Saturday, April 30, 2011

In the Past


Because these days have passed,
This mirror scene portrays
Something rather sad,
A hint of earlier days.
For many years we met
In the house above the sea,
To chat and eat and laugh
With familiarity.
Christmases and birthdays,
All of them celebrated
And a change in the way of things
Was never contemplated.
Now Mary's moved away;
She's gone to pastures new,
And our little social fabric
Has gone, alas, askew.
This picture in the mirror
Has a hint of unreality.
It looks like a little hint
Of unavoidable mortality.


This photograph deceives our eyes,
Hiding the blue of our seas and skies.
But there's another deception here,
Though, at first it might not be quite so clear.
See the coal-ships way off-shore;
We know what they are waiting for.
They will be our trade solution,
Exporting ship-loads of black pollution.
Sending coal to other races,
Other countries, other places,
Clouding their skies with dust and dirt,
While we remain blue and quite unhurt.
We deceive ourselves every time we feel
That pollution is a bit unreal!
Look at our sky! It's bright and clear!
'Pollution?' we say 'Oh no! Not here!'

Pink Posies



I'm a creature of the no-hat age,
But now hats seem to be all the rage.
Witness 'the wedding' recently
When enormous hats showed diversity.
A certain Princess, who shall be nameless,
Cannot dub her advisers blameless.
Whoever let her go out like that,
With a cardboard corkscrew on her hat!
And 'selfish' hats were on display
Which definitely must have got in the way.
Imagine sitting in a pew
With a dinner-plate in front of you!
Some were grotesque, like space-age crowns
Which made their wearers look like clowns.
And what about hats perched on the  side,
Appearing ready to do a slide!
Great round hats didn't look too hot
Plonked on bodies decidedly squat.
Now and then one saw a bonnet
With 'success' writ large upon it.
But they were few and far between
Upon the important nuptial scene.
Somehow, the lady in the pink confection,
Seen above for your inspection,
Looks more regal than the Abbey crowd.
She looks demure, yet, also, proud.
She looks secure, she looks serene,
More so than those who met the Queen.
Even though black wings seem to say
'Any minute now I'll fly away'.


Sunday morning in Australia; the starting of the day
And I see this charming picture as I look across the way.
I'm standing on my balcony and the world seems blue and white,
Lit with all the clarity of Australia's brilliant light.
It's just a modest cottage, 'done-up' with a lick of paint,
But the colour-scheme is charming and the whole effect is quaint.
I gaze at it across the street and wish that it were mine,
But it's so very delightful that I'd have to stand in line!
Add the glory of frangipani underneath a summer sky
And, when I say 'I love Newcastle', you won't wonder why.




Riding down from the Atherton Tablelands
In a little tourist train
We passed so close to the waterfall
That it's drops felt just like rain.


Cora was no longer young and she had a nasty fall
Tripping over little Billy Johnson's soccer ball.
At the hospital they bandaged her which wasn't very nice
And then the doctor spoke to her and gave her some advice.
'Rest the leg for several weeks. Sit in easy chairs.
And on no account are you allowed to climb up any stairs!'
After several weeks he called around to see if she was better
And he could tell that she was fit the moment that he met her.
'My goodness me!' the doctor said 'You've recovered very well!
You can live a normal life at once; you're healed now, I can tell.'
'It'll be great to use the stairs!' Cora said with a joyful shout,
'Going up and down that drainpipe has almost worn me out!'

Sunday Afternoon



All is ease and all is pleasure,
Relaxation beyond measure
On the waterfront in the sun,
When the working week is done.
Monday looms, but a day away.
Let's pretend things will stay this way.



When cleaning artificial flowers
Don't work on them for hours and hours!
A bag and some salt is all it takes;
Add the flowers and give a few shakes.
Turn them out and they will bloom
Bright and clean, brightening your room.
Celery wrapped in kitchen foil
Will last for weeks and never spoil.
If food is stuck in your frying-pan
And you do the very best you can,
But wire-wool simply wont remove it;
Nothing you do seems to improve it;
Detergent used for washing-up,
Plus some water, about a cup,
Boiled in the pan will do the trick,
Your pan will sparkle, double-quick.


To think such a curious shadow
Should come from a normal child!
It looks like some sort of creature
One might find in the wild!
Where has that spike come from,
Where has the body gone,
One thin leg and one fat one
As he goes scooting on.
This black and curious demon
Could give one quite a fright,
But we know it's just a distortion
Created by the light.


