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Another sedate family get-together at the Parslows'

Festal Versings

...weddings, parties, anything


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Ode to Wattle (By William McGonagall)


All hail to thee, proud wattle, thou blossom ephemeral!
Of Nature's blooms the Queen, or perhaps Governor-General.
In winter you gaily clothe our land in yellow and green,
(Which otherwise should never be seen without a cricketer in between):
And when, like yesterday's dinner, out First XI gets done,
You're there to remind us that at least our noses can run.
Not even ginkgo biloba nor echinacea
Can counter the potent allergens of genus Acacia.
(Apart from hypericum), of blossoms there are not a lot'll
Lift up the spirits like our glorious golden wattle.
Superior to a course of tricyclic antidepressants
Is the sight of your delicate fuscous inflorescence!
Why look to some pharmacological nostrum in a bottle
When one might replace it with a sprig of wattle?

Australia Day, 26 January 2003

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Visions of Sugarplums

(A slightly bitter and twisted ditty that perfectly reflects my state of mind last Christmas. I printed it on a T-shirt and wore it for the traditional family festivities at my parents' home. I don't think Tony fully appreciated my creative effort).

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where he came from in my childhood, YEARS ago.
He existed when I knew him, so I sent an email to him
Just “on spec”, addressed as follows: Santa.Claus@the.North.Pole.

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written on a antique Apple Mac) --
‘Twas a pissed-off elf who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
“Santa’s buggered off, and reckons that he’s never coming back”.

In my wild erratic fancy, visions come to me of Santy
Watching cricket on the telly, full of jolly Christmas cheer;
While, through Grieg and Benaud’s banter, the beleaguered Mrs Santa
Hears him yelling “While you’re up darl’, would you grab another beer?”

And the pub hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the football on the set above the bar,
And he sees the vision splendid of League seasons never-ended,
And at night the wondrous coverage on Foxtel and Austar.

I am standing in the kitchen, softly mutterin’ and bitchin’,
While the baby rips up magazines and spreads them down the hall,
And the foetid air and gritty of a nappy that is shitty
From the kitchen tidy floating spreads it foulness over all.

And in place of carol-singing I can hear persistent ringing
From the supermarket checkouts as they add the damage up,
And the language uninviting when the cricket gets exciting,
As Queensland blows its chances of another Pura Cup.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As I rush to post last-minute cards to relatives I’ve missed,
Then I’m sewing, wrapping, baking til I hear the baby wakiing,
So I feed him, change his nappy and make one more bloody list.

And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Santy,
Let him take a turn at battling with the checkout queue at Coles,
Handle all the preparations, gifts and food and decorations --
But I doubt he’d get the job done, Santa.Claus@the.North.Pole!

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(...And another bile-tinted Yuletide paean: anyone would think I didn't like Christmas. I do, actually. Really.)


An Australian Christmas Carol

Splashing through a storm
With another on the way,
Hail like billiard balls --
Another Christmas Day.

Fridge is on the blink,
We're running out of ice:
Warm champagne & beer to drink
For the rest of Christmas night.
...Bugger!

JingleBells, summer's hell --
Storms and heat and flies.
Stuff the turkey, hang the pud
And sod the fruit mince pies!

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(In November 1999, my dancing nephew Marcus departed on an extended working sojourn in Japan. As he'd be away for his 21st birthday, we threw a combined coming-of-age and bon voyage party for him -- with a Fairyland theme. The party happened to coincide with Australia's constitutional referendum on becoming a republic, hence the verses on the invitation, below).


No Faerie Republic!

Australians all, let us rejoice, for on November 6 is
Not just a referendum, but the night when elves and pixies,
Little people, goblins, sprites, brownies, gnomes and nixies
Flock to Faerieland for fun, enchantments, spells and tricksies!

In mortal coil let mortals toil, their nation's fate to guide,
While denizens of Faerieland flock in from far and wide
To frolic with King Oberon and Titania, his bride,
Who o'er the romp and revelry benignantly preside.

For Faerieland is kingdom yet, and welcomes lucky mortals
Who from their childhood memory knw the Laws that broach its portals,
E.g. the charms for balms and harms from toadstool, toad and wart-ills:
So with goodwill might mortals still enjoy the wild cavortals!


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(Last updated 15 June 2003)
Functional Disrepair