GOD'LL GET YA!

[Frank Daniel]

GOD’LL GET YA! © Frank Daniel 1994

The Irish left in Mother was a terrorising trait,
inherited through the generations — a burden and a weight.
A millstone carried lightly with the strength of bigger men,
a tough old girl was mother and we all knew it then.

On the Religious side, our Mother was reared a Catholic lass,
and believed in God and Mary, the Priests and Nuns and Mass.
On Sunday mornings to Church we’d go, in little suits of grey,
with Rosary beads and Missal — we’d get bashed until we prayed.

She shocked the living daylights from the Devil in our souls,
and made us firm believers in that Heaven was our goal.
The fear of God so planted was a worry on our minds,
we walked the straight and narrow — never waivered from that line.

We tried our best to do things right, avoided doing wrong,
but Mother soon found fault with me before too very long.
The wood was all cut oversize, the chips — there weren’t enough!
The chooks weren’t fed, the calf not in — life was pretty tough.

Should I but think to cheek her, she would read my very thoughts,
and cuff my ears before I’d duck and fire sharp retorts.
“You no good little heathen! Don’t dare you spite on me!
God will make you sorry now, you just wait and see.”

God will make me sorry. I’d heard that many times.
The Nun at School had said the same for writing crooked lines.
God will make me sorry? I was doing my best to please!
She even thumped my crooked back whilst down on bended knees.

She’d bash and thump and wack and cane, and then —
declare she’d turn us little terrors into Christian gentlemen.
And I’d think, ‘If God don’t get me!’ — and then she’d read my mind,
and bash and wack and thump and cane my legs and fat behind.

God will get you. God will make you sorry.
As a lad my life was burdened by this single worry.
And God, He used to get me, many times in fact,
and Mother was always there indeed to see this Holy Act.

A bloodied fall, a splintered hand, a kick from a milking cow —
this was the wrath of the Lord acting upon me now.
He was paying me back, so Mother said, for all that I’d done wrong.
“That’s what God does to ya!” Would come her fearful song.

Then she’d clip me round the ears for things I had not done.
“You lazy no-good useless boy! You worthless rotten son!”
And sure as eggs, you guessed it, again her threat I heard,
“God’ll get ya, ’pon my soul, you mark my very word!”

Now talking to the Publics was another grievous sin.
To even think of doing so would bring us grief within.
Only Catholics go to Heaven, if their souls are pure and white.
So ‘love thy Lord and heed His word — with all your little might.’

So I chucked stones at the Publics, and they shied rocks at me,
and called me Connie-wacker for no reason that I could see.
We called each other names, and we cursed across the street.
We hurled abuse and chucked more rocks ’til each of us was beat.

Then when I’d sought my own abode, ’twas strange then to discover
that news of the Catholic-Public war had beaten me home to Mother.
How did she know? How could she know? ’Twas that little bird that told her!
But still I thought that she’d be proud of me, her little Christian soldier.

No pride was shown — no joy at all! It didn’t even please her!
I’d made a silly fool of her, and no words would appease her.
I’d brought shame upon the family! I’d disgraced the Nuns as well,
and God would surely get me — I was fully damned to Hell.

Now Mother’s gone to Heaven — I’m sure that she’s up there,
’Twas where she was aiming for with all her daily prayer.
And I’m still here, and still in strife, my life’s not trouble free.
With lots of help from Mother, I’m sure that God’s still getting me!

[Heather]

Brilliant Frank. Never tire of hearing this one. One thing though, you did turn into a Christian gentleman so something worked!

Heather

[Zondrae]

You won't believe this Joe,

But I have just finished reading through your 'Bush Yarns and Poetry' book. You should pop a poem on the site more often.

Do we have a section on the board for 'Bush Yarns'? Should we? I'll go have a look.

[Frank Daniel]

Thank you Heather, you've assured yourself a seat on my next Cooks Tour.

And Zondrae,
Nice to know somebody is still reading my books.
I've often thought about posting some of my yarns but thought they might have been a bit too long for the Forum.
I told the yarn about my First Confession at Dunedoo, it drew a few laughs and I was happy with it.
I'm working on a book of yarns at the moment and have enough ready for another book of bush poetry.
I'll have to liven myself up a bit eh?

Joe

[Zondrae]

Good on ya Joe,

Are you planning on coming to the National FF this year?

[Frank Daniel]

Greg and I weren't selected for the National this year.
Better luck next year eh!

I've been lucky enough to have appeared at the National twelve times since 1994 as a compere, story teller, performer and yarn-spinner, and conducted a performance workshop one year. I love the National.

[Zondrae]

g'day Joe,

I have been told that the 'policy' on selection is something along the lines of "not more than three years in a row". So if you missed out this year, you should apply again next year. Then there are we interlopers who poke our noses in....

Have you had a look at the list yet. There are some names, or 'acts' I should say, in the spoken word section that are unfamiliar to me. They may be from the featured state. I will be helping with the Yarn spinning and Poets Breakfasts. I was a little concerned about the winner of last years Yarns turning up this year with the trophy. Luckily he turned up at Cobargo and I was able to 'give him the drum' about what to do.
Having sorted that out I had better get a yarn or two together. So much to do and so little time.

[thestoryteller]

Remember Frank reciting this one at a festival we shared.



Merv.