Naughty grandson, cheeky grin!
He's by the lake and he's just been in.
He's wearing his towel, a sort of cape.
We all said 'No!' but he made his escape!
Into the water, retrieving the ball,
Laughing at us, ignoring us all!
The towel is soaking, likewise the hat.......
But you have to forgive a grin like that!

Friday, April 29, 2011

Morning Moon

                                           Brenda Bryant


The rising sun floods the sky with pink,
Yet still the night's full moon,
Sails on, majestic, up above,
To be extinguished, soon.



A room hung with pictures is a room hung with thoughts;
Thoughts, understand, of different sorts.
Arthur gazes at a naked figure
And wishes it had been painted bigger!

Gladys looks at the same bold scene
And she thinks it is quite obscene!

Fred takes a look and thinks 'Not my type.
In my opinion she's over-ripe!'

May, who's obsessed with cellulite,
Thinks 'If I undressed I'd look a fright!'

Guy, the local Man of the Cloth,
Thinks 'That deserves the Grapes of Wrath!'

Felicia, who's young and pretty,
Thinks 'I've never posed and that's a pity!'

Bertie, a lad who's not too smart,
Thinks 'So that is why they take up art!'
A myriad thoughts buzz round the place,
And you'd never read them from each face!
All that we can do is guess
As they view a lady without a dress!

Getting Wed


Kathy and Bill from down our street are getting wed today.
You know! Bill and Kathy! Yes, it's their wedding day.
They met at the University, as lots of young folk do;
She helps her Dad at his office; he's got a good job too.
He's ever so good with his Granny; she's quite a grand old dame.
His step-mother's rather a problem, which seems a bit of a shame.
I haven't been invited, so I'm not too impressed.
Still, they're a nice young couple.
I wish them all the best.


My mother was thirteen
(She'd now be called a 'teen')
When a little baby sister came along.
She was allowed to name her
Choosing something that became her,
And Auntie felt that what she chose was wrong!
'Not Violet Gwendoline!
How could you have been so mean!
Now I'm stuck with it!' the little sister pouted!
But my mother paid no heed
And completely disagreed;
'It's a lovely name; there's just no doubt about it.'
'I'll shorten it to 'Vi';
That way I'll get by!
I just can't live with Violet you see!'
So just 'Vi' she then became,
Quite a simple little name,
And she was always 'Auntie Vi' to me.
When her wedding-day arrived
Echoes from the past survived,
And violets were scattered everywhere.
Her dress and bouquet too
Were a lovely violet hue;
She'd realised it had a certain flair.
One bridesmaid, I recall,
Was two years old, that's all,
Dressed all in mauve and proud as she could be.
I recall her little bonnet,
And bouquet with violets on it.
Yes, I know you've guessed....
That little girl was me!

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Take Your Pick

suggests the topic 'limit'.


Tick one of these answers.
One of them is true
Yet I cannot cope
With either of them.
Where does that leave me?
Yes, the Universe has a limit.
It is like a glass sphere
With motes of dust
Dancing in it.
If one could fly to its outer limit,
One would reach
A great globular window.
Ah, but what would we see through it?
Maybe we would see nothing.
But how can one see
What is unseeable?
Maybe we would see something.
But what?
Yes, the Universe is limitless.
It just goes on for ever
In a way that is incomprehensible
To the human mind.
My brain rejects endlessness
As impossible.
My head aches
As soon as the word 'endless'
Maybe there is another state
Involving unlimited limitation.
This state may be beyond
The frail human consciousness.
Certainly mine.


We say it's for our bodies' sakes
We stride out by the water's side.
We've all put on those extra pounds;
They're very difficult to hide!
We say we like the great fresh air,
The breathing in and breathing out.
We say we like the friendliness
We simply could not do without.
We say we like the water views,
The rippling distances of lake.
We say we like the water-birds
And all the many sounds they make.
We say we like the extra thrill
Of finding new things round the bend.
But I say the thing we really like
Is the coffee and pastries at the end!



Sharing the Winter sunshine,
The water, the Opera House steps.
And, later, the joy of great music.


