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Best Famous Son Of A Gun Poems

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Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Ballad of Ducks

 The railway rattled and roared and swung 
With jolting and bumping trucks.
The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told This terrible tale of the days of old, And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.
"Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; And the rabbits have pretty well took command; But the hardest thing for a man to stand Is the feller who says 'Well I told you so! You should ha' done this way, don't you know!' -- I could lay a bait for a man like that.
"The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one And what they leave -- well, it ain't de luxe.
But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun Who'd lent some money to stock our run -- I said they'd eaten what grass we had -- Says he, 'Your management's very bad; You had a right to have kept some ducks!' "To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! Wherever you went you had to tread On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; And then with a swoosh they rose in flight, If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly Like bullets into your open eye And knock it out of the back of your head.
"There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, Can make a difference on a run When a grasshopper plague has once begun; 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy Ten thousand emus and have a try; The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! "'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; A great big duck -- a Muscovy toff -- Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; And if the grasshoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the grasshoppers eat his feathers off!" "He came to visit us by and by, And it just so happened one day in spring A kind of cloud came over the sky -- A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, Flyin' in regiments, side by side, And eatin' up every living thing.
"All day long, like a shower of rain, You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, And they'd rise and jump at the house again Till their crippled carcasses piled outside.
But what did it matter if thousands died -- A million wouldn't be missed at all.
"We were drinkin' grasshoppers -- so to speak -- Till we skimmed their carcasses off the spring; And they fell so thick in the station creek They choked the waterholes all the week.
There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, And they'd only take artificial flies -- They got so sick of the real thing.
"An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags When the hoppers rose for their morning flight With the flapping noise like a million flags: And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry Till the cook sat down and began to cry -- And never a duck or fowl in sight.
"We strolled across to the railroad track -- Under a cover beneath some trucks, I sees a feather and hears a quack; I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back -- Every duck in the place was there, No good to them was the open air.
'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'"


Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

White

 A New Version: 1980

 What is that little black thing I see there
 in the white?
 Walt Whitman


One

Out of poverty
To begin again: 

