Smileawhile

Ode to a Politician

Travelling in the outback
was a somewhat unlikely crew;
An Indian from Pooma,
A Politician, and a Jew

As night closed in around them
they knew they'd lost their way,
so knocked upon a farmhouse door
And asked if they could stay.

The farmer made them welcome
"Come right in" he said.
"It shouldn't be impossible
to find you all a bed.

But you can see my house is small
There's only room for two.
One must sleep out in the barn"
"I'll go" said the Jew.

The farmer said, "The night is warm,
There's lots of new mown hay."
He gave the Jew a shining torch
so he could find his way.

But only minutes later
came a loud incessant knock.
The farmer shuffled to the door
and flicked aside the lock.

On the doorstep stood the Jew
His face was rather red,
He said, "I'm very sorry
but I can't sleep in the shed.

There's a pig out there,
to the Jewish you must know
the pig's an unclean animal
so someone else must go."

"I'll go", said the Indian,
and quietly left the room
but the knocking moments later
sounded like the knell of doom.

"I'm sorry", said the Indian,
"There's a cow out in the shed.
It's a very sacred animal
I can't sleep out there" he said.

The Politician heaved a sigh,
"There's little choice", he said,
"If I'm to get some sleep tonight
I'll sleep out in the shed".

He took the torch and left the house,
The farmer locked the door.
The travellers settled down upon
a mattress on the floor.

A loud and urgent knocking
jerked them all awake.
The farmer muttered angrily,
"What now, for heaven's sake?"

He opened wide the door
to see what caused the row -
and standing on the doorstep
was the pig and jersey cow!

(author unknown)

There is nothing the matter with me
I'm as healthy as can be
I have arthritis in both my knees
And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze.

My pulse is weak, my blood is thin
But I'm awfully good for the shape I'm in.
Arch supports I have for my feet
Or I wouldn't be able to go down the street

Sleep is denied me night after night
But every morning I find I'm all right.
My memory's failing, my head's in a spin
But I'm awfully good for the shape I'm in.

The moral is this, as my tale I unfold,
That for you and for me, who are growing old
It's better to say, "I'm fine" with a grin
Than to let folks know the shape that I'm in.

How do I know my youth is all spent?
Well, my "get up and go" has got up and went.
But I really don't mind when I think with a grin
Of all the grand places my "get up" has bin.

Old age is golden I have heard said
But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed
With my ears in the drawer, my teeth in a cup
My eyes on the table until I wake up
Ere sleep overtakes me, I say to myself
"Is there anything else I could lay on the shelf?"

When I was young my slippers were red
I could kick up my heels right over my head
When I was older, my slippers were blue
But still I could dance the whole night through

Now that I'm old my slippers are black
I walk to the store and pull myself back
I get up each morning and dust off my wits
And pick up the paper and read the obits.
If my name is still missing I know I'm not dead
So I have a good breakfast, and go back to bed.

My Body Doesn't Fit Me Anymore

I'd dance a pattern on the sand
And sprint along the shore
Yes I would - except my body
Doesn't fit me anymore.

I'd don a strapless evening gown
And me you would adore
At least I would - except my body
Doesn't fit me anymore.

Inside I'm young and healthy
My mind is quick and sure
You'd see me so - except my body
Doesn't fit me anymore.

One day the 'me' that matters
Will leave this body I deplore
Then it won't matter that my body
Doesn't fit me anymore.

c. Lynda Cracknell 2000

There are lots of things wrong with Australia today,
And I'd like to have something to say if I may
Your know that, forsooth, that our problem with youth,
Unitdy, ill-mannered, untamed and uncouth,
Is the fact that their homelife is so often unstable
And it's all for the lack of a kitchen table.

Remember how once we would sit down as one,
And dad would say grace when the carving was done?
Our own serviettes from our own special rings,
And we all knew our manners and etiquette things.
Then our elders would tell us of custom and fable,
When we all sat about at our kitchen table.

Now they're building new mansions with four-car garages,
On working lives mortgaged to interest and charges;
There's less time at home for the tea to be made,
And it's seldom today that a table is laid
There's room after room under gable and gable,
But there's not enough room for a kitchen table.

At weekends the parents are chauffers unpaid,
No wonder they're tired and their tempers are frayed,
As they ferry their broods to arenas of sport,
Where the culture of winning's intensively taught.
And there's more on the telly both free and by cable
So there's no time for talk around the kitchen table.

Karl Marx called religion the drug of the people,
But there's scant regard now for the church or the steeple:
Just give 'em more sport and don't let 'em think,
And keep them away from the kitchen sink.
We'll give 'em more sport and the culture of babel:
The throwaway culture that threw out the table.

With the culture of Coke and their baseball caps,
There'll soon be no fellers, no blokes and no chaps:
When they all dress the same then it's little surprise
That the birds swear as much and as foul as the guys.
So we grandparents must, just as long as we're able,
Keep our culture alive around the kitchen table.

Richard Magoffin