Granny was left alone in charge
Of Pete and Ben and Rob.
They were four and six and eight!
Not an easy job!
Even so, she kept her cool,
No matter how she felt.
She was always well-made-up and smart,
Youthful-looking, svelte.
Mum and Dad were on a trip;
'I'll cope' said Granny May;
But she sometimes felt quite frazzled
At the ending of a day.
There were always noisy scraps and fights;
Boys like to play the fool.
But Granny held herself in check.
And always remained cool.
Hair always neat, and eyebrows plucked,
She was always band-box dressed,
Granny May was a picture
Of someone quite unstressed
One day they all went to the zoo;
The visit was a riot.
On reaching home she found she yearned
For some solitude and quiet.
She got the boys to bed at last
And then, without a care,
She decided on a long hot shower
And thought she'd wash her hair.
She creamed off all her make-up;
The hot shower was a dream;
Her hair was wet, when, suddenly,
She heard a piercing scream!
'Stop kicking me!' she heard one shout.
 'You started it!' another.
Suddenly she'd had enough
Of being a sweet grandmother!
She made a turban of a towel
And wrapped it round her head;
Her face, devoid of make-up,
Was shiny and bright red.
She dashed off to the children's room
And opened wide the door...
'Listen, you lot!' she bellowed,
'I won't take any more!
If you don't stop and go to sleep
I don't know what I'll do!'
And three little boys in terror
'Who are you?'

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


'mercy, relish, foolish'


We are at the mercy of our moods;
Sometimes we're feeling fine;
We relish everything in life;
We're certain that we shine.
At other times we feel quite low
We hate ourselves as well;
We feel we're foolish and inane
And crawl back in our shell.
We'd like to be on an even keel
But it seems it's not to be;
Man has always felt this way
Since he climbed down from his tree.
It's all because of biorhythms.
(Below we give a chart).
Learning to read the rhythms
Is really quite an art.
You feel on top? You feel down low?
My friend you're not a freak.
Learn to read your biorhythms;
Enjoy being at your peak.
And just relax when  you feel down;
The deadly days will go.
Don't fight your biorhythms.
Simply go with the flow.




Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth!
As a foetus you were standing in the queue.
And you entered the arena at the moment of your birth.
Quite unaware that payment would be due.
You can't see the show unless you care to pay the price.
The popcorn and ices don't come free.
And what you have to pay is just decided by the dice
But for certain you are going to pay the fee.
You may pay in your childhood, when your school-days are quite grim,
When you're haunted by a bully and his kind.
You may pay as a teenager who's longing to be slim,
When you feel that glamour's leaving you behind.
You may pay with poor health which dogs you every single day
And means you can't participate in sport.
You may pay in your middle-age when a partner runs away,
And depression seems to rule your every thought.
Consider every friend you have; no ticket has been free;
Each one of them has had some price to pay.
Just take the rich and is not unending glee,
Not some wild, exciting non-stop holiday!
But we all agree, whatever comes, Life is the Greatest Show
And we want the show to never, never end.
So pay the price, add your applause and just go with the flow.
And I wish you every happiness, my friend.




Which sort of ogle is this?
Macho Man ogles Pretty Young Miss!
Is he eyeing her bust
With a look full of lust
Or just hoping he'll win a chaste kiss?
Does he ogle because he is shy?
Or does every girl catch this man's eye?
A girl's never sure
What the ogling's for!
It's a sort of romantic 'I Spy'!
Should she ogle him back? Not a chance!
She'll just give him an indifferent glance.
It may end in a shrug
Or a meaningful hug.
Hey Ho! It's all part of Romance!


I'm a little bud called Emma.
Let me tell you my dilemma.
I'm a crazy mixed-up kid.
And yesterday I flipped my lid!
All my life I've been a berry
And I find it galling, very.
So I asked a passing fairy
If my biology could vary.
Wished I were a human being
Like the ones that I keep seeing.
I see ladies striking poses,
Pretty eyes and pretty noses.
I see eyes that open wide,
Bosoms worn with human pride.
All I've ever done is grow
How I envied those below.
No-one even looked at me
As I languished in my tree.
So the fairy cast a spell
Humanised me! She did well!
I now have the charming features
Of all those other human creatures.
See my hair. I like the style.
See my Puckish little smile!
See my eyes ! See how I flirt!
See my bosom, full yet pert!
See my nose! (A little long.)
I have wanted this so long!
But I forgot one last request;
Although I may stick out my chest,
To my tree I still am stuck!
Poor old me! I'm out of luck!

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Sail Away


Rob is off on the canal to sail the summer through.
It seems to him to be the only sensible thing to do.
His boat is cocooned for winter, but, come the first hint of Spring,
He's off on the canal again and 'doing his own thing'.
And are his journeys short or long, is the weather wet or dry?
It matters not as Rob drifts on 'the quiet waters by.'
He stops when he feels like stopping; he goes when his heart cries 'Go!'
The birds above are singing and the pace of life is slow.
The skies above may threaten or blaze with burnished blue;
If England wasn't so far, Rob, I'd sail away with you.


