ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

Collaborative poem

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left a glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

Who is this bloke called Paterson – this man from Ironbark?
screaming ‘ Murder bloody murder’ on the streets
because he thought his throat was cut – though it was just a lark
but it bought the wallopers running from their beat.

I guess you’ll never read this tale or others if you will
for there’ll be nothing new at all to hate or like.
It seems that all the poets - somewhat like old Mulga Bill
have left the poetry track telling all ‘get on yer bike.’
mkc

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

Who is this bloke called Paterson – this man from Ironbark?
screaming ‘ Murder bloody murder’ on the streets
because he thought his throat was cut – though it was just a lark
but it bought the wallopers running from their beat.

I guess you’ll never read this tale or others if you will
for there’ll be nothing new at all to hate or like.
It seems that all the poets - somewhat like old Mulga Bill
have left the poetry track telling all ‘get on yer bike.’

But no they hadn’t not at all -the poets weren’t at fault
bags were packed and pens were ready, witty words were on their lips
they had gathered cross the country with one destination sought
but the bloody planes weren’t flying and had cancelled all their trips.

So they sat waiting at airports, and by now most wore a frown
as they scribbled words on paper by the hour
they had no way of knowing if they’d ever get to town
but if they did their penned words gave them poet power.

A pox on those pestilent pulchritudinous lacking big CO’s
who wield the power to stop the planes from flying
the Poets of Australia will unite I’ll have you know
and like Mulga Bill their own transport will be supplying.

They’ve all banded together and purchased a darn great bus
to ferry poets all around our nation.
At any given time there a few mobs on the move
and they’ve called the bus ‘Poetic Inspiration’
mkc

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

Who is this bloke called Paterson – this man from Ironbark?
screaming ‘ Murder bloody murder’ on the streets
because he thought his throat was cut – though it was just a lark
but it bought the wallopers running from their beat.

I guess you’ll never read this tale or others if you will
for there’ll be nothing new at all to hate or like.
It seems that all the poets - somewhat like old Mulga Bill
have left the poetry track telling all ‘get on yer bike.’

But no they hadn’t not at all -the poets weren’t at fault
bags were packed and pens were ready, witty words were on their lips
they had gathered cross the country with one destination sought
but the bloody planes weren’t flying and had cancelled all their trips.

So they sat waiting at airports, and by now most wore a frown
as they scribbled words on paper by the hour
they had no way of knowing if they’d ever get to town
but if they did their penned words gave them poet power.

A pox on those pestilent pulchritudinous lacking big CO’s
who wield the power to stop the planes from flying
the Poets of Australia will unite I’ll have you know
and like Mulga Bill their own transport will be supplying.

They’ve all banded together and purchased a darn great bus
to ferry poets all around our nation.
At any given time there a few mobs on the move
and they’ve called the bus ‘Poetic Inspiration’
mkc

A policeman stopped the shiny coach and spoke then to the driver
"If you please sir a small question if I may...
It 's come to my attention you're not qualified for this,
Is your 'poetic license' up to date today?"
Wen

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

Who is this bloke called Paterson – this man from Ironbark?
screaming ‘ Murder bloody murder’ on the streets
because he thought his throat was cut – though it was just a lark
but it bought the wallopers running from their beat.

I guess you’ll never read this tale or others if you will
for there’ll be nothing new at all to hate or like.
It seems that all the poets - somewhat like old Mulga Bill
have left the poetry track telling all ‘get on yer bike.’

But no they hadn’t not at all -the poets weren’t at fault
bags were packed and pens were ready, witty words were on their lips
they had gathered cross the country with one destination sought
but the bloody planes weren’t flying and had cancelled all their trips.

So they sat waiting at airports, and by now most wore a frown
as they scribbled words on paper by the hour
they had no way of knowing if they’d ever get to town
but if they did their penned words gave them poet power.

A pox on those pestilent pulchritudinous lacking big CO’s
who wield the power to stop the planes from flying
the Poets of Australia will unite I’ll have you know
and like Mulga Bill their own transport will be supplying.

They’ve all banded together and purchased a darn great bus
to ferry poets all around our nation.
At any given time there a few mobs on the move
and they’ve called the bus ‘Poetic Inspiration’
mkc

A policeman stopped the shiny coach and spoke then to the driver
"If you please sir a small question if I may...
It 's come to my attention you're not qualified for this,
Is your 'poetic license' up to date today?"
Wen

The driver told of Mulga Bill out on the wallaby
and quoted the Banjo, also Henry Lawson.
Then threw a bit of Muzza in just to balance the mix
for he thought they’d know of him out on the Dawson.

Some think that country coppers are more than a trifle thick
full of malarkey but displaying bonhomie.
But this bloke he was educated and caught on real quick
he came from Grenfell down in Lawson territory
mkc

but, lo, the trip was long and dry and many lost the plot.
The beer and spirit got to one and all.
The papers in the morning headed "seven poets shot,
one dead, in (strike me pink) a poets' brawl!"

God forbid

The Poet's Strike.

The day the poets went on strike was dismal, cold and dark,
the sun and moon withdrew behind the clouds.
And though the stars continued on to populate the sky
the light they showed did not inspire the crowds.

The references to poets in the daily crossword too,
left glaring holes and problems all about.
No ’Shakespeare’s Moor’ in one across. ‘Othello’s’ absence left
no capital to set the puzzle out.
ZK

Who is this bloke called Paterson – this man from Ironbark?
screaming ‘ Murder bloody murder’ on the streets
because he thought his throat was cut – though it was just a lark
but it bought the wallopers running from their beat.

I guess you’ll never read this tale or others if you will
for there’ll be nothing new at all to hate or like.
It seems that all the poets - somewhat like old Mulga Bill
have left the poetry track telling all ‘get on yer bike.’

But no they hadn’t not at all -the poets weren’t at fault
bags were packed and pens were ready, witty words were on their lips
they had gathered cross the country with one destination sought
but the bloody planes weren’t flying and had cancelled all their trips.

So they sat waiting at airports, and by now most wore a frown
as they scribbled words on paper by the hour
they had no way of knowing if they’d ever get to town
but if they did their penned words gave them poet power.

A pox on those pestilent pulchritudinous lacking big CO’s
who wield the power to stop the planes from flying
the Poets of Australia will unite I’ll have you know
and like Mulga Bill their own transport will be supplying.

They’ve all banded together and purchased a darn great bus
to ferry poets all around our nation.
At any given time there a few mobs on the move
and they’ve called the bus ‘Poetic Inspiration’
mkc

A policeman stopped the shiny coach and spoke then to the driver
"If you please sir a small question if I may...
It 's come to my attention you're not qualified for this,
Is your 'poetic license' up to date today?"
Wen

The driver told of Mulga Bill out on the wallaby
and quoted the Banjo, also Henry Lawson.
Then threw a bit of Muzza in just to balance the mix
for he thought they’d know of him out on the Dawson.

Some think that country coppers are more than a trifle thick
full of malarkey but displaying bonhomie.
But this bloke he was educated and caught on real quick
he came from Grenfell down in Lawson territory
mkc


but, lo, the trip was long and dry and many lost the plot.
The beer and spirit got to one and all.
The papers in the morning headed "seven poets shot,
one dead, in (strike me pink) a poets' brawl!"
btp

and now across the nation there were lots of poets roaming
but bad weather closed the highways of this land,
the pouring rain had dampened all their zeal and zest for po’ing
so they thought perhaps they’d start a country band.
mkc