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                 The Yarn of Shaun the Sheep

Two Tasmanian farmers have found what they hope to prove is the world’s woolliest sheep. They believe it has been wandering wild for six years and never been shorn.

Peter and Netty Hazell discovered the animal, nicknamed Shaun, wandering on their farm and decided to take him in.

You ought to hear the yarn the folks are spinning

now the news is out both far and wide

about the Tassie wonder from down-under –

our Shaun the Sheep, the nation’s woolly pride.

 

Now Shaun was just a lamb six years ago

when fire came blazing near his eastern farm

and Shaun thought “Yikes! It’s time to do a runner.

If I stay put I’m sure to come to harm.”

 

So off he went to wander through the mountains

and live a lonesome life beneath the trees.

He didn’t fancy staying to be roasted.

He thought the better option was to freeze.

 

But no, he didn’t freeze. His woolly fleece

grew thicker by the day as he went west

and Shaun the Sheep became a walking doona

(a first-rate one – merino at its best).

 

and as the days and months and years went by

that fleece became so big it swallowed Shaun.

But then it chanced that Pete and Netty Hazell

were driving in their ute one autumn morn

 

and saw that fleece – or was it someone’s doona? –

abandoned in a hedge beyond the road.

They went to have a look. The doona bleated.

“Hey Pete! There’s something living in this load!”

 

Then sure enough they saw that doona move.

And as these folks were kind and tender-hearted

they took the creature home to sort it out,

and since that day the three have not been parted.

 

For Shaun the Sheep has learnt to live in style

and changed his name to Shaun the Superstar,

for Shaun was shorn and now he is a legend.

That fleece of his is famous near and far.

 

The Aussie owners say his wool is destined

to make at least three jumpers – superfine.

But if you check what’s told around the campfires

you’ll find an even better story-line.

 

It seems that in that famous Aussie fleece

there lurks a kind of magic super-power

and like a certain Aussie magic pudding

it keeps on growing bigger by the hour.

 

The latest count is now at thirty-five

new woolly garments! Now do you suppose

that yarn could make (if someone keeps on spinning)

the right stuff for an emperor’s new clothes?

 

© Kate O’neil

 

 

 

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The oyster way

 

An irritating grain of sand

or pesky piece of grit,

it slips inside the oyster shell

and finds a place to sit.

 

The oyster greets the irksome pest,

confronts it face to face,

bestows it with a soft caress,

a silky, smooth embrace.

 

How wonderful our lives could be,

how great for me and you

if we could tackle obstacles

the way the oysters do.

 

We’d gather all those gritty bits

that grind in vicious swirls

then smooth and sculpture each in turn

to shape a string of pearls.

 

 

©  Jenny Erlanger

 

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The House that Never Sleeps

 

Our house is a blinking one,

A winking, ever-thinking one,

At night when all the work is done,

Our house is standing by.

 

The laptop light is pulsing white

In case it’s needed in the night

To play a game or book a flight,

It’s always standing by.

 

The bright light on the video

Is glowing green, all set to go,

In case we want to watch a show,

It’s always standing by.

 

The red lights on the Xbox E,

The microwave, the smart TV,

All stab the dark impatiently,

Forever standing by.

 

Our house is ready all night long

To heat some food or play a song,

Till all the fossil fuels are gone,

Our house is standing by.

 

© Jill McDougall

 

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Harvey’s Escape

Based on the reported escape of a bouncing, squat, Staffordshire bull-terrier

by trampolining over the back fence of his yard.

(‘Odd Spot’, The Age, Melbourne, 16 June 2008)

 

Harvey liked to jump and bounce upon the trampoline

With frisky owners, little Bob, and teenage girl, Noreen.

He jumped and bounced, and bounced and jumped, steadily getting weary-er,

‘Come on, boy! Keep it up! Jumping’ll make you merrier!’

Exhausting Harvey, the bouncing, squat, Staffordshire bull-terrier.

 

Next day their mother called as they merrily bounced on the trampoline,

‘Come on kids! Come and say “Hello” to your Aunt Doreen!’

While Harvey bounced alone, his eyes were staring – getting bleary-er,

The day was hot, the sun so fiercely shining – becoming glary-er,

Blinding Harvey, the bouncing, squat Staffordshire bull-terrier.

 

Mum came out. ‘Get off, Harvey! Get off the trampoline!

The kids have gone with Aunt Doreen – please don’t make a scene.

Jump down! Rest! Good dog, Harvey! Now you’re looking cheerier.’

She went inside. Then, sitting there, soon the fencing barrier

Inspired Harvey, the bouncing, squat, Staffordshire bull-terrier.

 

‘Escape, escape!’ The dog jumped back and bounced on the trampoline.

‘I’ve thought of a marvellous way to fly and escape from this prison scene.’

He left the yard, propelled on high by a bounce upon his derriere,

Over the fence he flew, then tumbled, falling through the wisteria –

Freedom for Harvey, the bouncing, squat, Staffordshire bull-terrier.

 

Across a park and into a forest, goodbye to the trampoline.

Two people appeared, offering choice and both were smiling and keen.

‘Come with me, pick berries for market – I am the local berrier.’

‘Come with me, ride on the ferry – I am the local ferrier.’

‘Alternate days!’ barked Harvey, the bouncing, squat, Staffordshire bull-terrier.

 

 

By Edel Wignell

 

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Double standards

 

When I sit down to dinner

There are things I mustn’t do.

There’s a list of rules to follow.

Let me give you just a few.

 

I’m not to gobble quickly,

every mouthful must be chewed.

