IF YOU'D LIKE TO GO DIRECT TO ONE OF MY OTHER PAGES

    This table contains links to the text referred to on the Home Page

    Waltzing Matilda

    Swagman

    Short Stories

    Rhymes (You're here)

    My Book

    My Wales Page

    Travel

    Humour1

    Humour2

    Humour3

    Home Page

    I'll split my writing pages into three sections.

    Some humorous rhyming stuff I've posted in the Seniornet. It's on this page, we'll call this Rhymes

    Some short stories, Ill put on a page named Short stories.

    My Book. Yes. I've written a book. I'll include a synopsis and some introductory chapters. They can be found in MY Book. I NEED a publisher.


    Rhyming stuff.


    Item 1 ON NORM'S EPITAPH.

    Item 2 ON WALTZING.

    Item 3 ON MY LIFE.

    Item 4 ON RHEA'S STORY.

    Item 5 ON JUMPING THE GUN.

    Item 6 ON EDITING AND CORRECTING.

    Item 7 ON SEQUEL TO EDITING AND CORRECTING.

    Item 8 ON OUTBACK TRIP.

    Item 9 ON STRANGE FOOD.

    Item 10 ON REPAIRS TO CARS.

    Item 11 ON KNIGHTS TO THE RESCUE.

    Item 12 ON THE FALL OF A PHILANDERER.





    Jolly Swagman - 10:58pm May 4, 1997 PDT (#224 of 226)

    The opening paragraph says it's OK for poetry to be fun. So - Here goes.
    Norm's Epitaph.

    Here lie the bones, of our friend Norm,
    poor fellow, never could keep warm.
    Even on the hottest day,
    'I'm frozen!' we would hear him say.

    His friends stripped off to feel the sun,
    while he, indoors for warmth would run.
    When others said, 'Today's a scorcher.'

    Norm complained, 'This cold wind's torture.'

    When people said, 'This sun will burn.'
    Norm towards his fire would turn.
    When others felt, 'My skin's on fire''
    Norm would turn the heat up higher.

    When starting school his teacher said,
    'What's that covering his head?'
    A ski mask, Mum had knitted him,
    Angora wool, with thick fur trim.

    With tiny holes for eyes and nose,
    (and socks to match for ice cold toes).
    His mum said, 'I will call back later,
    with his plug in radiator.'

    Regrettably, as he got older,
    he found that he was getting colder.
    So school days were entirely spent,
    inside his special heated tent.

    While a choirboy with frozen feet,
    he said, 'I'll have to get some heat.'
    The Holy candles I will light,
    with them around me, I'll be right.'

    But then his long white flowing gown,
    caught fire and burned the chapel down.
    And so he was accused of arson,
    (he'd accidentally burnt the parson.)

    He always wore his gloves and scarf,
    (except when taking a hot bath).
    When he wrote his thesis, 'Keeping Warm',
    his friends re-named him, 'Deep-Freeze Norm'.

    They sacked him from the fire brigade,
    for blazing bonfires he had made,
    His friend said, 'Mountaineering we'll go.'
    Norm said, 'Let's find a volcano.'

    When others headed for the pool,
    Norm would say, 'My God it's cool.'
    And if they said, 'Let's take a swim,'
    He'd say, COLD water's not for him.

    At last, the cold he could stand no more,
    he turned his thoughts to a warmer shore.
    While frozen stiff, he said one day,
    'This land's too cold, I'm going away.'

    He took his blankets and electric fire,
    and his heaters turned up even higher,
    He waved 'Good bye', saying, 'See you later',
    'I'm off to live near the equator.'

    He left the harbour, one sunny morning.
    but a sudden storm came without warning.
    His wind blown yacht, sailed out of sight,
    it blew him left instead of right.

    When he struck land he nearly froze,
    he said, 'That's frostbite on my toes',
    He looked around, saw not a soul,
    because he'd landed at the Pole.

    With no thought for the consequences,
    (perhaps the cold had numbed his senses),
    He saw the frostbite creeping higher,
    and said ,'I'll have to light a fire'.

    Alas! the fire, (against the mast),
    turned out to be, his very last.
    Our Norm was low on common sense,
    and soon he was to be past tense.

    As he warmed his toes, and said 'That's nice',
    his blazing ship sank through the ice.
    He crawled ashore, and sadly lay,
    'till getting colder, passed away.

