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Best Poems Written by Merv Webster

Below are the all-time best Merv Webster poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Hard Hat Heroes

There's a breed of Aussie hero who has served this nation well 
and they don a yellow uniform to face the fires of hell. 
When day temperatures are soaring and the high winds blow a gust, 
and our bushland is ignited it's in them we place our trust.   
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you’re fathers.  Hard hat heroes everyone. 
 
When their mates are in the hot seat and they need a helping hand, 
they will volunteer their services from stations 'cross this land. 
Whether country towns or cities or a bush fire brigade; 
they will gladly throw their hats in and will offer their mates aide. 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you’re fathers.  Hard hat heroes everyone. 
 
Do you owe your home or property, your very lives perhaps,     
to the selfless, sincere efforts of these bold fire-fighting chaps?  
Or still sadly you lost everything, but proudly can attest 
to their fierce determination as each brave soul did their best.    
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you’re fathers.  Hard hat heroes everyone. 
 
So I ask you all to join me as we stand and raise a glass 
to the courage and the spirit of this fire fighting, class; 
and I'm sure you'd love to join me as this message we impart,  
"You're such true blue hard hat heroes and we thank you from the heart." 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you’re fathers.  Hard hat heroes everyone.

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Bert's Will

"A cappuccino would be nice 
And thank you Anne dear friend. 
Since Bert has died I've felt quite lost, 
But time has helped things mend." 
 
"I guess what hurt the most dear Anne 
Was finding in Bert's will; 
To me he never left a thing; 
A truly bitter pill." 
 
"He never left you anything! 
I thought Bert more sincere, 
But is that diamond ring not new 
You're wearing sister dear?" 
 
"Well let me put it this way Anne. 
Bert's will did leave a bit; 
Five grand for a memorial stone 
And this dear Anne ... is it."

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They Don'T Bite Like They Used To

He sat there in his fav'rite chair, a blanket 'cross his lap 
And covering his snow white hair was his old fishing cap. 
I knew he could not talk to me since suffering the stroke, 
But still I sensed he could relate to ev'ry word I spoke. 
"I went and wet a line today ... down where you caught that cod. 
The biggest one you'd landed yet and though it was my rod 
I reckon he was yours all right ... but cod are far and few.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"The algae's building up again and stuffing up the creeks, 
Though at long last we had a fresh, the first in flam’in weeks. 
Pulled twenty stinking euros in, along with one old dew, 
But they had sores all over them, though still that's nothing new. 
The cotton farmers cry, "Absurd!  It can’t be from our spray." 
Perhaps the fish have just got aids from turning flam'in gay. 
Its getting pretty sad all right, but what can one bloke do.   
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"McDonalds seems to be the go and good old KFC 
And eating yellow-belly is a flam'in rarity.   
Your grandson won't go fishing as he says it's just for nerds 
And when I take the missus we just end up having words. 
I really miss our fishing trips, your company was swell 
And by the mist there in your eyes you miss them dad as well. 
I heard you sold your tinny mate, your outboard motor too.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
They're introducing fingerlings and giving that a shot, 
But duckweed takes the oxygen which kills the flam'in lot. 
The droughts have had their toll as well and one thing that's for sure; 
I can't see in the future dad a remedy or cure. 
So mum's ducked down to Salty's mate and I would dare a punt 
She'll come back with a feed of fish before you say Rex Hunt. 
I guess we'll have to wash it down with some of your home brew. 
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to."

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Dear, Oh Deer!

For better or for worse they'd pledged 
upon  their wedding day, 
but all the so called better bits 
had somehow gone astray. 
 
Poor Blue and Joan had lost the zing 
that matrimony brings, 
so both sought out a counsellor 
and hoped he'd patch up things. 
 
"I sense you do not spend much time," 
the counsellor advised, 
"on doing the together things 
you both once highly prized. 
 
"The best advice that I can give 
is, spend less time apart. 
Go find a common interest 
and that will be a start." 
 
While driving home Joan said to Blue, 
"I know what we can do. 
Next week when you go hunting dear 
I'll come along with you." 
 
"But Joan you've never seen a deer 
or ever used a gun, 
but still if that is what you want 
I guess it could be fun." 
 
The next weekend they set on out 
and Blue advised his Joan  
to watch for hunters who may claim  
a deer that's not their own. 

With Joan concealed and out of sight 
Blue showed a lot of nous 
and circled 'round to chase a deer 
towards his waiting spouse. 
 
Then suddenly he heard a ... BANG! 
That made his poor ears ring 
and as he worked towards his wife 
he heard Joan arguing.  
 
Blue saw as he peered through the trees 
his Joan and some poor dude, 
both locked into a verbal war;  
a ding dong all out feud. 
 
The bloke then cried "Okay!  Okay! 
You keep the flamin' beast, 
but may I have the saddle though? 
Please grant me that at least?"

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Why Dot Won'T Leave the Farm

Dot Blogs she was a buxom lass and hefty heifer too
who married Bobby Eugene Blows when she was twenty- two.
They lived upon a dairy farm alongside Boggy Creek
and milked  a hundred fresian cows … yes seven days a week.

