196.Jinxed!!

Not guilty! This joke existed in prose form before I ever got hold of it!

JINXED!

It was a touching moment.

The sick man lay in his bed.

His faithful wife

Who had shared his life,

Hovered near his head.

He looked up at her features

And then she heard him say

'You've been grand;

You've held my hand

Every step of the way.

When the house burnt down, you were there, dear.

You were there when I hurt my knee.

You were at my side

When my old dog died,

And when I fell out of that tree.

You were there when I lost my money,

You were there when I crashed my car;

When I looked around

You were always found!

What a faithful old girl you are!

Yes, now that I've caught a virus

You're hovering as before.

Never far away.

And every day

I see you come through the door.

Whenever I've been in trouble

Been foolish or run amok,

You've been involved.

Now the riddle's solved!

It's clear you bring Bad Luck!'

195. Tears.

I receive a magazine from a limited publication in the United Kingdom called 'The Evacuee', written by and for the British children who were evacuated from dangerous areas in World War Two. I was one of them.

One contribution in the latest issue was the following story. I thought it worth re-telling.

(The pilot is a model.)

TEARS

We celebrated the Armistice not very long ago;

The end of World War One which brought such suffering and woe.

And World War Two was added and some other wars beside,

And we mourned the poor young soldiers who so bravely fought and died.

'Our' men, 'our' soldiers, 'our' deceased were rightly celebrated.

But mine's a rather different take, and very much belated.
He was a German pilot, programmed to cause harm.

He was shot down by a Spitfire and he landed on a farm.

By a miracle he walked out of the wreckage of his plane,

Knowing he'd be captured but could live to fight again.

Then he saw his plane had landed on a farmer and his wife.

He was spared, but, in the crash, his plane had taken life.

Then, horror upon horrors, he saw a child was there!

Also dead! You'd think a German wouldn't even care!

You'd think he'd quickly run and hide, escaping while he could, 

Down in a ditch, or up a tree, or deep in a nearby wood.

For Germans, as we all were told, were nasty, murderous brutes,

Who strutted round intent on war in frightening Nazi boots.

How was it, then, that when they came to carry him away,

He was sobbing like a baby and everyone heard him say

'I've killed a child! I've killed a child! It's more than I can bear!'

And, for a moment, very moved, they left him weeping there.

Later, in the papers, expressing great surprise,

The headline said

 'Amazing! A German pilot cries!'

Yet it wasn't so amazing. It was one thing making war;

After all a lot of soldiers had been making it before.

Way up in the sky war was a story to be told

And Pilots were delighted to be seen as brave and bold.

But he saw a little body lying shattered by his side!

He was a human-being and a little child had died.

Our enemy? No, just a man and not ashamed to be

An ordinary example of our shared humanity.

194. Quokka Query

An ABC WEDNESDAY entry for letter 'Q'.




(A"Q" entry can also be seen on my PLUS blog.)

As told in this little verse, the quokkas of the island off the coast of Western Australia were first thought to be rats. Hence the name 'Rats' Nest' or Rottnest as the Dutch named it. Now it is a very popular holiday destination, with not a rat in sight. Just lots of quokkas still enjoying life.

The second photograph is one I took last year, on holiday. The child is unknown.

 QUOKKA QUERY

A quokka asked a question,

(As quokkas often do.)

'This name, Rottnest, is a mystery;

Tell me, is it true

That way, way back in history, 

When the Europeans came,

They thought that we were little rats

So coined that 'Rats' Nest' name?'

Spoke the ghost of Willem de Vlamingh,

'I fear that it is so.

When I landed on the West Coast

Three hundred years ago,

I saw the tiny wallabies

But didn't understand

That they were small marsupials,

Natives of this land.

They ran about among the trees

And seemed to beg for food.

But I must agree that 'Rottnest' name

Was really rather rude.'

Said the quokkas 'We forgive you.

For we're famous, anyhow!

And the name of Rottnest Island

Stands for happy holidays now.

People travel to our island

From everywhere on earth.

And the folk of Western Australia

Enjoy days-out from Perth.

And still we run like pretty rats

In and out the trees

As the humans laze on our beaches

And swim in our turquoise seas.'

193. Bracket Creeps

BRACKET CREEPS

Maude Edpot (91)

Kills her lover with a gun.

Brad Bustley (42)

Drowns in a vat of glue.

Merle Tichmans (63)

Swims the Mediterranean Sea.

Rita Redbull (44)

Intends to move to Baltimore.