With the color of the bride
And that of blindness,

Touch what I can
Of the quick,

Speak and then wait,
As if this light

Will continue to linger
On the threshold.
All that is near, I no longer give it a name.
Once a stone hard of hearing, Once sharpened into a knife.
.
.
Now only a chill Slipping through.
Enough glow to kneel by and ask To be tied to its tail When it goes marrying Its cousins, the stars.
Is it a cloud? If it's a cloud it will move on.
The true shape of this thought, Migrant, waning.
Something seeks someone, It bears him a gift Of himself, a bit Of snow to taste, Glimpse of his own nakedness By which to imagine the face.
On a late afternoon of snow In a dim badly-aired grocery, Where a door has just rung With a short, shrill echo, A little boy hands the old, Hard-faced woman Bending low over the counter, A shiny nickel for a cupcake.
Now only that shine, now Only that lull abides.
That your gaze Be merciful, Sister, bride Of my first hopeless insomnia.
Kind nurse, show me The place of salves.
Teach me the song That makes a man rise His glass at dusk Until a star dances in it.
Who are you? Are you anybody A moonrock would recognize? There are words I need.
They are not near men.
I went searching.
Is this a deathmarch? You bend me, bend me, Oh toward what flower! Little-known vowel, Noose big for us all.
As strange as a shepherd In the Arctic Circle.
Someone like Bo-peep.
All his sheep are white And he can't get any sleep Over lost sheep.
And he's got a flute Which says Bo-peep, Which says Poor boy, Take care of your snow-sheep.
to A.
S.
Hamilton Then all's well and white, And no more than white.
Illinois snowbound.
Indiana with one bare tree.
Michigan a storm-cloud.
Wisconsin empty of men.
There's a trap on the ice Laid there centuries ago.
The bait is still fresh.
The metal glitters as the night descends.
Woe, woe, it sings from the bough.
Our Lady, etc.
.
.
You had me hoodwinked.
I see your brand new claws.
Praying, what do I betray By desiring your purity? There are old men and women, All bandaged up, waiting At the spiked, wrought-iron gate Of the Great Eye and Ear Infirmery.
We haven't gone far.
.
.
Fear lives there too.
Five ears of my fingertips Against the white page.
What do you hear? We hear holy nothing Blindfolding itself.
It touched you once, twice, And tore like a stitch Out of a new wound.
Two What are you up to son of a gun? I roast on my heart's dark side.
What do you use as a skewer sweetheart? I use my own crooked backbone.
What do you salt yourself with loverboy? I grind the words out of my spittle.
And how will you know when you're done chump? When the half-moons on my fingernails set.
With what knife will you carve yourself smartass? The one I hide in my tongue's black boot.
Well, you can't call me a wrestler If my own dead weight has me pinned down.
Well, you can't call me a cook If the pot's got me under its cover.
Well, you can't call me a king if the flies hang their hats in my mouth.
Well, you can't call me smart, When the rain's falling my cup's in the cupboard.
Nor can you call me a saint, If I didn't err, there wouldn't be these smudges.
One has to manage as best as one can.
The poppies ate the sunset for supper.
One has to manage as best as one can.
Who stole my blue thread, the one I tied around my pinky to remember? One has to manage as best as one can.
The flea I was standing on, jumped.
One has to manage as best as one can.
I think my head went out for a walk.
One has to manage as best as one can.
This is breath, only breath, Think it over midnight! A fly weighs twice as much.
The struck match nods as it passes, But when I shout, Its true name sticks in my throat.
It has to be cold So the breath turns white, And then mother, who's fast enough To write his life on it? A song in prison And for prisoners, Made of what the condemned Have hidden from the jailers.
White--let me step aside So that the future may see you, For when this sheet is blown away, What else is left But to set the food on the table, To cut oneself a slice of bread? In an unknown year Of an algebraic century, An obscure widow Wrapped in the colors of widowhood, Met a true-blue orphan On an indeterminate street-corner.
She offered him A tiny sugar cube In the hand so wizened All the lines said: fate.
Do you take this line Stretching to infinity? I take this chipped tooth On which to cut it in half.
Do you take this circle Bounded by a single curved line? I take this breath That it cannot capture.
Then you may kiss the spot Where her bridal train last rustled.
Winter can come now, The earth narrow to a ditch-- And the sky with its castles and stone lions Above the empty plains.
The snow can fall.
.
.
What other perennials would you plant, My prodigals, my explorers Tossing and turning in the dark For those remote, finely honed bees, The December stars? Had to get through me elsewhere.
Woe to bone That stood in their way.
Woe to each morsel of flesh.
White ants In a white anthill.
The rustle of their many feet Scurrying--tiptoing too.
Gravedigger ants.
Village-idiot ants.
This is the last summoning.
Solitude--as in the beginning.
A zero burped by a bigger zero-- It's an awful licking I got.
And fear--that dead letter office.
And doubt--that Chinese shadow play.
Does anyone still say a prayer Before going to bed? White sleeplessness.
No one knows its weight.
What The White Had To Say For how could anything white be distinct from or divided from whiteness? Meister Eckhart Because I am the bullet That has gone through everyone already, I thought of you long before you thought of me.
Each one of you still keeps a blood-stained handkerchief In which to swaddle me, but it stays empty And even the wind won't remain in it long.
Cleverly you've invented name after name for me, Mixed the riddles, garbled the proverbs, Shook you loaded dice in a tin cup, But I do not answer back even to your curses, For I am nearer to you than your breath.
One sun shines on us both through a crack in the roof.
A spoon brings me through the window at dawn.
A plate shows me off to the four walls While with my tail I swing at the flies.
But there's no tail and the flies are your thoughts.
Steadily, patiently I life your arms.
I arrange them in the posture of someone drowning, And yet the sea in which you are sinking, And even this night above it, is myself.
Because I am the bullet That has baptized each one of your senses, Poems are made of our lusty wedding nights.
.
.
The joy of words as they are written.
The ear that got up at four in the morning To hear the grass grow inside a word.
Still, the most beautiful riddle has no answer.
I am the emptiness that tucks you in like a mockingbird's nest, The fingernail that scratched on your sleep's blackboard.
Take a letter: From cloud to onion.
Say: There was never any real choice.
One gaunt shadowy mother wiped our asses, The same old orphanage taught us loneliness.
Street-organ full of blue notes, I am the monkey dancing to your grinding-- And still you are afraid-and so, It's as if we had not budged from the beginning.
Time slopes.
We are falling head over heels At the speed of night.
That milk tooth You left under the pillow, it's grinning.
1970-1980 This currently out-of-print edition: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc.
An earlier version of White was first published by New Rivers Press in 1972.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Army Mules