I can’t talk over others

’cause to interrupt is rude.

My mouth needs to be empty

when I get a chance to talk

My dinner must be tackled

with a proper knife and fork.

And even when I’ve finished

I am forced to sit and wait

till everybody’s eaten

what was put onto their plate.

And that’s just the beginning.

I could rattle off some more…

But for little baby brother

all these rules go out the door!

 

He’s put into his high chair

with his plastic spoon and plate

and you’d not believe the chaos

that he’s able to create.

No sooner is he seated

than his spoon is knocked away,

the plate has been inverted

and his food has hit the tray.

He grabs the mush with fingers,

that he runs straight through his hair

and he saves a bit for missiles

that he launches from his chair.

He wriggles in his harness

as he giggles, burps and squeals.

He loves to get attention

when we’re sitting down to meals.

He downs his final mouthful

then, in keeping with the trend,

prepares the grand finale…

he explodes from either end.

 

My brother’s skills are many

and deserve to be admired

but his manners at the table

leave a lot to be desired!

 

© Jenny Erlanger

 

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My Nan speaks Nanish

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Hippo or Hag.

It’s a slippery language I’d love to snag,

a scrumptious secret wild horses can’t drag

but Nan won’t let the cat out of the bag!

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Thai or Turkey.

Spying on the neighbours what does she see?

Pishposh! Codswollop! Fiddle-de-dee!

Wagging tongues are barking up the wrong tree.

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Belgium or Bear.

She’d teach me if she had the time to spare

but it’s half past a freckle, quarter past a hair,

the proof’s in the pudding and hen’s teeth are rare.

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Dog or Derry

wetting her whistle watching the telly,

chewing the fat with great aunty Nelly,

bulging eyes growing bigger than bellies

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Mooney or Manx.

When old photos lull her into a trance

she’s caught and lead in a merry old dance

by teasing bees knees and fancy ants pants.

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Cree or Kipper.

Hob-knobbing in her best bib and tucker.

When she married Pop it was a ripper,

he was the monkey, she the dog’s dinner.

 

My Nan speaks Nanish not Gothic or Goop

sucking on eggs or jumping through hoops.

She calls me little chicken noodle soup.

Possum. Pumpkin. I’m her favourite fruit loop.

 

My Nan speaks Nanish, not Persian or Pie.

It’s tricky talk that leaves me tongue-tied

But if wishes are fishes, pigs can fly,

my Nan can speak Nanish and so can I!

 

© Jane Williams

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Toot! Toot!

TOOT TOOT!
I’ve lost my two front toofs,
I mean my two front teefs.
I toot toot when I talk talk now,
I whistle when I speak.

TOOT TOOT!
Watch out, you’ll get a drenching,
When I say my th’s and sh’es.
‘Round the words I spray and lisp,
As they slip through my soaked lips.

TOOT TOOT!
I just adore the way,
My gummy new mouth feels.
All soft and smooth with jagged bits,
Where new teeth poke right through.

TOOT TOOT!
I can do lots of tricks,
Like fill my gaps with choppy-sticks,
Or squeeze out custard through the spaces,
Making wacky, no teeth faces.

TOOT TOOT!
Will I miss my tooting,
When my big teeth come on down?
Will I have to act grown-up,
And stop clowning around?

No!
While I can I’ll toot my heart out,
Toot tooting my own tune.
I’ll enjoy my toofless yoofulness,
I’ll grow-up all too soon.

TOOT TOOT!

© Michelle Lewry

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The Echidna

An echidna passed across a track
heading towards a special snack

A naturalist muttered, ‘What a turn!
about this creature, I’ve got to learn.’

He kneeled to take a closer look
the echidna swung with strong right hook.

And it was such a heavy clout
it nearly knocked the watcher out.

The echidna curled into a prickly ball
snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’

The naturalist cried and mused upon
what it was that he’d done wrong.

He only wanted to see first hand
the weirdest creature in the land.

The echidna uncurled and stalked away
grumbling at his ruined day.

And idiots too dumb to know
you always let echidnas go –

About their business digging holes
and eating ants from salad bowls.

Or snuffling around a great big mound
Where tasty termites are always found.

To spare echnida watchers pain,
the moral of this tale is plain.

Always remember it’s very rude
to keep echidnas from their food.

© M. Pearce
mpearceau@gmail.com

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Naked Nonsense: Guundie’s Ridiculous Rhymes

 

  The Edible Swarm

 

By my door are massive trees,

swinging in a storm,

dropping lots of peas

a gigantic swarm.

It comes in – the peas have keys –

and I squash them just like fleas,

get them on the stove to warm,

put them on a plate,

and eat dinner, thanks to fate!

 

Guundie Kuchling, born in Salzburg, gained her Master of Fine Arts in Vienna and arrived in Australia in 1987 with her husband Gerald, a world turtle expert.

Guundie has published 11 picture books and exhibits widely: oil paintings, water colours, lino prints, and sculptures. Her interests include throat singing, native wildlife, ear rings, growing vegetables, dry felting, labyrinths, and encouraging others to live creatively.

 

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Sea song

 

I took my teddy down to the sea

Thinking what fun it was bound to be,

But he took one step and his paws got all wet

He doesn’t want to go for a swim just yet.

 

I took my budgie down to the sea,

Thinking what fun it was bound to be,

But he took one look and he flew away,

He just won’t go to the sea today.

 

I took my puppy down to the sea,

Hoping she’d love it just like me.

She barked at the waves, then ran in to play,

I think we’ll stay at the sea all day!

 

© Sophie Masson