When I smell the sea
It reminds me so eagerly
Of Port Adelaide and how it’s made
Those great football deeds and escapades
Of our passionate crowd
Singing out so loud and proud
And our names like Williams, Wanganeen and Boak
And that September day when we beat the choke
So don’t lower your head and despair
Because we will get there
We will have new heroes who will amaze
And whose names live on for all our days.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Wur in RE an the nuns are gien
oot sweeties, fur getting the kweschins right.
Three oota three, then she’s askin mae who Jesus’ mither is.
‘Ah doan’t know sista,’ ah tell hur.
She isnae happy an tells mae tae hink aboot it. So ah dae
an ah wurk oot Jesus wis god. It wis a trick kweschin,
‘he didnae hiv ah mither.’ Ma
sweet stoats aff the side ae ma heid.
She’s spittin in ma coupon fur a name, an
diggin hur digits in ma neck.
‘Ah doan’t know who Jesus’ friggin mither wis!’
Miraculously ah float tae the front ae the cless. Ma haun’s oot,
bit ah doan’t hink shill hit mae wae that big stick. Thwack!
Ah look doon it the bloody gash through ma puddlin
eyes, ‘yoo’ve broke ma haun’ ah croak,
then turn roon an boak.
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