 Oh the airman's game is a showman's game, for we all of us watch him go 
With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below, 
Over the railways and over the dumps, over the Hun and the Turk, 
You'll hear him mutter, "What ho, she bumps," when the Archies get to work.
But not of him is the song I sing, though he follow the eagle's flight, And with shrapnel holes in his splintered wing comes home to his roost at night.
He may silver his wings on the shining stars, he may look from the throne on high, He may follow the flight of the wheeling kite in the blue Egyptian sky, But he's only a hero built to plan, turned out by the Army schools, And I sing of the rankless, thankless man who hustles the Army mules.
Now where he comes from and where he lives is a mystery dark and dim, And it's rarely indeed that the General gives a D.
S.
O.
to him.
The stolid infantry digs its way like a mole in a ruined wall; The cavalry lends a tone, they say, to what were else but a brawl; The Brigadier of the Mounted Fut like a cavalry Colonel swanks When he goeth abroad like a gilded nut to receive the General's thanks; The Ordnance man is a son of a gun and his lists are a standing joke; You order, "Choke arti Jerusalem one" for Jerusalem artichoke.
The Medicals shine with a number nine, and the men of the great R.
E.
, Their Colonels are Methodist, married or mad, and some of them all the three; In all these units the road to fame is taught by the Army schools, But a man has got to be born to the game when he tackles the Army mules.
For if you go where the depots are as the dawn is breaking grey, By the waning light of the morning star as the dust cloud clears away, You'll see a vision among the dust like a man and a mule combined -- It's the kind of thing you must take on trust for its outlines aren't defined, A thing that whirls like a spinning top and props like a three legged stool, And you find its a long-legged Queensland boy convincing an Army mule.
And the rider sticks to the hybrid's hide like paper sticks to a wall, For a "magnoon" Waler is next to ride with every chance of a fall, It's a rough-house game and a thankless game, and it isn't a game for a fool, For an army's fate and a nation's fame may turn on an Army mule.
And if you go to the front-line camp where the sleepless outposts lie, At the dead of night you can hear the tramp of the mule train toiling by.
The rattle and clink of a leading-chain, the creak of the lurching load, As the patient, plodding creatures strain at their task in the shell-torn road, Through the dark and the dust you may watch them go till the dawn is grey in the sky, And only the watchful pickets know when the "All-night Corps" goes by.
And far away as the silence falls when the last of the train has gone, A weary voice through the darkness: "Get on there, men, get on!" It isn't a hero, built to plan, turned out by the modern schools, It's only the Army Service man a-driving his Army mules.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Albert Down Under