    Because he never could keep warm,
    We've changed his name, he's now 'Ex-Norm'
    Now colder still, he can be found,
    in permafrost. deep underground.

    fairwinds - 09:00am May 10, 1997 PDT (#295 of 295)
    ...in antibes, france

    ...very nice, jolly swagman, will you go a waltzing matilda with me?



    Item 2

    Jolly Swagman - 06:05pm May 10, 1997 PDT (#299 of 302)
    Fairwinds

    How nice of you to offer me,
    to come along and waltz with thee.

    (Forgive me if on this one time,
    my response takes the form of rhyme.)

    To return to Antibes would be fine,
    but your tempting offer I'll decline.

    In early years I'd have rushed along,
    but now "Merci beaucoup mais NON!"

    My philand'ring days I've bade adieu,
    So I can never dance with you.

    My heart says NO! Resist those charms.
    For I dance in someone else's arms.

    Though forty years and more are gone.
    She still enchants me on and on.

    My dances belong to another
    L'enchanteresse is my children's mother.

    Barbara Nelson - 08:50pm May 10, 1997 PDT (#300 of 302)
    El Cajon, California

    Jolly Swagman--love your writings. Tell us about yourself, please.



    Item 3


    fairwinds - 12:48am May 13, 1997 PDT (#306 of 310)
    ...in antibes, france

    ...where do you live in australia, jolly swagman. adelaide is my favorite city. anyway, i liked your fine rhyme and hope you'll tell us more about yourself. obviously, you have fun writing.


    Jolly Swagman - 02:38am May 16, 1997 PDT (#311 of 313)

    ON MY LIFE
    I've received a lot of messages by posting and e-mail,
    asking if the story of my life I will regale.

    Post 224 in Poets Press, gave them a little laff,
    (My woeful alter ego's untimely epitaph.)

    Some folks enjoyed what they had read. They thought it rather witty,
    when I turned a sad, pathetic tale, into a little ditty,

    So I'll carry on in rhyming style though I can't go on for ever
    I can't persist in writing verse. I'm really not that clever.

    I've received communications asking "Swagman tell us more.
    Tell us all about yourself, please tell us" they implore.

    They've clicked above my posting, where my name in blue is BOLD.
    'No home page provided' is all that they've been told.

    They ask me "who the hell are you?" with your Aussie 'Nom de Plume'.
    He's hiding from the law, or wife; they mistakenly assume.

    In response to their enquiries, I'll write a few lines now.
    Tho' when I stop to think a bit. I really can't see how,

    I can tell them ALL about my kids and my lovely wife.
    How I can write in one posting - what's happened in my life.

    How I can tell all about, this bag of skin and bone?
    when Rhea took 100 posts for the Argentine alone.

    Although when I compare my life with so altruistic she,
    I feel I've been a hedonistic, egotistic, debauchee.

    (Debauchery is not my style, does not describe my times,
    It sounded good, so I stuck it in, just because it rhymes.)

    She freely gives her work on earth, to help those folk in need.
    I toiled for desiderata, (materialistic greed??).

    I was born so very fortunate, white, anglo, Protestant.
    They convinced me if I worked hard, I could have the life I want.

    As I look back on all that's passed, I sense I'm getting old.
    OLD AGE is sneaking up on me to take me to it's fold.

    But I'll tell OLD AGE to halt a while. "Please leave me," I'll implore.
    "I'm enjoying life, I'll ignore you, if you knock on my front door."


    OLD AGE - GO ON WITHOUT ME - I'M NOT READY YET.

    I can't agree I'm getting old, I'll only say mature,
    Though with each year that passes by, ahead there's one year fewer.

    I can't slow down the calendar, because I don't feel my age,
    In the book of life when each day ends, we HAVE to turn the page.

    I've always felt time goes too fast, for I remember when,
    At fifteen I had started work, but felt, "I'm only ten".

    I'd swam my rivers, climbed my trees, survived my boyhood fights,
    Endured school and homework, piano practice every night.

    But deep inside something had stirred, which was to change my life,
    I'd lost my heart to a sweet young girl. (later to be my wife).

    Now I'd started life's next chapter, earning my own living,
    Can't say, "I'm not ready yet," life's clock is unforgiving.

