Best Bullocks Poems
Ex Drover, me
As the cleaner sweeps the street,
And the saddle leather squeaks,
cos he's riding ol Darkie,
an his mind is with the herd.
He remembers the cold nights,
Leaps from his swag at daylight,
To stand by the fire ,
For some breakfast egg n bacon.
Yes bloody sah!
An the coffe black as char,
Sucked from his quartpot , jar.
And the toast is a burning ,
Like a bad cigar.
Is burning ,
And the sun comes up, aha.
So we’ll move them poley bullocks,
On the grassy stock route millet,
And the bore drain will water ,
Them poley bullocks shortly,
Till we get to Mungathar.
Don Johnson 8-aug-11
The wife ‘n I were taken out
by me’ bosses on a Christmas ‘do’,
to a restaurant I can’t afford,
uptown in some swank avenue,
where a waiter dressed up to kill,
in a black formal suit with a tie,
pulled out the chair for me bottom,
and placed a napkin over me fly.
A ‘jar’ o’ wine chilled on our table
to drink to enlighten’ the mood,
and the waiter was fussin’ about,
by offerin’ strange lookin’ food
on a tray with one hand behind him,
then he handed us all a menu,
but everythin’ I tried to read,
was in language I never knew.
So one of the bosses tried helpin’,
“What would you like to choose?”
And it’s better to be safe than sorry,
I said, “I’ll have the same as youse.”
But then with a want for the asking,
I turned to the waiter and said,
“What in the heck have I ordered?
And tell me in ‘stralian instead”.
The waiter gave a little bow,
as I unexpectedly clung,
“Sir - your order is chosen wisely,
a medium rare bullocks tongue”.
It took a few moments to hit me,
then it did with a terrible clout,
“Bullocks tongue! Raw bullocks tongue!
Don’t bother bringing that out.”
“I’m gunna be changin’ me order.
I ain’t eatin’ the same as that mob,
‘cause I just haven’t the stomach,
for eatin’ somethin’ out of a cows gob.
So mate yer’ write down this order,
It’ll cook in a minute or two.
… fancy eatin’ somethin’ from a cow’s gob -
a boiled egg mate will have to do”.
If you like big butts Hippopotamuses have big baabottomuses you may say, that’s just asinine A tall tale, you horse’s derriere but I can, so I’ll fanny the flames of posteriority **** thou off-ended take a seat you say Bullocks behind my back but I say buttocks subsequently Haul keister you bum
Are the exploits slowly fading of the folk who forged this land?
Are there more important factors, today for us to understand?
Are we prepared to lose our national character?
Erase our borderlines, and forget about Australia,
where squatter and selector, fought fire, flood and drought …
the Shearer and the drover helping cut the wool clip out.
Self-reliance in this dry land; suspicious of authority,
physical and mental toughness, laconic humour tempered eagerly.
The exploits real and fabled, our robustness could quite relate,
so in our generation - old qualities are ours to celebrate,
for the musterer and stockman on a cattle or sheep run.
The swaggy and the bagman tramping 'neath the burning sun.
The diggers and the miners. with their quest for precious ore.
Bushrangers and the troopers who were the lawless and the law.
The footsteps of explorers and those who died in war.
Bullocks and the Walers; axe ring and crosscut saw.
'T'is for the struggle of our pioneers,
and who's souls we can’t restore,
that we must preserve the heritage,
of Australians who have lived before.
Oh, a motley mob of rowdy men are we
When we hit your town to go on a spree.
We’ve fleeced the worst of their wiry wool
And our canvas pockets are now brim full.
We’ve come from the biggest runs near and far
To sup Beenleigh Rum at your inn’s bar.
On bowed horseback and busted spring cart
So fill ‘em up man, let’s make a spry start.
From the old stations on country out west
We’ve plied our tiring trade and done our best.
And hard won now our time for fun has come
We’ll sing and we’ll roar on Queensland rum.
From the Darling Downs too the men’ll ride
With their pockets full of silvery pride.
For I’m a man to shear six score and more,
I’ll best the limey new chum that’s for sure.
I’ve bested station bosses for wages
With their journal’s ripe and ink blackened pages.
It’s season’s end out on the famed Bulloo,
My muscles are hard and demeanour too.
Where even the blow flies head for the shade
And white are the men of mark ready-made.
The goin’s hard pushin’ through their western wool
For of the burr their fleeces are often full.
The rams are regal though their manners mean
With their horns and hooves they’ll fight keen.