The Council of the Royal Academy
Selecting Pictures for the Exhibition
By Sir Francis Grant
19th century


A mouthful of a title.
But simply a picture
Of men
Choosing pictures!
Not a woman in sight!
It seemed normal
At the time.
After all,
What would a woman know about
What would a woman know about
The important things in life?
In any case,
She would be too busy.
A child in the womb,
A child in her arms,
A child at her skirts,
Two or three playing on the floor.
Of course,
There were always Nannies.
But they had to be supervised,
Along with
The Cook,
The Parlour-maid,
And the little 'Tweeny'.
"That is quite enough responsibility
For the Little Woman.
But Art?
Surely you jest!
Only we are able to discern the difference
Good Art
And Bad!
Because we wear suits."


chose the illustration


Clouds have been the subject of poetry throughout time;
We've seen the silver citadels, as they've changed their shape, to climb
Up into the ether, rolling around on high,
Creating scenes of dazzling white on the background of the sky.
Delicate streaks, evolving whirls, little rabbits' tails of puff,
Or darkly menacing blanketings when the weather's turning rough.
Clouds have been things of mystery, sometimes with human faces;
Clouds have been things of movement, scudding and running races.
To better gaze at them on high, we lie in the summer grass,
Watching in fascination as they loom and, billowing, pass.
Now man has got in on the act, but I feel that I must state
That, though the geometry is fine, the poetry isn't great!



Blue and white,
Clear and bright.
Sky and snow,
Above, below.
White and blue,
Shining through.
Think I'll choose
Whites and blues.

Tight Fit


The teacher saw the little chap was fighting with his shoes
And she saw it was a battle that he was sure to lose.
He was tugging, he was pulling, he was sticking out his tongue
And the teacher went to help him because he was very young.
‘Come on Freddy!’ Teacher said, ‘We’ll soon get these darned shoes on!
It’s very nearly home-time and soon you must be gone!’
So she also started tugging and pulling, really hard,
While all the other children were already in the yard.
At last the shoes were on and Freddy, who was very sweet,
Said ‘Teacher! They’re still not right! They’re not on the proper feet!’
And indeed, the right was on the left and left was on the right.
Thought the teacher ‘If I don’t work fast I won’t get home tonight!’
She duly pulled the shoes off and started once again,
Tugging, pulling, wrenching them with all her might and main!
‘At last! They don’t fit very well!’ the exhausted teacher said.
‘Well’, said Freddy,’They’re not my shoes.They belong to my brother, Ted.’
The teacher wasn’t very pleased but she tried hard not to scold
She said ‘Now we must find your mittens, The weather’s very cold.’
And this was when she decided teaching wasn’t the job to choose!
‘My mittens?’ responded Freddy, ‘I stuffed them in my shoes!’


Our little ferry runs back and forth across a stretch of water
And Blake, as a little boy, loved the trip. (His mother is my daughter.)
One day he had a knitted doll, of a Postman Pat design,
He said 'Pat would like a ferry-ride' and we said 'That's just fine'.
So back and forth we went with him, as landmarks were pointed-out,
And Postman Pat understood it all, of that there is no doubt!

Monday, April 25, 2011

The Kaleidoscope

chose the illustration.



There was a time
When I looked at life
Through my kaleidoscope.
Everything was neatly segmented.
The blues revolved around the edges,
The greens drew neat triangles,
The pinks and reds merged
Make a turn
And everything fell into place
I knew where I was going.
I knew it was all up to me;
I was in charge.
I would decide what, when, where.
It would all work out.
Those with messy lives
Had only themselves to blame.
And then you left me.
And my kaleidoscope
The beads are there
But the patterns are misbehaving.
And a broken kaleidoscope
Can never be fixed.

                                      Brenda Bryant


Theirs' for the asking;
A life full of basking,
Of rolling and twisting and diving.
The African coast
Is the place they like most.
And just look for yourself! They are thriving.
The water is clear
And they swim without fear;
Bobbing up to see who is arriving.
I suddenly feel
I could live like a seal!
Why on earth do we waste our lives striving?

The Red Centre

asked us to write about a 'centre'.