    Two more years flew, I reached seventeen and left my home for ever,
    "Its time to be a grown-up now," boyhood ties to sever.

    My adolescence over, how quickly it had passed.
    The little boy had disappeared, forced to grow up fast.

    At twenty-one, the young girl grown, my sweetheart I had wed,
    I held her close and whispered low, "Now will you come to bed?"

    We waved good-bye to salad days, and started real life.
    We had our joys and sorrows, just like every man and wife.

    As time marched on our children came, two lovely little girls,
    The first had hair jet black and long, the second fair with curls.

    They showed us GOD was kind to us, with love and happiness blessed.
    Their presence crowded ever more joy, into our love nest.

    The years passed by, as in the mines and building sites I worked,
    Proud father and breadwinner, my duties were not shirked.

    But soon I had reached thirty and spied a distant shore,
    "Good Heavens! am I thirty? aren't I only twenty-four?"

    We left our home, the four of us, to start our life anew,
    "Thanks GOD!, sometimes I needed YOU to help us to pull through".

    In factories, then offices, I overcame life's tussles,
    I'd learned the REAL facts of life, "Son, use your brains instead of muscles."

    We watched our daughters growing up, their childhood quickly passed.
    Now beautiful young women. Must children grow so fast?

    So soon I said "I can't believe, our babies now are grown,
    and even more incredibly: have babies of their own."

    As I hold close the precious gifts, so small and soft and pink,
    Can I really be a Grandpa?, I quietly sit and think.

    Now if I am a Grandpa, my love's a Grandma too.
    And when I say, "But we're still young!" then who is fooled; by whom?

    We'd worked so hard to 'put away', to 'keep for later years'.
    Now suddenly! we're middle-aged, but that's no cause for tears.

    We looked back at the life we'd lived and places we had been,
    We'd travelled far, seen many sights that few have ever seen.

    Do we lament those fleeting years, did we just use them up?
    No! We loved and laughed and drank our fill, from life's exciting cup.

    We didn't waste those precious years, we lived them to the full.
    Now we won't complain of aches and pains, as the years demand their toll.

    As I look back, I'd have to say, no man could ask for more,
    A loving wife and children and happiness galore.

    GOD gave us all that we should ask, intelligence and health,
    It then was up to us to create happiness and wealth.

    From time to time I must admit, things didn't go as planned,
    But we were all together, and we held each other's hand.

    And still we're all together, although our daughters grown,
    And started on their own new life, with children of their own.

    I hope that when they reach our age and look back on their years,
    They won't regret the paths they chose, or shed too many tears.

    But they must follow their path, as we have followed ours,
    We worked to earn life's sunshine, and shelter from life's showers.

    Now they must count their own milestones. Learn from their mistakes.
    Be proud of their achievements, grin and bear life's painful aches.

    We've lived a full and happy life, though sometimes it was tough,
    But sharing it with those we love; Well, - we've been paid enough.

    But we're not finished yet my friends, we've thirty years of time,
    And if GOD won't give us thirty, we'll be content with twenty nine.

    We're fortunate, we realized, so many years ago,
    It's what you do with life that counts, not how fast it seems to go.

    We don't control our TIME on earth, our maker says, "Times up!".
    But we can control how much LIFE; we pour into Time's cup.

    "We sold our home and everything and took the cash and run
    City 'rat race' far behind, we found a small town in the sun.

    (Click on the hypertext above, Its one I'll freely give
    Its in direct response to those who asked me where I live.)

    Now in the years that we have left, we're going to "give 'em Hell".
    Perhaps we'll do some crazy things, we'll be too ashamed to tell.

    So when our days are over, and we're at the gates of Heaven,
    and HE asks, "Did you appreciate the gifts that you were given?"

    "Did you LIVE your life, or just exist?" Then we'll answer with a smile.
    "Oh GOD we really LIVED it, life really was worthwhile".

    But we're not yet ready to get old, we've so much life to live,
    And I hope that we'll be very old before the alternative.

    What I've written gives a picture of what's happened down the years
    We've had our times of laughter and our times of tears.

    For me it's been a damned good life though sometimes very tough.
    Enjoyed good health and lots of love. (and I've not yet had enough).

    I've exercised my tiny brain and now my story's done.
    I've filled the page with little rhymes and it's really been good fun!!

    Now it's someone else's turn to go and do the same.
    Perhaps join with the swagman at his rhyming game.