Ted Finchset (55)

Eats furry caterpillars, live!

Rob Applerum (26)

Enjoys doing his magic tricks.

Mary Rifford (37)

Seen here on holiday in Devon.

Paul Pliggot (88)

Says he intends to hibernate.

Joe Hickham (69)

Daily drinks four bottles of wine!

*

Why does the local press,

Not content with name and address,

Have to state the subject's age

Clearly, on every printed page?

If I'm knocked over by a bus

I'll loudly scream and shout and cuss.

I'll quiver with my pent-up rage

But I certainly wont declare my age!

I won't be shouting out 'Yippee!

I'm in great pain, and I'm 73!'

Any reporter, standing by,

(Hoping that I'm going to die!)

May utter softly under his breath

'Looks 82 and near to death.'

I'll sturdily rise up from the ground,

Face those on-lookers standing round

And I'll declare 'Forget my age!

I'll sue if I see it on your page!

Write, if it's all the same to you
'Brenda,
MENTALLY TWENTY-TWO!'

*

192.Solomon's Wisdom

Wiseman's Ferry is a small settlement on the Hawkesbury River, not far from Newcastle, here in Australia. The story of how the area came to be so-named makes for interesting reading.

SOLOMON'S WISDOM

Of course, he was a Reprobate

And a Confidence Trickster too,

But I can't help but admire him

For the way that he pulled through.

His name was Solomon Wiseman,

A rather splendid name,

And from the South of England

To our Newcastle he came.

He ran a sloop from the Folkestone coast,

In the British Government's pay,

Carrying spies to land in France

Where Napoleon held sway.

And he often strolled on Folkestone beach

Looking smart and spry,

In a velvet jacket of brightest blue

With a telescope to his eye.

But Solomon's downfall was overdue!

The Government clipped his wings

When they found he was coming back from France

With wine and other things!

Yes, he'd been smuggling all the time

As a Double Agent, no less,

And he was hastily thrown in jail!

So much for his success!

As was the custom in far-off times,

He was shipped to New South Wales,

Where convicts were treated brutally

In rat-infested jails.

But, because he'd given good service,

Even with feet of clay,

He was released after just four years

And sent on his merry way.

He was given a parcel of bushland

On the banks of the Hawkesbury River,

And because his fortunes then improved,

I trust he thanked the giver!

At the very time he settled there

Road-building was under-way.

More and more convict labourers

Arrived there every day.

But they could not cross the Hawkesbury!

Inconvenient? Very.

So what does Solomon Wiseman do?

He builds a sturdy ferry!

The 'powers that be' in Sydney

Were grateful as could be,

And they paid him handsomely year by year,

A very tasty fee.

He went on to become wealthy,

His house was large and grand.

He owned hostelries and businesses.

He was known throughout the land.

And his ferry's still in use today

As the area's remote,

And people enjoy a little trip

On Solomon Wiseman's boat.

But the man himself, I very much fear,

Didn't cover himself with glory.

In fact, he's now become a ghost!

(But that's another story!)

191. Here's to Coffee!

HERE'S TO COFFEE!

Why do we hear so much of Black and White?

Why is Obama's Blackness bound to put things right?

When anyone, and that's the dullest dullard,

Can see that the future's plainly Coffee-coloured?
In a thousand years, if we go on this way,
We'll all rejoice in being cafe-au-lait!
Olay!

190. Pity Poor Pollywog!

CHANGE

is the topic for this week's

SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS. 

Human beings must rejoice in the fact that they don't have to cope with the metamorphosis of a young frog, a tadpole or pollywog, or whatever it's called where you live! Could we cope with such great change?

PITY POOR POLLYWOG!

I'm glad I'm not a Pollywog!

A tadpole's insecure

From day to day

It can never say

How it's going to look, for sure.

It starts off as a roundish blob,

But then it grows a tail!

When it looks around

The tail is found

And it says 'Wow! I'm a whale!'

Very soon two arms are sprouting.

He's amazed by what he's seeing!

He holds them there

Up in the air

Shouting 'I'm a human being!'

But the two legs prove that that's not right

And he sees them sprout, brand new,

Double-jointed, long

And very strong'

So he says 'I'm a kangaroo!'

But the worst is yet to happen!

His tail begins to itch,

Then it starts to ache

And finally break

And he leaves it in a ditch.

Feeling really puzzled,

He climbs up on a log.

Then he starts to croak

And sees the joke;

'I get it! I'm a frog!'