 Albert were what you'd call “thwarted”.
He had long had an ambition, which.
.
.
Were to save up and go to Australia, The saving up that were the hitch.
He'd a red money box on the pot shelf, A post office thing made of tin, But with him and his Dad and the bread knife, It never had anything in.
He were properly held up for bobbins, As the folk in the mill used to say, Till he hit on a simple solution - He'd go as a young stowaway.
He studied the sailing lists daily, And at last found a ship as would do.
“S.
S.
Tosser:, a freighter from Fleetwood, Via Cape Horn to Wooloomooloo.
He went off next evening to Fleetwood, And found her there loaded and coaled, Slipped over the side in the darkness, And downstairs and into the hold.
The hold it were choked up with cargo, He groped with his hands in the gloom, Squeezed through bars of what felt like a grating, And found he had plenty of room.
Some straw had been spilled in one corner, He thankfully threw himself flat, He thought he could hear someone breathing, But he were too tired to fret about that.
When he woke they were out in mid-ocean, He turned and in light which were dim, Looked straight in the eyes of a lion, That were lying there looking at him.
His heart came right up in his tonsils, As he gazed at that big yellow face.
Then it smiled and they both said together, “Well, isn't the world a small place?” The lion were none other than Wallace, He were going to Sydney, too.
To fulfil a short starring engagement In a cage at Taronga Park Zoo.
As they talked they heard footsteps approaching, “Someone comes” whispered Wallace, “Quick, hide”.
He opened his mouth to the fullest, And Albert sprang nimbly inside.
'Twere Captain on morning inspection, When he saw Wallace shamming to doze, He picked up a straw from his bedding, And started to tickle his nose.
Now Wallace could never stand tickling, He let out a mumbling roar, And before he could do owt about it, He'd sneezed Albert out on the floor.
The Captain went white to the wattles, He said, “I'm a son of a gun”.
He had heard of beasts bringing up children, But were first time as he'd seen it done.
He soon had the radio crackling, And flashing the tale far and wide, Of the lad who'd set out for Australia, Stowed away in a lion's inside.
The quay it were jammed with reporters, When they docked on Australian soil.
They didn't pretend to believe it, But 'twere too good a story to spoil.
And Albert soon picked up the language, When he first saw the size of the fruit, There was no more “by gum” now or “Champion”, It were “Whacko!”, “Too right!” and “You beaut!”.
They gave him a wonderful fortnight, Then from a subscription they made, Sent him back as a “Parcel for Britain”, Carriage forward, and all ex's paid!
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The Star of Australasia

 We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; 
Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time.
From grander clouds in our `peaceful skies' than ever were there before I tell you the Star of the South shall rise -- in the lurid clouds of war.
It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase; For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.
There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong, And man will fight on the battle-field while passion and pride are strong -- So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours, And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours.
.
.
.
.
.
There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool, Who'll stick to their guns when the mountains quake to the tread of a mighty war, And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before; When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack till the furthest hills vibrate, And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.
.
.
.
.
.
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side, Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured hells that batter a coastal town, Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down.
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away -- Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun, And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, -- As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white, And pray to God in her darkened home for the `men in the fort to-night'.
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.
.
.
.
But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide, 'Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in that glorious race to ride And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that is grand and brave, And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his `wings', and shut his angels out, And steel his heart for the end of things, who'd ride with a stockman scout, When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning distance hums, And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like stockwhip amongst the gums -- And the `straight' is reached and the field is `gapped' and the hoof-torn sward grows red With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead; And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with the spirit and with the shades Of the world-wide rebel dead who'll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.
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.
.
.
.
All creeds and trades will have soldiers there -- give every class its due -- And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo.
They'll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold, For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride; The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat -- They'll know the glory of victory -- and the grandeur of defeat.
The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun.
And many a rickety son of a gun, on the tides of the future tossed, Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost, Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk the facts that are hard to explain, As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again -- How `this was our centre, and this a redoubt, and that was a scrub in the rear, And this was the point where the guards held out, and the enemy's lines were here.
' .
.
.
.
.
They'll tell the tales of the nights before and the tales of the ship and fort Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport, Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright at the tales of our chivalry, And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be -- When the children run to the doors and cry: `Oh, mother, the troops are come!' And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum.
They'll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last, When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past.
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend's clutch, no matter how low or mean, Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch of the man that he might have been.
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman's shame, Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend's expense, Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.
And this you learn from the libelled past, though its methods were somewhat rude -- A nation's born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed.
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife, and the crimes of the peace we boast, And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes uppermost.
The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town, And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry -- upside down.
'Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong, The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long.
And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease, Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Jack

 JACK was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day, and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy on his face when he lived--he was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.