They’ll best me not on the gentry’s board
For I’ve never yet left merino flawed.
The tar boy’s still a stranger I’ve not met
For I’ve not needed his poison pot yet.
My blows are long and blade strikes true,
But I’ve no need to boast to such as you.
The western wethers are big as bullocks
Running wild in thousand acre paddocks.
And the cook’s a master in the dark arts
Of making a meal from a beast’s worst parts.
I see you doubt me and good luck to you
For tonight I drink to a season through.
I’ll do it again next year have no doubt,
Draw it mild man and join me in a shout!
Moon sleeps long wrapped in cozy quilt of chilly fogs,
Earth is engulfed in thick black carbon-canopy;
Trees ghosts-like; birds black-hole shaded; loud growl of dogs,
The scene is as silent as a dream fantasy...
Grow-caws cooled; cock-craws chocked; cattle clemently calm;
Buds of roses and sunflowers snore and sleep still;
Snails and worms shrunk betwixt fallen leaves and twigs, warm,
Cold seems handicapping even hearts of goodwill...
Bells feebly heard; the village church is very far;
As our bullocks are unwell, we may need to walk;
There's joy, when young and old - all together way-fare,
Merrily walk telling tales and season's talk...
Come, join us, share the happiness, Jesus is born!
Partake in Christmas joy, though we might walk till morn!
21 December 2021
You could read me like any book,
Lost in a shelf, lost in the dark,
You still flip these pages with one look,
You know it all with one glance.
Bruised like the lilies in the fields,
Through where scared bullocks ran across,
My worth is weak and all but killed,
Not killed, and hence the hunter lurks.
You still catered and washed my robe,
Each time some blood was spilt on it.
My sweat and tear never went cold,
Before your love came visiting,
My lips; once purpled with your kiss,
And all my blood starts scurrying,
I get closer eternity,
And I feel heaven’s eyes on me.
For you I’d wait eternally,
Devoid of breath or pulse, I’d wait.
To me your love is everything,
Along with hope and firmer faith.
Like autumn rain, you soothe my self,
And as would that good gardener,
You saved the lily that was trod,
And made it bloom; a pretty flower.
You are; just great, and just mighty,
Holy and true, You are all good.
If I should say, ‘You are the best’,
I would have foolishly compared.
Our neighbour's excited spaniel pups spring up to us with the joys of Spring as the trees and shrubs are about to bud as do the garish litter bags thayt no surburban lane would be the same in Britain without the hard work of litter louts. Birds flit from hedge to hedge, the sparrows not rare here neither are yellow or red finches; the winter berries still in bloom as early cherries shyly blossom as though tjheir impertinence will not go unpunishred by snowy winds that have made a tactical retreat rather surrender to a warmer world.
Couples walk walk and talk as dog owners talk their walk while the former tiny Methodist chapel aintefd a pink that no Wesleyan would praise that or the 'For Sale' sign that the owners' grandon secures the windows before he enthusiastically hoes the roses and everyithing else in a desperate bid to sell as the sap in house prices is on the rise. across the road the large modern homes are crowded in for protection from the ghostly threat of tjhe lord of the manor's remians of his moat, a reminder once a once medieval power as bullocks with no degerence roam and anser to the the mooing of the cows in the fields nearby that are fed by the the farm hand with tractor and trailer never getting out of his vehicle to face this phalanx led by the bull that lord's over them.
wE walk home replenished as the first day of warmth so we can stop and stare with no shiffer there as the sun goes down peacefully. coming homegulls swirl overr the estuary in mock anyance on such a spring day as the lower sky blushes light pink as the higher sky is a pale navy blue in a beutiful Spring sunset after all our Winter woes.
A Chowder Of Cats
There's a chowder of cats on the corner
an exultation of larks in the sky
a troop of monkeys high in the trees
where the rhino's doth daily crash by
A pack of dogs patrolling the lane-way
a herd of cows at rest in the byre
a bellow of bullfinches grasping hawthorn
A mischief of mice staying warm by the fire
A parliament of owls swoop over golden corn
where an army of caterpillars stay low
a flock of sheep look down from the hills high above
a congregation of alligators sleeping in a row
A pandemonium of parrots rudely laughing
an unkindness of ravens unamused
a drove of bullocks seriously unimpressed
a bloat of hippopotami singing twelve-bar blues
Falling faller everlasting pain
Storm does grip the saddle sad reign
Underneath the Thunder strike
my own self is down around the old turnpike
The Heaven above is Crying Tears
Her emotion is strong..I have not felt her in Years
Early dusk with pavements Splash
It will leave me bereft of Cash
As my body tumbles further,a smile above me Grin
Just about to condemn me with a thousand sights in Sin
Mirrors of the sky-plastered glass
kicking the bullocks of my ever-advancing Ass
No one wants to pity me,everyday is a little less of Thee
I close my eyes as the Midnight Fade
Another Life would I gladly trade
just for an instant of joy
Before I fall thtrice like a child's old disgarded toy
ah that Joe was with us on the drive,
when we galloped with the bullocks,
side by side,
and turned em up a dusty draw,
they milled around through dust we saw,
now winded they'd set right,
another sleepless night,
for sure....