    So come on all you lurkers, who read but will not write
    Now's your chance to tell your tale. Your readers will not bite.

    Recall a little incident, where you've been or what you've done.
    We're curious, we'd like to read about your fears or fun.

    Norm.


    Rhea Coleman - 07:14am May 16, 1997 PDT (#315 of 316)
    Hurley, New Mexico

    Thank you! At a turning point in my life you came along. I was ready to stop writing and just retire.
    Your e-mail and this poem will tip the scale. Thanks again, I didn't want to retire.



    RHEA'S STORY.

    Jolly Swagman - 12:18pm May 29, 1997 PDT (#344 of 350)

    Oh Rhea please don't tell us that you're planning to retire.
    We've enjoyed sharing your laughter (and sometimes your ire).

    We shared your curiosity why some children showed such fears
    and your anger, when you found, they were not the equal of their peers.

    We laughed when we read the little story that you wrote,
    when you crossed the flowing river and your car became a boat.

    Oh Rhea, please don't tell us, that you're writing is to stop
    You haven't climbed your mountain, until you reach the top

    We smiled when we shared your embarrassed little note,
    of indelicate eavesdropping, on the 'non spectator sport'.

    So don't quit now, when there's more that you can write.
    of the campos and the gauchos, their customs and their plight

    'Dumb Norte Americanos' (gives new meaning to 'DNA').
    You manage scorn with pious grace. You accept, "Its just their way."

    We've glimpsed your fervour, your humour and your wit.
    Don't tell us now that you think it's time to quit,

    The injustices you explain about, are an environment,
    which came about through laws imposed, by unjust government

    Retain hope. Inevitably: unjust governments fall
    (We never thought we'd see removed, that dreaded Berlin wall).

    I'm sure there are many more good stories to be told.
    Time enough to slow down, when you finally get old.

    Complete your story Rhea, till it's all in black and white
    One day a publisher will come, who'll take up what you write

    Then one day I will see on my favourite bookshelf

    RHEA'S ARGENTINIAN SOJOURN

    written by

    HERSELF


    You invited us to share your memories and recollections. We enjoyed.


    The value of the wealth of your experiences
    is increased exponentially when you share it with us.

    Thanks!
    Norm.

    Rhea Coleman - 02:57pm May 29, 1997 PDT (#346 of 350)
    Hurley, New Mexico

    Norm: I'm overwhelmed. With tears in my eyes, I thank you.



    Jumping the gun.



    Jolly Swagman - 12:08pm Jun 5, 1997 PDT (#380 of 381)

    DAWN

    Oh dear! I feel I've been a fool. I jumped too soon into the pool.

    As soon as I had read your text I thought about what could come next.

    My hobby horse I swiftly climb. No thought to wait for starting time.

    Of rules and such I didn't think. I quickly grabbed my pen and ink.

    I saw at once this could be fun. But now I see I jumped the gun.

    So full of zeal I didn't wait. To line up at the starting gate.

    I've been told before. "Now wait my son. You must never jump the starters gun."

    "For if you do," my coaches cried "you'll find that you're disqualified".

    You said you'll put my piece on hold. So now if I may be so bold.

    I'll give some thought about the name. We'll choose to call your little game.

    I like the one with inspiration. because it rhymes with perspiration.

    "The writing craft," -- said my dear mother, "is one part one; and nine the other."

    I like them all, but when I elect. Inspiration Point I will select.

    I think that name should get most votes. For its what we need to write our notes.

    N.


    On editing and correcting


    Jolly Swagman - 11:39am Jun 16, 1997 PDT (#419 of 420)



    GENE

    I see you taught a writing class for twenty four long years. ... So when you see all my mistakes, you must be close to tears.

    I visualize you sitting there, blue pencil in your hand. ... How can he make so much mistakes? you can not understand.

    Now he's written much, not many. How can he be so wrong? ... And some sentences have so much words, I take my lunch along.

    Now he's repeated much again, when many should be used. ... There's not no hope for him I fear, this teachers not amused.

    And now look at his negatives. They've mated. Become doubled. ... This lad will never learn the rules. (perhaps his brain is troubled).

    As I review his mangled prose, I look from every angle. ... Some modifiers are displaced and some just left to dangle.

    His quotations, "I've often said" are absolute disgrace. ... Quotation marks and dots and commas, always out of place.