Now Dotty took to motherhood and had some eighteen kids
and Bobby too was very fond of all his billy lids.
Though life was using hand me downs from hats to underwear,
it taught them old world values; like the gift of how to share.

Dot seldom ventured from the place and trips to town were rare
as she’d become content with life and simple country fare.
But Bob, in a romantic mood, applied his boyish charm
and thought he’d hit the city and get Dotty off the farm.

Their anniversary was due and Bob now thought it time
to hit the big smoke for a change were they could wine and dine.
Well Dot had dressed up to the nines and looked a proper treat,
but how to fit her in the ute had poor Rob kind of beat.

Poor Dot was three axe handles when one measured ’cross her rump
and putting things politely she was rather flamin’ plump.
But Dot she was a country girl and just jumped in the back
and soon both her and husband Rob were heading down the track.

The cities razzle dazzle blew both Dot and Rob away
and headed for the classy place where they were gonna stay.
But when Dot hit the doorway well she then ran out of luck,
as she was jammed there tightly and evidently stuck. 

The chaps behind the service desk and three bell boys as well
they tried to push poor Dotty free but Robby knew darn well
that Dottie’s hefty hips were simply wedged in there too tight
and going out to wine and dine was now in doubt that night.

Just then a bell boy cried out loud, “I have a plan for sure.
I’ll grab the local rugby team that’s dining right next door.”
The forwards packed behind poor Dot and gave it all they had,
but all they did was stir her up and she was getting mad.

Then Rob remembered once back home how Bert the bull was jammed
real tight inside the race they had and how they fin’lly planned
to rub his hips with lots of grease and on the count of three
they’d hit him with a jigger and you’re right … he busted free.

The Motel staff then whipped around and searched each patron’s bag
and grabbed all sorts of greasy stuff their little hands could snag.
Rob rubbed old Dottie’s hips all down and laid it on real thick,
then grabbed the night guards stun gun;  it was sure to do the trick.

Poor Dot she kicked and bellowed when the voltage hit her hide
and man she cut some capers and she went all goggle eyed.
She snorted and she struggled like some poor wild frightened beast,
but just like Bert, Rob did admit, she busted free at least.

Now Dot is back at Boggy Creek and though poor Rob tries hard
she won’t budge from the Dairy farm; she just won’t budge a yard.
Poor Rob now does the shopping and the thing he finds bizarre
Is rubbing Dot down  ev’ry night where two prongs left a scar.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer -  Merv Webster

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The Psychedelic Stew

THE PSYCHEDELIC STEW 
 
We loved to drive out through the hills 
Where landscapes are so green, 
And always sought the smell of hay 
That seemed so fresh and clean. 
 
We'd rent a cosy cottage there 
Around that time each year, 
The days and nights were magical 
And life was full of cheer. 
 
That night we planned a simple tea 
A good old country stew, 
With fresh grown mushrooms we had picked 
As 'round the place they grew. 
 
Those mushrooms seemed much larger then 
The ones we'd norm'lly find, 
But in they went with all the rest, 
We really did not mind. 
 
Our stew was just the best we'd had 
On that we did agree, 
Then sitting back and quite content 
Enjoyed a cup of tea. 
 
When suddenly, in front of us,  
Our kitchen came to life 
With antics never seen before; 
Sure terrified my wife. 
 
She sat and watched with fear filled eyes 
For both her knife and fork, 
Were standing up and quite erect 
And both of them could walk. 

The kitchen curtains did a jig 
And plates flew 'round the room, 
Our mop then left its corner spot 
To line dance with the broom. 
 
Old teapot sang and clapped its hands, 
The tea cups joined in too. 
My mind it boggled at the sight 
and wondered what to do. 
 
I grabbed the phone and dialled for help 
That soon was on its way; 
Though not before the pots and pans 
Had all began to play. 
 
Poor doctor tried to calm us down 
Enquiring of our plight. 
We mentioned what had taken place, 
The horrors of that night. 
 
He summed up what had taken place, 
The answer he now knew, 
We'd eaten mushrooms which produced, 
A psychedelic stew.

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The Reluctant Bootscooter

I s’pose you've heard of Tamworth and the shindig there each year, 
where country music reigns supreme and all its stars appear.  
They’re in the pubs and all the clubs and arcades 'round the town      
and Peel Street is just full of pics all strumming up and down. 
 
In years of late another breed of artists have appeared; 
Bush Poets with their rhyming verse, who are now quite revered. 
The Longyard and Imperial pubs and Leagues Club host a few, 
while golf and bowls clubs house more mobs and Peel street has them too.  
  
It happens that I'm one of them and have for six straight years 
performed to folk my style of verse -  The Laughter and the Tears. 
You make them cry, you make them laugh, you keep your tales true blue, 
for that is what the folk demand:  be Aussie through and through. 
 
Most folk they see us poets as the ocker type of bloke 
and know we see line dancing as some kind of flamin' joke.  
They stream to Tamworth each year and stretch out along Peel street. 
These hordes of blokes and sheilas with their fancy prancin' feet. 
 
