“Rebellion – Punk Revival “– By Louise McCarthy

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It’s just a phase, 

An episode,

A rebellious turn,

Part of the road.

It’s just a stage,

The youths are idle,

Unexpected – 

You’ve lost the bridle,

Then you screech

“If I’ve told you once…” 

The same old speech…

Like talking to the fence.

Suspended talk, mid litany – 

You take a long, deep breath.

Then comes this weird epiphany,

And you storm off down the street!

Five hours later you reappear,

The family’s really missed you.

“We’re starving…” Yes – they make it clear,

Unplugging from their gadgets.

They tear away from cyberspace,

Reality’s for ancients.

But then they see you sitting there,

All calm – relaxed and quiet.

“Mum! What’s happened to your hair?

It really looks a riot!”

You deal a punk rock “I’m so cool” stare,

More striking than your monologue.

A flashback to those teenage years – 

Rebellion seems a distant fog.

“Now listen…” And there’s not a sound,

Then the stylus hits the vinyl…

The record spins around and round,

Rebellion – punk revival.

 

“Birds Eye View” by Toni Newell

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Birds Eye View

Sitting on a branch up high,

In the Serengeti plain,

I spot a giraffe and her calf,

Crossing the dry terrain.

As a bird of prey,

They’re of little interest to me,

However, the calf looks hilarious,

He’s as funny as funny can be.

Galloping with an earnest face,

Long hair straight in the air,

I haven’t ever seen that before,

So, I thought I just might share.

 

“Choosing Shoes” by Pat Simmons

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Choosing Shoes

 

Gum boots when it’s raining

Sports shoes when I’m training

Sparkly shoes for dancing

Riding boots for prancing

Sandals for a summer’s day

High heeled shoes for dress up play

Then sadly comes that time of year

When Mum says, ‘Let’s go shopping dear.

Your feet keep growing, time to choose

A nice new pair of (yuk!) School Shoes.’

 

“At the dinosaur picnic” by Katherine Gallagher

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At the dinosaur picnic

 

Dandy dinosaurs dancing

Dreamy dinosaurs drinking

Dexterous dinosaurs dinking

Dainty dinosaurs dazzling

Devilish dinosaurs diving

Dozy dinosaurs dallying

Delicate dinosaurs dawdling

“Idyllicacryliclycralyric” by Kate O’Neil

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Idyllicacryliclycralyric

 

I’m a biker. I’m a hiker

and I love acrylic lycra.

 

I’m specific that acrylic

is the lycra that I like

for especially when biking

it is greatly to my liking

to be free to frisk and frolic

when I reach somewhere idyllic

and I get down from my bike.

 

And lycra that’s acrylic,

when the heat is diabolic,

just wicks away the wet

so there’s never trickling sweat

to upset the mood euphoric

when I reach a place bucolic

on a long laborious hike.

… or a day-trip on my bike.

 

That’s why acrylic lycra’s what I like.

“My kite” by Walter de Jong

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My kite

 

My kite’s caught in a tree.

I don’t think that I’ll be getting it down.

If I climbed up and my foot slipped

I could hurt myself when I hit the ground.

It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess

because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’

 

My kite’s caught in the tree.

You can watch it now as it flaps in the wind.

So it’s more or less like a flag these days

of a country where I once was king.

It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess

because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’

 

I can see it in my mind as it was lifted to the sky.

I could feel it pull away as it started on its rise.

 

My kite’s caught in a tree

but one day I think that I might get it back.

And it might be faded and it may be torn

but I’m pretty sure I’ll be right with that.

It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess

because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’

“Rainbow’s End” by Monty Edwards

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Rainbow’s End

A snail once heard the story

Which is very often told:

“If you reach a rainbow’s ending,

You will find a pot of gold!”

This idea was most appealing,

(Since the snail was very poor)

And it left him with a feeling

That he couldn’t quite ignore.

 

Every day when it was raining,

But the clouds began to clear,

He would scan the sky for rainbows

In the hope one would appear.

Then at last he thought he saw one

In the garden hothouse glass!