    "You cannot use quotation marks when quotes are indirect, ... You should consider grammer rules. Be much more circumspect."

    He mixes up his persons and lost all control of tenses. ... Sometimes I feel the swagman's lost control of all his senses.

    How can he wrote such gibberish, why cant he just write proper. ... Hes missed all his apostrophies. Again hes come a cropper

    Now overworked cliches I see are creeping in to view. ... He shld thrw awy ths wrk and strt the thing anew.

    His disemvoweled spllng shws hes riting in a hrry. ... In skwll I'm sure, he mst hve bn, hs tchers bggst wrry

    And when my pencil comes across this crazy way of spelling. ... the bestest way to summarize, is simply say. "Its smelling!"


    Oh what am I to do with him? I clearly hear you say. ... Gene. go ahead -- edit my work . Correct it (WITHOUT PAY)

    Take a paragraph or so and show us where I'm wrong. ... Take the whole damn lot I wrote. It shouldn't take that long.

    Take your scalpel to my work (allow me to be crass), ... Treat it like your demonstration frog in Biol'. class

    Decapitate, or amputate, dissect it or castrate, ... Go on and vent your spleen on it, by now you just can't wait

    Disembowel, emasculate, expand or shrink in size. ... Do whate'er you will until it looks good in your eyes.

    Corrected work you can of course e-mail direct to me, ... But better if you post it here, for all the world to see.

    I'm sure that we all could use, reminders on our grammar. ... So when you read my lines and then, attack them with a hammer

    Tell us why, when you correct, some part you can't accept, ... What grammar laws I have transgressed, what rules I have not kept.

    So now Gene set to work on me, with your little pencil blue. ... Upgrade my work, for we're not too old to learn a thing or two.

    I have a post in 356 and one in 291. ... Go on: have your way with them, educate everyone

    A lesson learned we won't forget, we'll use over again. ... You'll see when you read future posts, you're work was not in vain.

    Then next time when I write some prose, perhaps I will have learned. ... Perhaps my work will be improved, your smiles I will have earned.

    N


    Sequel to editing and correcting.

    Gene
    RE: "CORRECTIONS TO POST #356"

    I'd visualized you sitting there
    tearfully tearing out your hair

    Craving sanction to edit.
    Some of the work that I submit

    So therefore I invited you
    to rearrange with pencil blue.

    I've read what you have now editted
    That piece I previously submitted

    I've studied your scholastic fix
    To the piece I posted in #356

    Well! I'd said "expand or shrink in size,
    until it looks right to your eyes."

    I never thought that it could shrivel
    quite as much by cutting drivel.

    When "heartless cuts" you were intending
    I thought at once that you meant gelding

    Too late to lament. - My invitation
    should have excluded mutilation

    Although at first, my heart stood still,
    Courageously, I said "I will"

    I contemplate as tears fall
    The unkindest cut of all.

    Though I would live with your decision
    to make your merciless incision

    You'll understand, I would have hated
    to find my work emasculated

    But when I see what's left of it
    I still can see the vital bit

    Now that it's done I feel elated
    I won't miss what you've amputated

    I now can see it does sound better
    When you omit each useless letter

    I must admit that with your cutter
    you've hacked away offending clutter

    The germane parts are undisturbed
    You've only cut redundant words

    It still can tell of Tony's plight
    of hearing echoes in the night

    Now I'll look forward to your next
    skilful improvement to my text

    N



    Outback trip

    Jolly Swagman - 01:13pm Jul 5, 1997 PDT (#458 of 461)

    If some day it occurs to you, you've missed The Swagman's rhyme.
    Don't waste your time in searching. I won't be posting for some time.

    I send this little message now. 'To whom it may concern.'
    For I'm leaving for an inland trip, but one day I'll return.

    We're off on a country 'walkabout', which will take us quite a while.
    (We'll tow our air-conditioned caravan, to camp in comfort and with style.)

    Don't think that I'm ex-Swagman, because my name you haven't read.
    I'm still alive, just 'out of town'. So please don't think I'm dead.

    Miss Wanderlust's siren call I hear, which no swagman can ignore.
    Tempting, inviting, seductively enticing. Outback I must explore.

    From the South Pacific in the East, to the Indian Ocean shore.
    From dry outback, through savannah, to northern wetlands we will tour.