re Joe Mavericks "Noonlight to Moonlight"
Don
Well swollen boobies on bullocks Boris is boss
our nations Prime Minister at J Hunt's loss
some say a buffoon and they say it sinister
like the mans brain is only miniature
think Corbyn the codfish would be better
Brexit, Labour and Lib Dem protestors
"it's another Prime Minister we haven't elected,
this isnt the person the people selected"
these thickheads argue their knowledge of politics......
you vote for the party not person you ricks
Boris played football tackled like rugby
once on top gear like the Crazy Froggy
we didn't no May was mad she's crazy
we can't do worse but some say maybe
Boris is mad we and him no that
can't put him down when he looks a prat
I will Corbyn cus he's a wat
As for Boris has he a wife?
you want to mock his private life
what are you doing with your life
pay attention to your own life
I think it needs filling like turkey
your innards and guts have been freed
shall we sprinkle breadcrumb or bird seed
look at his private life mate you're pervy
Stop making Downing street a frowned on street
with you in the seat it would be clowning street
rant repeat after your vote defeat
we want Brexit stopped please delete
Come on Boris bloody deliver
make Lib Dem babies shiver
they call themselves democrats
I say all of dem is crats
truth is dreams need to be shattered
the Lib Dems have never mattered
So Holy bullocks with boobies and tails
every politician always fails
Churchill the last one to do well
beating Europe let's repeat that tale
I must admit it's a tangled story
I'm loving Boris
hating the Tories
Esther's Kingdom
The field grazed by bullocks
Immense size and value....
Green field; marshes of love entwined with greatness of plenty
Dis candour sweetens the bowel
Feelings filled with Heavenly breeze -
Dis longs for a savoury meant for knights
Knights that stands worthy for
Dis empire grazes goodness
Dis empire grazes beauty.
Empire, Kingdom
Hills, mountains,
Kissing each other on the mountain high
Trepidation scourge me!
Mockery lies on my bank!
Yet, this Kingdom I shall live and build?
Aye, I'll.
This Kingdom be mine?
Aye, I'll stand for the rocks, for
What I be do without this Kingdom?
Not by words shall knights be known,
Deeds shall tell,
Esther's Kingdom.
At dawn, the farmers grasp the ploughs, And stroll towards the fields along with bullocks, The bullocks jump up towards the fields after a long rest When the sunny summer has gone away.
The sun peeps it's head through the clouds,
And it showers warmth to the farmers, Those who work strenuously in the fields, When the sunny summer has gone away.
The farmer's wives walk towards the fields,
They carry the small mud pots on their heads,
The pot is filled with fermented rice and onion,
When the sunny summer has gone away.
Big bellied landlord plods like a snail,
He holds a black umbrella in his hand,
To see the field being tilled for the season,
When the sunny summer has gone away.
The farmer's wives keep the pots on the field bank ,
And levelling the muddy soil by a piece of wood, Their husbands wash hands in the channel to eat grub, When the sunny summer has gone away.
I walk outside after an 8 hour shift
Having no idea, it is a seventy-four degree day.
I am wearing my wooly hat, that covers most of my face,
And my coat is buttoned up to my nose.
How had I missed this sunlit day?
I didn’t even hear anyone say,”Hey,
It’s really warm out there!” Bullocks.
I can counsel children outside, as well as in.
I actually prefer listening to them outside.
I feel really strange that I totally missed this.
I missed an entire sun-filled afternoon! I strip
Off my coat, scarf, and fluffy overfilled hat, and
Get into my car thinking how silly I looked wearing
A hat with ear flaps as I left my school building.
“You’re ready for tomorrow,” another teacher had yelled at me
Before I could loosen all the locks and whistles that hold the
Ear flaps and nose-**** in place.
“It’ll be 30 degrees tomorrow, and that’s the high!”
Welcome to Kansas and Missouri.