Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Letter

Dear Boy
As it appears to us old fogeys
If you'll excuse the term that we adopt
You and your battery of bowling bogeys
Seem to have come a rather nasty flop.
Psychology, you know, and moral suasion,
And all these fine nuances of the game
Appear to us, at least on this occasion,
To have been, so to speak, a trifle tame.

We would not be too hard; we know your task is
Sterner than we supposed when you set out
Avoiding criticism, all we ask is.
Please dropp 'shock tactics' and cut 'stunting' out.
Try to avoid a batting ace with roots on,
Like Don's, to keep him at the crease, old chap;
Use only bowlers who can keep their boots on,
And, please, please don't count too much on that cap.

If you think it would make your prospects brighter
And help the boys to bring those Ashes back,
We'll waive that rule about the player-writer
So that you may consider using Jack.
Take his advice, my boy; he knows the Aussie
And all his tricks. So, trusting you will be
On this day fortnight in a better 'possie,'
Your ever hopeful Auntie,

Dearest!
You know you ever ARE the nearest
To my fond heart.
Joking apart,
I swear, by all the silly stars above you,
Darling, I love you! ...

I really don't know what more I can say.
But, lest you may
Consider this epistle too brief,
And nurse some silly - some absurd belief
That I'm neglectful. Why,
I'll try
To fill a sheet or two -
To comfort you.
What can I say?
Oh, by the way!
I noticed, somewhere, in the paper lately
That someone named - er - was it Mister Blaitley?
No - Blakeley, I think.
(Another dip of ink.)
This Mr. Blakeley says the Labor Party
Will gladly give support, both full and hearty,
To ANY man who send this person, Hughes
To - well, you know the term that I would use? . . .
Darling, I must fill out a sheet or two.
I know that you
Are not much interested in politics -
(You are so full of such distracting tricks)
And I remember that last time you noted
You said you simply doted
Upon one candidate's absurd moustache.
Dear, you were rash . . . .
Now, let me see, 'twas Brown - No? Smithson, was it?
I recollect the fool lost his deposit.
But, anyhow,
I want to warn you now
Against a repetition of such acts.
Let us get down to facts.
Can you believe -
Can you, my precious pippin, e'er conceive
That I (despite my faults and obvious failings) could -
(No; that's no good.)
But can
You realise that a crowd of sane, honest, intelligent, right-thinking, earnest,
idealistic politicians can evolve a really patriotic plan
(That's getting scientific,
But I am most remarkably prolific)
Can
They evolve a plan
Predicating that any ordinary and, say, unspecified man
(Your pardon! I do not
Refer to Mister Watt)
But do you think they can
With decency declare that ANY MAN
May get then into Office - if he can?
Indubitably, NO!!
The more I go -
However, inter alia,
Think you such men give heed to our Australia?
Think you those burning
Questions waiting on the threshold yearning
To be discussed
Have got them 'fussed'?
No, sweetest, no.
It's just the Game you know.
Think you they're patriotic,
Or just, well, say neurotic?
Think you they take the view
That these shrewd moves advance, say, me and you?
My dear, they don't.
And, while the Party System lasts, they won't.
Those vital questions,
Those statesmanlike suggestions
Regarding - well - why, emigration, say
And some reduction in a member's pay,
That linger on the doormat, palpitating,
Will go on waiting,
While puerile politicians 'play the game.'
Ain't it a shame? . . .
My cabbage! I'd forgotten
You always thought that politics were 'rotten.'
Pardon this letter.
Next time I shall endeavour to do better
If you are bored, old thug, it truly grieves me.
I hope this missive finds you as it leaves me.
So, dear, I'll meet you on the block at six.
And spite all politics,
We'll carry on.

I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is -
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:


I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out them
Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:
Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.
An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do,
An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this business thro';
An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the Turk
An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.


Well, Mick, yeh know jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,
When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on everything.
Them olden days, the golden days that you remember well,
In spite o' war an' worry, Mick, are wiv us fer a spell.
Fer the green is on the paddicks, an' the sap is in the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melerdies;
An' we're 'opin', as we 'ear 'em, that, when next the Springtime comes,
You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums.


It's much the same ole Springtime, Mick, yeh reckerlect uv yore;
Boronier an' dafferdils and wattle blooms once more
Sling sweetness over city streets, an' seem to put to shame
The rotten greed an' butchery that got you on this game -
The same ole sweet September days, an' much the same ole place;
Yet, there's a sort o' somethin', Mick, upon each passin' face,
A sort o' look that's got me beat; a look that you put there,
The day yeh lobbed upon the beach an' charged at Sari Bair.


It isn't that we're boastin', lad; we've done wiv most o' that -
The froth, the cheers, the flappin' flags, the giddy wavin' 'at.
Sich things is childish memories; we blush to 'ave 'em told,
Fer we 'ave seen our wounded, Mick, an' it 'as made us old.
We ain't growed soggy wiv regret, we ain't swelled out wiv pride;
But we 'ave seen it's up to us to lay our toys aside.
An' it wus you that taught us, Mick, we've growed too old fer play,
An' everlastin' picter shows, an' going' down the Bay.


An', as grown man dreams at times uv boy'ood days gone by,
So, when we're feelin' crook, I s'pose, we'll sometimes sit an' sigh.
But as a clean lad takes the ring wiv mind an' 'eart serene,
So I am 'opin' we will fight to make our man'ood clean.
When orl the stoushin's over, Mick, there's 'eaps o' work to do:
An' in the peaceful scraps to come we'll still be needin' you.
We will be needin' you the more fer wot yeh've seen an' done;
Fer you were born a Builder, lad, an' we 'ave jist begun.


There's bin a lot o' tork, ole mate, uv wot we owe to you,
An' wot yeh've braved an' done fer us, an' wot we mean to do.
We've 'ailed you boys as 'eroes, Mick, an' torked uv just reward
When you 'ave done the job yer at an' slung aside the sword.
I guess it makes yeh think a bit, an' weigh this gaudy praise;
Fer even 'eroes 'ave to eat, an' - there is other days:
The days to come when we don't need no bonzer boys to fight:
When the flamin' picnic's over an' the Leeuwin looms in sight.


Then there's another fight to fight, an' you will find it tough
To sling the Kharki clobber fer the plain civilian stuff.
When orl the cheerin' dies away, an' 'ero-worship flops,
Yeh'll 'ave to face the ole tame life - 'ard yakker or 'ard cops.
But, lad, yer land is wantin' yeh, an' wantin' each strong son
To fight the fight that never knows the firin' uv a gun:
The steady fight, when orl you boys will show wot you are worth,
An' punch a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.


The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies;
There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome again
To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets is gay wiv dafferdils - but, haggard in the sun,
A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done;
Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there
The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.