    Our trek will take us inland, then North on the lonely roads.
    Where intrepid explorers blazed their trails, now mighty road trains carry loads

    For those who may not be aware, perhaps I should explain
    The overland drovers, and camel trains, gave way to the modern road train

    In front the huge prime mover, then a double-deck trailer, high and long,
    behind that enormous trailer, another two tag along.

    These fifty five yards monsters, are really very big
    More than sixty wheels are needed, to roll this endless rig

    On unsealed roads with bulldust and gravel you will find.
    Like smoking leviathan dragons, blinding dust clouds soar behind

    And as they hurtle towards me, a hundred tons snaking behind.
    I give them all respect that's due, to monsters of their kind.

    Not only are they very long, on two-lane roads they're wide.
    Let them remain a-straddle white line, keep your distance, pull over to the side.

    I freely yield the middle of the road, even though it's two lanes wide.
    Sheer size decrees 'Unimpeded Right of Way'. 'Might is Right' and it's on their side.

    For if these gargantuan monsters, kiss me, as they Exocet by.
    You can send e-mail to my new address 'swagman@TheInternet.inthesky'.

    This land is really vast, sometimes, it seems you can drive for ever.
    Bungle-Bungle, Jim-Jim, Humpty-Do, Rum Jungle and the Never-Never.

    How can I resist such names? I have to go to look
    It's not enough to sit at home and read them in a book.

    So I head for the North horizon, which is always far away.
    Then dry, sunburned, lifeless terrain, gets greener every day.

    Then we'll stop. Let our senses absorb, the isolation of this vast expanse.
    Whispering breezes spur scented wild flowers, to a sinous, shimmy-shake dance

    The arid outback is not lifeless, to those who hear nature's call.
    Herbivores, carnivores and their prey. Marsupials large and small.

    Stand very still and camouflaged fauna, will soon materialize.
    A teeming myriad creatures, will emerge before our eyes.

    Cockatoos and Galahs, yellowgreen budgerigars. A brush turkey runs and hides.
    Banking and curving, his kingdom observing, the wedge tailed eagle glides.

    Wild flowers, birds and slithering snakes. A thorny devil lizard waddles by.
    Nocturnal foragers and subterranean burrowers, shelter from the bright sunny sky

    Some creatures fly. Some leap and bound. Some scurry or wriggle or crawl
    Above ground or underground, in magnetic termite mounds, the outback hosts them all.

    Now the wide outback is calling. So we'll do what swagmen must.
    Surrender to the seductive lures, of Miss Wanderlust.

    I'm one who hears that natures call. So I'll never need a push.
    A little cloud of dust will soon betray. "The Swagman has gone bush."

    Then at day's end, beside the camp-fire, we'll discuss where we have been
    We'll enjoy again the excitement, of the wonderful sights we've seen.

    And when the night has fallen, and the camp-fire slowly dies.
    We'll rest in deep contented sleep, beneath cloudless jewel-studded skies.

    N.

    fairwinds - 01:15pm Jul 5, 1997 PDT (#459 of 461)
    ...in antibes, france...posted time+9 hours

    we'll miss you, jolly swagman. have a great time on your walkabout. will you eat some grubs?


    Strange Food

    Jolly Swagman - 10:33am Jul 9, 1997 PDT (#462 of 462)

    I said I wouldn't post for a while, as I overland, from shore to shore
    My four wheel drive has a crack in the head. I'm delayed, so I've time for one more.

    A "Fare Thee Well" from fairwinds asked, if grubs I would partake.
    The witchetty grub is aboriginal food, which they eat, like Yanks eat steak.

    They're wriggling things two inches long, like caterpillar's hairy and white,
    They hold them squirming over an open mouth. Suddenly! --- they're out of sight.

    The question has aroused my thoughts, and put me in a mood.
    To reflect upon the subject, of some folks very strange food.

    After many years of travelling. I no longer am surprised
    When the most inedible foreign muck, is served before my eyes.

    Folks take something appalling, then with spice and herbs embellish.
    Then they serve it up with pomp and style and scoff the stuff with relish

    Providing that it's mainly made from local meat or fish
    It's proudly prepared in a sumptuous way, so it's their regional dish.

    Have you ever heard or seen of tripe? A food most suitably named.
    There is a part of England where this masterpiece is famed.

