Poems•

There was a man and he went mad, so he jumped into a biscuit bag, the biscuit bag was so full he jumped into a raging bull, the raging bull was so fast, he jumped into a wine glass, the wineglass was so clear he jumped into a bottle of beer the bottle of beer was so thick he jumped into a walking stick, the stick broke, gave him a poke and turned him into a billy goat. by Sakara K Paste your own or your favourite poem here.

= **A Bush Christening ** =

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,  And men of religion are scanty,  On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,  One Michael Magee had a shanty. Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,  Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;  He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest  For the youngster had never been christened.  And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die  Saint Peter would not recognise him.'  But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,  Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.  Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,  With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',  And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `What the divil and all is this christenin'?' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> And it seemed to his small understanding, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> It must mean something very like branding. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> So away with a rush he set off for the bush, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -- <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Like a young native dog he ran into a log, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> And his father with language uncivil, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `Come out and be christened, you divil!' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> And his parents in vain might reprove him, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> As he rushes out this end I'll name him. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> ` Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -- <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -- <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> `Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!' <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'! <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> And the one thing he hates more than sin is <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> How he came to be christened `Maginnis'! <span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times,serif;"> Tully. Taken from [] go to the website and you can hear the poems!!

<span style="color: #800000; display: block; font-family: 'Lucida Console',Monaco,monospace; font-size: 170%; text-align: center;">The Man From Snowy River <span style="color: #800000; display: block; font-family: 'Lucida Console',Monaco,monospace; font-size: 136%; text-align: center;">A.B.Patterson There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast; He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won't say die There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you'd better stop away,  Those hills are far too rough for such as you."

So he waited, sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough;  Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,  The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, no man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull It well might make the boldest hold their breath; The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill, And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

They lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges—but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam; He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten; then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The Man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

<span style="color: #78c4c4; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 150%; text-align: center;">Sue Limerick by Natalie Power​ <span style="color: #e920e9; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 120%; text-align: center;">There once was a girl called Sue

<span style="color: #e920e9; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 120%; text-align: center;">Who couldn't tie up her shoe <span style="color: #e920e9; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 120%; text-align: center;">so she tripped and she fell <span style="color: #e920e9; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 120%; text-align: center;">and her best friend Bell <span style="color: #e920e9; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 120%; text-align: center;">came along and said may I help you

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;"> A girl named Claire! <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;"> Once there lived a girl named Claire, <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;">Who ha​d a giraffe in her hair, <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;"> When she gave a big cough, ​ <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;">The giraffe tumbled off, <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 170%;">And they both got a bit of a SCARE!!!!!!!! Poem by Georgia Eason!!!!!!

there once was a boy named bobble who lived in a very big bottle