As you're flying over Australia all you see is red;
Not only to the east, north, west and south but red going straight ahead.
Not for half and hour or so but for hours and hours and hours;
It's a very, very, very, red country, this Australia of ours.
And it isn't even enormous, the really livable part;
It's green round most of the edges with a gigantic blood-red heart.
If the Centre were an ocean, Australia would be
Two pretty ordinary islands, floating in the sea.
One would be called Eastland, and Westland would be far away,
The twain would probably never meet, let alone say 'G'day!'
Except for useful minerals, the Red Centre is, well, just red.
For all intents and purposes we have a heart that's dead.
And yet our fossil history proves that this baking land
Was under water once upon a time! Water where now is sand.
Fossils of fish and sea-shells are found in the Centre's rocks.
Geology's a science that yields up some strange shocks.
I wonder whether Climate Change will reverse our situation?
Whether rising tides will, eventually, result in inundation.
Maybe some centuries lie ahead during which sand will turn green,
Green with plants and trees and flowers! What a sight to be seen.
Of course, none of us will see it, but will we have played a part?
In raising the earth's temperature maybe we'll green our Heart!

How many hopeful gentlemen have gone to Redhead Beach,
Hoping to meet a girl with auburn hair?
And how many men have drifted home despondent and downcast
Because they didn't find a red-head there?
Only three percent of humanity is blessed with russet locks,
And most of them are braw redheaded Celts,
With a sprinkling of freckles, an aversion to the sun,
And a good old haggis tucked beneath their belts!
Most have fiery tempers and are passionate as well;
One could almost say that they are quite mercurial.
This description suits them whatever sex they be,
Whether the name is Malcolm or it's Muriel!
Some famous names will come to mind; Ginger Rogers, Danny Kaye,
Greer Garson, Rita Hayworth, Lucille Ball,
Woody Allen, Spencer Tracey, Nicole Kidman, Clara Bow......
They were famous and, indeed, were red-heads all.
But see the sign above which has a girl with auburn hair
Coaxing young men to dally in the sun!
I'd say that it's false advertising! All the men will find
Is a pinkish cliff! And Redheads? Not a one!

An Agnostic's Prayer

We have been asked to write a prayer.


When I see a woman veiled
I feel as though she's truly jailed!
I feel such a deep-held empathy
That it's like a prayer inside of me.
Certainly, if it's their choice,
Women should be allowed a voice.
I defend with all my might
Her undeniable female right
To pick-out any sort of dress
That truly adds to her happiness.
If being covered head to toe,
Seems to her the right way to go,
Then I defend her right to be
As individual as me.
If she feels womanly and smart
I'm on her side, with all my heart.
And if she feels God has declared
That her face should not be bared,
Then, for her own deep satisfaction,
She should take the appropriate action.
But if she's actually suppressed,
Not free to choose the way she's dressed,
If she's commanded and brutalised,
The system should rightly be despised.
And how do we know, beneath the veil,
How many are frightened of the male?
How many girls who should be flowering
Are, under the wrappings, whimpering, cowering?
I admit the society of 'The West'
Is imperfect, but I don't feel oppressed.
How can an Agnostic pray?
(Isn't that what I hear you say?)
All I know is I really care
Enough for it to feel like prayer.


A book, a stand, a clarinet,
But no-one's there to use them yet.
Left to itself an instrument
Is quite inert, with no intent.
The book is paper, nothing more
Although it may contain a score.
Awareness of music is not in these;
Their purpose isn't symphonies.
Clarinet, book and stand all wait
To meet the player that seals their fate.

Two Friends

(A Poem for Children)

Dinna cry, Shep! I love you too.
Both of you have jobs to do.
Fergus can carry me on his back
All along the heather track.
Fergus is big and he is wise;
He looks at me with his great big eyes.
Fergus's mane is very thick;
And when he gallops he's very quick.
I give him carrots and stroke his nose.
And where I'm going Fergus goes.
But he can't round-up the silly sheep,
Or catch a ball with a great big leap.
And he can't lie in front of the fire
And watch the winter flames burn higher.
And he can't lay his head on my knee
Or run and fetch a stick for me.
He can't curl up on my bed
When I have an aching head.
And Shep, you know that, in the end,
A dog, not a horse, is man's best friend.
Dinna cry, Shep! I love you too.
Both of you have jobs to do.

The quote is from Robert Browning.
"Grow old along with me."