    It's made from the stomach of a ruminant, I'm squeamish so it sounds crude.
    But aficionados claim, when served with onions, it's really very good food.

    I was introduced to a special dish by my gourmet friend called Harry
    He said, "You'll enjoy this meal my boy, we call it calamary."

    A slimy squid, cut in rings and fried, He said, "Eat up, it won't hurt ya."
    I tried a tiny sample, and to me, it tastes like gutta-percha.

    In Scotland the noble Haggis has, been eaten for, a hundred generations
    The caterwauling bagpipes simulate the sound, of the ululating dirge of it's relations.

    In the place where I was raised, they have, a delicacy named laverbread.
    It's an acquired taste, and one which visitors, should never, never be fed.

    It's made from special seaweed. It's nutritious and high in iron.
    An encounter of an oozy green kind, which only intrepid gourmets try on.

    I dined in the town of Antibes, just a year or so ago,
    I'm sure I saw them eating snails, (although the menu said l'escargot.)

    In Merrie England's the clay hedgehog is prepared in a special way.
    It's baked in the embers of a gypsies fire, in a sarcophagus made of clay.

    Now leg of ham is popular, but it comes from the legs of hogs.
    So why did I shudder, when in France I saw, them eat the legs of frogs?

    The national dish of the USA, is now found around the world,
    The Old Glory and the golden arches, proudly fly unfurled.

    The ubiquitous Big M signs you'll see, where ever you work or play
    It's super fast-food you can eat right here, or drive-in and take away

    I tasted these MacThings with fries, as the adverts said I must,
    The only tastes I could recognise, were diesel oil and sawdust.

    The taste was not for me, in fact, I can't believe it's lawful.
    I think the dish should be renamed and I suggest MacAwful.

    I have read in nutrition books, an army, on it's stomach, marches.
    I don't think it could march very far, on the food from the golden arches

    There is another food, of a poultry type, exported from the USA.
    It's incredibly delicious. If you can believe, what the adverts say.

    It's marvellous stuff and all the world, should really think they're lucky.
    A secret herb mix, concocted for you, by the Colonel from Kentucky.

    My vegetarian friend insists, God's animals you should not eat,
    Now if that's what God intended, why did He make them out of meat?

    If He really didn't want them eaten, I'm sure that He could,
    have recalled what He did with trees and made them out of wood.

    My curiosity has prompted me to try most unusual dishes.
    Sometimes against my better judgement and against my dear wife's wishes.

    I've tried most of the bizarre foods that have been served to me.
    Very often, to my extreme regret, as it later proved to be.

    At a buffet I once impulsively said. "I'll taste everything on the table."
    Even the mustard, which was kept by the fire hose with "RED ALERT" on the label.

    I've suffered 'Montezuma's Revenge' and Indonesia's 'Bali Belly'.
    I've had some really scary results, from stuff from my local deli.

    I've eaten some red hot chilli, and fiery goulash as well.
    In Bombay I tried the 'Devils Furnace Curry'. And that, really was, Hot as Hell.

    While I reflect on the subject of, eruptions catastrophic.
    Which have emanated from, my naive, adventures gastronomic.

    I realize now, I've sometimes rushed, where wise men feared to tread.
    Sometimes with quite spectacular results. Its a wonder I'm not yet dead.

    I ask myself, what was the worst, that I can ever recall.
    The villain is, the devil who owns, that deli at the shopping mall.

    So many times, I've been upset. Now I've decided to call it quits.
    Now if something is a little too spicy, it quickly gives me the runs.

    Now I've come to terms with my stomach's age, to ensure it doesn't throw up.
    I'll be cirumspect of what's on my plate, and what's been poured in my cup.

    To risk the tortured stomach, is now more than I would dare.
    I now say "NO!" when I'm asked to try, the enigmatic local fare.

    Plain meals may sound unexciting, but at least I can sleep at night.
    Instead of writhing in agony, because my stomach's too old to fight.

    In summary, I must conclude, the food that some adore.
    Can often be, the very same food, that their kinfolk, just abhor.

    I can't understand how some folks can live, on the peculiar stuff they do.
    'One mans meat is another mans poison', is a saying that's very true.

    N

    Repairs to vehicle


    Jolly Swagman - 03:08am Sep 6, 1997 PDT (#508 of 508)

    Being Repaired to Be Prepared

    I've just returned from my inland tour and I 'clicked' on the Writing scene.
    It didn't take long to read what was written, while out the bush I've been.