To the spot he slowly hurried

Streaking silver through the grass.

 

But oh, what disappointment,

When he reached that special place!

For of golden coins or treasure,

He discovered not a trace.

As he turned to leave, discouraged,

Something caught his tearful eye

And a potted gold chrysanthemum

Proved the story was no lie.

The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 3 by Chris Owen

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The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 3

 

 

“Failed? Not at all,” declared Molly, “you see,

I thought that would happen. It’s time for Plan B.”

 

“Call in your family – get them around.

They can help clear all my dung off the ground.

Invite all the rellies. Invite the whole bunch.

Go tell ‘em they’re welcome to join us for lunch.”

 

So, the dung beetle sent out the word to his clan,

And in dropped his mum and his dad and his gran,

His brothers and sisters and, last but not least,

A whole troop of cousins from way over east,

And they all set about tucking into the feast.

 

Those dung beetles gobbled up cowpats galore,

Speedily scoffing a hundred or more,

Scrunching and slurping, munching and burping,

Until Molly’s paddock was clean of manure.

 

Meanwhile…

 

Those cows, you’ll remember them, Jane and Lorraine,

Were watching from over the fence, with disdain.

They jibed and they jeered. They snickered and sneered,

Calling out, cruelly, “Hey Molly, you’re weird!

Why do you hang out with those horrible critters?

They’re gross. They’re repulsive.

They give us the jitters.”

 

But Molly Malloo, with a gleam in her eyes,

Just smiled at them sweetly, for there in the skies

Over Stringybark Downs came the drone of a zillion dung-seeking…

FLIES!
 

“Aghhhhh!”

Those sisters on their faces wore a look of sheer surprise,

As they attempted everything to shoo those pesty flies.

Their legs they kicked. Their tails they flicked.

They hurled themselves around,

Twisting, twirling, swishing, swirling,

Writhing on the ground.

They jiggled, wriggled, bucked and bumped.

Then in the muddy creek they jumped…

Kasplosh!

Oh, diddums! What a cowlamity!

Bedraggled and forlorn the sisters stood, bedecked in muck,

When just from over yonder came the rumble of a truck.

 

They hollered in horror, “Alas and alack.

The farmer is wending his way down the track.

Which cows will he pick? Which heifers will go

In his truck to The Stringybark Downs Country Show?”

Now, the air in their paddock was really abuzz

And their panic was starting to grow.

 

“I cannot take you,” moaned the farmer to Jane,

“Your hide is all slobbered in slime.”

And then to Lorraine, he was heard to complain,

“Your horns are all smothered in grime.

The pair of you pong and you’re covered in flies.

You’ve absolute Buckley’s of winning a prize.”

 

The farmer lamented, “What am I to do?”

And that’s when he noticed her… “Molly Malloo?

Good golly Miss Molly, there’re no flies on you!”

 

“You’re glossy and shiny. Your hide is pristine.

Your horns are resplendent. Your tail is so clean.

It seems a small miracle here has occurred,

And now I can see you’re the belle of the herd.

Your carriage awaits – hop aboard and let’s go,

Off to The Stringybark Downs Country Show.”

The truck started up and then Molly said…

 

“No!”

Molly Malloo knew just what to do.

She felt in her heart that it had to be true.

When she looked at the beetles her happiness grew.

“My dears,” declared Molly, “I cannot leave you.”

 

“I don’t need The Show. I’m staying right here.”

And the dung beetles gave her a rapturous cheer,

“Hooray for Miss Molly! Our Cow of the Year!”

 

In Stringybark Downs you could hear the sweet sound

Of friends full of frolicsome laughter.

And Molly Malloo, with her dung busting crew,

lived happily there…heifer after.

 

THE END

 

The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 2 by Chris Owen

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The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 2

 

 

In Stringybark Downs when there’s dew on the ground,

And the larks and the maggies are singing,

When blue skies abound, you can feel all around,

That springtime is finally springing.