If you want to grow old along with me
You must retain your agility!
Your eyesight must remain quite clear
Likewise the hearing in each ear!
You mustn't clack ill-fitting dentures!
You must embrace all brand new ventures.
You musn't wear out-dated clothes
Or have any hairs sticking out of your nose!
You mustn't listen to Forties tunes
Or have little naps in the afternoons!
You mustn't snore, you mustn't wheeze!
In fact, NO nasty noises! Please!
You were once 'the best', so I'm informed,
The ladies swooned, the ladies swarmed!
Since then I think you've gone off the boil!
And all your hinges are needing oil!
I shudder at what is yet to be!
But I am facing reality!
Sweetheart! I'll certainly marry you!
You'll leave me everything?
That'll do!

The Tender Tap

The young may think this photo shows decrepitude and shame.
'To think the old could act like that! What on earth's their game?
Look at his socks! His underpants! How can he look like that!
Why on earth should anyone want to give him a loving pat?
And her! With her grey hair in a bun and slippers on her feet!
You'd think, at their age, they'd have learnt to be a bit discreet!
And look! He's doing the washing-up! Macho? I think not!
Why don't they creep away quietly, admitting they've gone to pot?'
The young may find this ridiculous, looking through youthful eyes,
But these two have won the jackpot, life's very greatest prize.



I'm sure the Red Hat Ladies are known by everyone
And many have responded to their sense of frisky fun.
We see them in Australia, in their hats and feather boas,
All keen to show the world that though they're elderly, they're goers.
I envy Jenny Joseph* for her words began the movement
Which, to the lives of many, seem to bring about improvement.
I'd love to write a poem that would spread throughout the earth,
Giving rise to fun and friendship and hilarity and mirth!
I'd love to feel that sense of power which gives ones life a meaning,
And feel, through me, all Womankind was prettying and preening!
If I were Jenny Joseph I would feel as proud as Punch
When I saw the hoards of dizzy dames all sitting down to lunch!
Her sentiments are such that every lady of my age
Becomes desirous of a final fling upon life's stage.
I thought of joining-in myself but I thought some more and then
I realised I really like the company of MEN!

*Read Jenny's poem here

The World in Red and Blue

Turks celebrating ANZAC Day with old enemies.

Today is ANZAC DAY in Australasia,
And flags will wave, a sea of red and blue,
And so I thought I'd list the red-and-blueness
Of the Planet and show photos (one or two!)

When Politicians had their say in Britain,
All vying for the top job as P.M.
The Workers came along to get things ready
And here's a casual photograph of them.

Somewhere there's been a recent game of football.
I can't recall which team is featured here,
But the uniforms which feature red-and-blueness,
Make supporters raise a very lusty cheer.
And, finally, of course, we come to Thailand,
Where Protestors line the streets and flags are waved.
It seems when there is something BIG to feature
Blue-and-red are colours we have always craved.


And is it nearly a hundred years since I died at Gallipoli?
And is it nearly a hundred years that they've been remembering me?
The waters of the Aegean gleam like crystal way below,
The jagged cliffs are wattle-strewn as they were so long ago.
My spirit hovers peacefully, my bones are buried deep;
Quietly, we young boys lie; undisturbed we sleep.
When first he came to visit us, when the carnage was still new,
The bugler stood alone and sad, sad were the notes he blew.
A handful of mourners stood about, despondent in their grief,
The atmosphere was reverent, painful beyond belief.
But now the bugler brings with him those on 'The Pilgrimage';
They mass on every promontory; they cluster on every ridge.
Thousands of 'Pilgrims' in green and gold, many, young men like me,
Travel across the ocean to see what they can see.
The prayers I'm sure are heartfelt, the patriotism fine,
But does their Anzac Cove, today, remotely resemble mine?
The blood, the guts, the screams, the cries, the bodies strewn around;
The horses in their agony lying on the ground.
The stench, the filth, the pain, the grief, the crying out for 'Mother!'
Australia gaining nationhood in a war that was like no other?
Now they come in their T-shirts, some saying 'I'VE BEEN THERE!'
The rowdy Aussie slogans are ringing through the air.
The shishkebabs are on the stalls, sold by wily Turkish vendors!
'Boy meets girl at Galipolli'! Parties and midnight 'benders' !
I was about your age, way back, longing to sow wild oats,
But I ended up being shot at, and cutting peoples' throats!
And you sweethearts, will you ever know the waiting and the pain?
They say mine died of a broken heart.... my sweetheart..... her name was Jane.
The Lone Pine Cemetery sacred lies, and there the mood is calm,
The atmosphere is reverent, the prayers fall like a balm.
But outside the gates they're partying, thousands on a spree.
Enjoy yourselves, young gentlemen.
It's all the same to me.