A poem about cows and climate change

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A CHANGE IS IN THE WIND

 

Belch!

 

They’re watching us, these things called humans

Pens out, monitoring our rumens

Cows no fun

 

Pointing their fingers, shuffling their sheets

Murmuring about the planet’s heat

Cows help sun

 

Worried faces, showing their petulance

About our burps and our flatulence

Cows need bung

 

Uttering words, the most common ‘methane’

Hoping us cows would kindly refrain

Cow’s bad bum

 

With a gut like a still, it’s our only torment

Grass sloshes around, slow ferment

Cow’s big drum

 

Big cows with balls are the worst offenders

Blame males, that’ll help defend us

Cows well hung

 

They think it’s best to fit us with gas masks

Give us new grass to stop all the farts

Cow’s new tum

 

They’ll want us to dispose of our very own cow pats

Placing them into some underground vats

Cows no dung

 

See they carve us up or milk us bone dry

Now they say that we make all things fry

Cows hard done

 

No bull, we’re so over their bovine jokes

Go away and pick on some ‘udder’ folk

Cow bad pun

 

And don’t they belch things out, that’s a fact

What’s spewing from that factory stack?

Cows not dumb

 

See all we want to do is chew on our cud

Moo, poo, and trudge though the mud

Cows hum drum

 

So it’s over, all of this crap is enough

We’re taking a stand, getting so tough

Cows done fun

 

Let’s fight for ruminant freedom

Run with the buffalo, the sheep

Let’s herd together, fight to the end

Cows are one

 

Let’s stampede the Golden Arches

Go on long protest marches

Fight on beaches and on pastures

Even take to the air in the fastest

Cow Top Gun

 

And now the end is very near

The day that all of us cattle fear

The last to the abattoir is to be tanned

The fight was called ‘Muster’s Last Stand’

Cows out gunned

 

So if this story shocks, scares and amazes

That we Daisies could be ‘pushing up daisies’

Next time you question our windy emissions

Consider the risk of milk and meat omissions

Cow’s life done

 

(Author’s note: It is reported that ruminants, including cows, are directly responsible for 6.3% of anthropogenic global warming. Apologies to Dana Lyons for using some ideas from his song ‘Cows with Guns’)

 

 

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A poem on Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus

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SHE:HE

You never show me any emotion

I’m always showing you devotion

You do not even know how to try

What do you want me to do? Cry?

You so do not really understand

Hey, I am only trying to be a man

A nice gift, a little kiss on the lips

What’s the problem? We go on trips

Surprise me, be romantic, my honey

I know, you want more of my money

Wait, there’s someone I’ve got to text

Let’s go and have wild, passionate sex

You’re always trying to get me into bed

Now you’re really playing with my head

At least the girls they will shop with me

And the boys they let me feel so free

This long discussion is going so nowhere

It’s an argument, you’re not being fair

You’re shirty, you’ll now give me the snub

That’s right, I’m off now down to the pub.

 

I’m sorry, here are flowers to show I care

Flowers, that’s a change, so very rare

Can we kiss, make up, and get some food?

Long as it’s not make out, not in the mood

Let’s call it a truce? I will be there for you

And I will try to accept you for being you.

 

Poem about wishing to live in the country

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THE TREE-CHANGERS

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy (and Nancy)

Gone a wine-making up to Mudgee where all the tree-changers go,

Or are they doing permaculture? Not just sure of their fancy,

Only their life has pleasures that the city folk never know.

 

I am sitting in my dingy office in the dusty, dirty city,

Listening to meaningless talks from the next door jerk,

Oops, I’ve missed another deadline, oh what a pity!

Now to head home on trains which rarely ever work.

 

And I somehow fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy (and Nancy),

Have a home among the gum trees where the seasons come and go,

But I guess they’ll be out there till they go to ‘greener’ pastures,

And I’ll stay where I am and watch my in-tray overflow.

 

(Author’s note: Apologies to Australian poet Banjo Paterson for using some lines from ‘Clancy of the Overflow’)

The joys of being an older runner

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2017 Sydney Harbour 10K 3

Why do we? Why do we go back for more?

Perspiration pouring out like an artesian bore,

Groans in our bones, aches for goodness sakes,

The finish out of sight, this is what it takes.

 

Are we all masochists or are we just silly?

(I wish this darned course wasn’t that hilly!)

‘Fun run’: an oxymoron if ever there was one!

I’m sure this race has well and truly been won.

 

But I remember the day, the day of my PB,

It was so, so easy, I got a running stress freebie,

I felt virile, vibrant, young, I ran without fear,

The only thing, I can’t even remember the year.

 

Will I now walk? My legs they feel like rubber,

I’m a whale beached, heavy weight and all blubber,

No, no, I can’t give in to this easy walk option

That seduces me like some sensuous siren.

 

And now one last strain as I cross the finish line,

I’ll sit down, catch my breath, then I’ll feel fine,

Then talk to the others, make up all the excuses,

And ask, ‘Do you know any good masseuses?’

 

Then home to start on the long road to recover,

Apply some ice, pop a pill, maybe then another,

But whatever the weather, if it’s hot, wet or cold,

We will all be back, as good as gold, or just old.

 

 

Traveller

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Traveller

Where are you going?

Where have you been?

Life for you flowing

Through scene after scene.

 

Are you any wiser

For life on the go?

To be a worldly advisor

There’s much more to know.

 

 

The Bachelor: a sonnet

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I really want to be The Bachelor,

Inviting morsels for me to trawl,

Flicking them off, so spectacular,

I wish I could taste them all!

 

And I find The One, The Only One,

“My love is like a red, red, rose”,

The final, millions watch, she’s won,

A moment in time that froze.

 

But is it real this game of love?

Is it only a scripted illusion?

Parts are acted, the producers shove,

All in all, a romantic delusion.

 

To be The Bach my looks will hinder,

I’ll go back to finding real love on Tinder.