 

And the dung beetle knows when the springtime has sprung,

It’s time to head out and go searching for dung,

For a soft gooey cowpat, though strange it may seem,

To a dung beetle, tastes like a scrumptious ice-cream.

 

So, this dung beetle flew over valleys and trees,

Till his nose caught the scent of some cows, on the breeze.

And where there are cows you will usually find

That freshly made cowpats are not far behind.

 

Quickly, the dung beetle had them in sight,

A couple of heifers, one brown and one white,

And he asked in a manner so very polite

(For his parents had taught him his wrong from his right),

 

 

“Please spare me a cowpat kind ladies.

Please spare me a cowpat or two.

I’ve just woken up from my slumber,

And I need a nice cowpat to chew.”

 

These cows, you’ll remember them, Jane and Lorraine,

Looked down in disgust and began to complain.

“Scuttle off! Get away! You’re cramping our style.

You’re simply revolting. You’re filthy! You’re vile!

The farmer is coming. We cannot be seen

With someone whose habits are quite so obscene.”

Oh, crikey! How mean!

 

Poor dung beetle. Really, what was he to do?

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was true.

His tummy was empty. His hunger pangs grew.

So, he slumped by the creek and he sobbed, “Boo-hoo-hoo.”

 

In Stringybark Downs, there echoed around

The boos and the moos of despair,

As fate brought together this cow and this beetle

With troubles they needed to share.

 

And she told how The Show was her one little dream,

And he talked about cowpats that taste of ice-cream.

She spoke of those heifers that just didn’t care,

And he said how those sisters had been so unfair.

 

Sighed the beetle, “We clear up the dung without fuss.

Imagine the mess if it wasn’t for us.”

“I can quite imagine it,” Molly replied,

As beautiful notions welled up from inside,

Until, in her mind, like a bolt from the blue,

A win-win solution just popped into view.

“Eureka!” she shouted, “I know what to do!”

 

“Clear my whole paddock of dung. That’s the plan.

Eat all my cowpats as quick as you can.

Don’t dilly, don’t dally,” said Molly, “make haste.

The farmer is coming. There’s no time to waste.”

 

How that dung beetle ate. Oh, he ate himself silly,

Gratefully guzzling dung willy-nilly.

He dined upon cowpats like never before,

Gorging himself till his tummy grew sore,

And full to the brim he could manage no more.

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve failed,” the dung beetle wailed,

“The plan’s come undone and you’re back to square one.”

Had the plot been a flop? Had her scheme been in vain?

Had Molly’s last hope disappeared down the drain?

 

To be continued…

The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 1 by Chris Owen

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The Ballad of Molly Malloo: Part 1

 

 

In Stringybark Downs when the clover is lush,

And the swallow is high on the wing,

When the blossom comes out and the bees hum about,

You can smell the arrival of spring.

 

And springtime, as any young heifer would know,

Is time for the Stringybark Downs Country Show,

Where they have, for those lucky enough to appear,

The chance to be crowned as ‘The Cow of the Year’.

 

Out in the paddocks the air was abuzz;

A sense of excitement was growing,

As word went about that the farmer was out

To pick up the cows who were going.

 

“He’s bound to take us,” said a heifer called Jane,

“Our horns are a sight to behold.”

“And surely he’ll see,” said her sister, Lorraine,

“Our hides fairly shimmer like gold.”

 

 

Then a voice ‘cross the way said, “I’d love to go too.”

‘Twas the sweet gentle mooing of Molly Malloo. “But dear Molly,” they giggled, “he’ll never pick you.”

 

“Your horns are all wonky. Your hair is a mess.

You’re wide in the rump, you would have to confess.

Your tail is all tatty and as for those thighs,

Have you seen your reflection? They’re not the right size.

To think you’d be chosen is simply absurd.

Just face it,” they teased her, “YOU’RE FROM THE WRONG HERD!”

Oh dear. Oh, my word.

 

Poor Molly Malloo. What was she to do?

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was true.

She thought of The Show and her misery grew.

So, she lay by the creek and she cried, “Moo-hoo-hoo.”

 

To be continued…