsay,
And for the emergency telephone he did reach without delay,
And he nobly sought assistance from the suitably qualified,
‘Our gracious span is in grave peril. Do something!’ he cried,
Which the people of Melbourne remember to this very day.
The immortal William Shakespeare is needed at such times,
Whose understanding of tragedy is surpassing fine,
Such as for instance certain bits of Othello which are truly most sublime,
Only he this catastrophe in its magnitude so vast,
Could describe although ironically he’s dead and in the past,
A loss which the people of Melbourne will mourn for a very long time.
A pall hangs over Melbourne which can ne’er be blown away,
And which no sensible person has any reason to gainsay,
And the pall is particularly prominent over Port Phillip Bay,
Where a combination of dreadful weather
And a lack of adequate bracing together,
Brought such tragic results on October 15th 1970 which was not a happy day.
Emmy-Lou Dickinson
Film devotees will remember Emmy-Lou as an extra in Witness (directed by fellow Australian Peter Weir) but it is as a poet that she is best known to date. A very quiet person, she lives alone near Lakes Entrance and speaks only to small children on her mother’s side.POEMS
Are you anybody? I’m not either,
Come over here before somebody finds us,
We’ll hide so everyone fails to notice
That nobody knows where we are.
Imagine being someone, Yikes!
How appalling—like a toad—
Puffing up one’s throat all day
For a lot of other warts.
——————
Exhilaration is the coming
Of the mariner uphill,
Through the wood—along the ridge—
To the utmost peak—
From the land as if for the first time
The sailor watches the storm
With the godlike perspective
Afforded by the recognition
Of form.
——————
What is? Is this?
Can this be? If not this—
Then what? Something else?
Nothing?
Death perhaps?
Death is not nothing—
Death is something—it happens—
It follows something else—
Or nothing—
Or something other than either—
Possibly this.
——————
Preciousness is the essential aspect
Of all the things that are precious;
I’m pretty sure this is right—
It is certainly a lovely idea.
——————
To wither away of boredom
With only the bee to consider
Is my choice—my right—my life—
My start—my end—my God.
——————
I fear the small—
The slight—the brief—
The large I can deal with—
But the speck—the infinity
Inside the merest particle—
Is enormous.
Thomas ‘The Tank’ Hardy
A member of the prominent Hardy family, which included Mary, Frank, James and Laurelin, Tom wrote novels but everyone agreed they were no good and he turned to poetry. The everyone who agreed his novels were no good wore their underpants on their head and could count to four.THE FAILED BUSINESSMAN
Why Harry, my boy, and how do you do?
How lovely to see you, so prosperous too,
How came you by raiment of such quality?
‘Oh hadn’t you heard? I went bankrupt,’ said he.
The last time I saw you, you hadn’t two bob.
You petitioned my brother to give you a job.
And yet now you move in high so-cie-ty.
‘One meets a broad circle, when bankrupt,’ said he.
Your card here gives your address as the suite
In the bank building up at the top of the street.
You advise them, it says. And you charge them a fee?
‘Yes, they’re not yet aware that they’re bankrupt,’ said he.
I must say I’m slightly surprised by your car,
The phone not so much but the TV and bar,
In times of distress, tell me how can that be?
‘It belongs to my wife. She’s not bankrupt,’ said he.
And whose are these paintings here stuffed in the back?
They must be worth millions, my God there’s a stack
Of western art’s finest old masters I see.
‘One’s pleasures are simple, when bankrupt,’ said he.
But surely you’re working to clear all your debt,
With a management plan and advisers to get
A repayment arrangement in place so you’re free.
‘Oh we don’t do accounts when we’re bankrupt,’ said he.
But the company has assets and so has the trust,
Transfer them and sell them and pay what you must,
As director you must have the authority.
‘Oh I wouldn’t trust me. I’m a bankrupt,’ said he.
But your reputation will carry the stain,
You must fight to clear at all costs your good name,
We each have a right to our own dignity.
‘Oh we don’t give a fuck when we’re bankrupt,’ said he.
Carol Lewis
Lewis’s real name was actually Shirley Lutwidge Dodson. A logician and amateur photographer from Young, in New South Wales, Shirley’s great works Alison Wonderland and Who Are You Looking At? became instant classics.THE HUNTING OF THE SMIRK
‘Twas ruddock and the blundertrope
All romping through the perjyblade,
Did slither down the sewerscope
To the Frightenhate Parade.
Beware the Crockacrap my boy
The doubt that nags, the mud that sticks.
Beware the sumptuous Mediaploy,
And shun Yesmanarchbishoprics.
Who said that? Children overboard?
More wilton than the truth it brings
Outreithage in the blitherhoard
And quicklyslip disgracerthings.
Observe how the Lowcom-de-Nom tree moves
And endowners the ground with poison fruit.
See how ‘ard the serpent has hidden his hooves
When addressing potential recruits.
You can slay the Triumphalist Smirk my friend
The vorpal sword goes snicker snap.
No defensive position could ever depend
On this particular Brandercrap.
‘Twas ruddock and the blundertrope
All romping through the perjyblade,
Did slither down the sewerscope
To the Frightenhate Parade.
Anon.
Trad. (This nursery rhyme was found near Euroa.)WHO KILLED NED KELLY?
Who