They’re shapes and sizes are diverese, no two frames look the same, 
with fancy shirts embroidered with the place from hence they came.   
They tuck their thumbs behind their belts then line up in a row 
and when the music kicks on in they boot scoot to and fro. 
 
Each year they have this ritual, that really is a bore; 
They try to break the record they procured the year before. 
Like locusts they assemble and I watch them with disdain 
'cause surely they've got Buckley's chance of doing it again. 
 
[CONTINUED]

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I'Ll Ne'Er Forget That Day Old Mate

My heart was pumping hard that day I faced the maddening crowd, 
Despite the spinning in my head I stood there mighty proud. 
Though racked with pain my reddened hand acknowledged them a wave 
And to this day I've ne'er forgot, the accolades they gave. 
 
It was a dream come true you see to stand there in that ring, 
For rodeo was in my blood and one day I'd be king. 
The beast I drew was mean and lean ... no Chainsaw I admit, 
But still if I could just ride time I'd show them I had grit. 
 
I'd limbered up behind the chute preparing for the ride, 
Well knowing what was just ahead, but took it in my stride. 
The chute boss called, "You've drawn chute five, get down and make it quick." 
Then as I eyed the beast below ... I suddenly felt sick.  
 
That brute it tried to climb the gate and bellowed cries of fear, 
While chute hands fought to organise the necessary gear. 
I felt the violent quiver of the hide between my chaps, 
The smell of sweat, the cry of men ... a change of mind perhaps? 
 
Too late I felt the rope pulled taut and shoved within my glove, 
I thought it's now or never mate and sent a prayer above. 
Then as I pulled my Colly down I yelled out, "Let him go!" 
The gate flew open ... it was on ... 'twas time to rodeo. 

With whites of eyes all full of hate that beast did twist and turn, 
'Twas obvious my frame aboard was something he did spurn. 
Eight seconds on this beast from hell seemed like eternity, 
For ev'ry muscle which I owned screamed out in agony. 

Between the jars and twists and turns I heard the crowd all cheer, 
Then at long last that blessed sound of hooter in my ear. 
The pick up man then pulled me clear and was I proud ... not half! 
I'll ne'er forget that day old mate I rode that poddy calf.

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Divine Justice

Young Father Murphy, Parish Priest, 
he rang Archbishop Moore, 
advising him he suddenly 
had taken rather poor.  
"I'll not be fit for Sunday mass 
as I'm confined to bed, 
I'm hoping please your Eminence 
you'll do it please instead." 
 
"Good Father Murphy say no more, 
for you should never doubt, 
the willingness of love my son  
to help a brother out. 
So have no fear, your flock is safe, 
I’ll shepherd it with love 
and while confined you should confer 
with him who is above." 
 
Then as the cock crowed Sunday morn 
good Father rose in haste 
and gathered all his golfing gear, 
there was no time to waste. 
He parred the first and second holes, 
his cheeks were all aglow, 
when up in heaven Gabriel saw 
the sinful priest below. 
 
He took the matter higher up 
for justice must be served. 
The LORD said, "I've been watching son, 
it's not gone unobserved." 
The third it was a par three hole, 
so Father gave it some, 
his ball it lofted in the air 
and Murphy holed in one. 

Poor Gabriel he just looked in awe ... 
the LORD sensed he was vexed; 
How justice had been served that day 
had Gabriel quite perplexed. 
"Dear Gabriel it may seem to you  
the priest has gained the most, 
but when it's said and done my son, 
to whom will Murphy boast."

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Reminiscing With Henry

There's little left now, Lawson, mate, of your home by the hill, 
Except, a guarding sentinel, the chimney stands there still; 
To some it's just another site, for tourists passing through, 
Perhaps they've never read your works - how sad, but maybe true. 
 
Eurunderee and childhood days, please tell me if I'm wrong, 
Instilled in you mixed memories and feelings, oh so strong. 
Yes, monumental moments mate;  the hardship and the joy. 
They brought to mind old childhood days when I was just a boy. 
 
Is that your Dad with shouldered axe and wand'ring off somewhere? 
His cross-cut saw with him as well.  I'm sure it's him, I swear. 
The dark haired lady on the log and scribbling on a pad; 
Your Mum I guess at work on verse;  she taught you well my lad. 
 
Old grandpa Albury's visiting and dons his greasy hat. 
 I know it's him, no other soul could ever shout like that. 
The muck on brother Charlie's face.  It's not Jim Nowlett's brew? 
He surely can't believe that tale, 'cause none of it is true. 
 
I see young brother Peter mate is tending cows again. 
You mentioned how they liked to stray.  You're right, they are a pain. 
Is that a horseman riding up and pack horse by his side? 
It can't be old Dave Regan.  No!  They told me he had died.  
 
If Billy Grimshaw's teams passed now, his bales of wool so high, 
He couldn't swear from being bogged;  the bitumen runs by. 
The gold has long but disappeared, though grape vines grow here still; 
Red wine is known around the world;  I know, I've had my fill. 
 
I can't stay any longer mate I've got a way to go; 
To join up with my poet friends, up Queensland way you know.  
I'm glad though that I stopped a while to reminisce with you, 
Like Banjo mate, deep down within, I saw you as true blue.