    So I'll start again where I left off, responding to Wanderlust's call.
    My trusty steed showing signs of wear needs a major overhaul.

    When planning serious country trips, the best advice by far,
    is warn your banker in advance, you must overhaul your car.

    First it was transmission, betraying signs of wear.
    Yellow grindings in the oil pan. "You can see them shining there".

    "This car could go a year like that, and it may be all right."
    "But with your luck Mate, you could be back, before tomorrow night."

    As he tilted the pan sideways, to let the thin oil flow.
    It reminded me of my gold-panning days, which I did some time ago.

    But the tiny grains of gold dust, which had made my weak pulse rocket.
    this time would mean, I soon would be, twelve hundred out of pocket.

    "There are only two parts made of brass,in this type of gearbox case.
    But we'll have to take the box apart, if those I must replace."

    "The thrust races and bushes are the parts which will be worn.
    I'll order a new set today." and he reached out for the phone.

    Well, now I'm sure, the gearbox, is as good as new.
    And should give me no trouble, for another year or two.

    So then I had my four wheel drive, checked out, from front to back.
    I sure don't want a breakdown, while I'm away outback.

    A radiator leak, had not been there, when I looked last time.
    "See the little brown stains there, almost covered up with grime?"

    "We'll soon get it fixed, there's a specialist, not very far away.
    We can take it over and get it back, before we quit today."

    "Of course a hundred bucks at least, is what it'll set you back
    But that's much better than being stranded, in the lonely dry outback."

    "Look at the tyres, in the front, they're getting a bit worn."
    He tenderly caressed the balding treads, and he looked at me with scorn

    "A couple of Desert Duellers." He nudged me with a grin,
    "I'll do a special deal for you, on stock which just came in."

    Again he nudged my ribs and winked, and his face lit up with glee,
    as he said "Say 375 in CASH - (Tax free for my wife and me)."

    "You need a wheel alingment. The 'toe-in's 'toeing out'.
    and the camber of the bias seems it's suffering from gout."

    I add the costs and ask myself, will this ever end.
    As he comes up close and whispers "Fifty bucks, 'cos you're my friend."

    And now the air conditioner, fan speeds one and two,
    don't seem to be responding as they always used to do.

    His head under the dashboard, mumbled "I've found what's let you down.
    I'll send it to the new guy, who's just opened across town."

    He showed me a scorched and blackened piece, the wires burned right through.
    "A hundred bucks is what these cost". I can't believe it's true.

    Then when I start her in the morning, she doesn't sound quite right.
    Though she was running sweetly, when I switched her off last night.

    Then I tried again the next day, and the same sounds I could hear.
    I've had cars long enough to know, when the motor's sounding queer.

    She's either blown a gasket or a plug's not firing right.
    Ill take it down the garage and I'll get it back tonight.

    Alas, I fear that spluttering noise, means costs I'll have to face.
    I'm sure it's caused by a crack in the head, or even in the case.

    But the guy I trust to do this job, can't fix it for a while.
    I don't have time to sit and wait, I'm running out of time.

    I need some other workshop, so the 'yellows' I quickly scanned
    I picked the biggest advert for a new place close at hand.

    His workshop was quite empty, just a wrecked car here and there.
    Apart from that, it's silent and ominously bare.

    As I approach, I hear him hum, the car repairers hymn.
    "Oh Lord give him a wallet with a Gold Amex within."

    I look into his bloodshot eyes, and really can't say why,
    But he's got the leer of a tax inspector, about to suck me dry.

    He said "Start her up." So I turned the key and coaxed her ailing motor into life.
    She gave a little cough and he shouted, "Shut her off.-she sounds worse than my wife."

    "When the main flange of the conrod makes the tappets take the load,
    and the piston rings are buggered, you'll need the cylinders rebored."

    "And those valves," he said, "are worn more than the shims above the sprocket."
    I've heard this technobabble before. It means I'm thousands out of pocket.

    With mouth downcast and trembling lip, I stand silent and forlorn.
    I feel like the sheep with the Golden Fleece, who's going to be shorn.

    I asked "How much?", he shook his head, put his hand upon his heart.
    "It's very hard to be exact until I take the lot apart."

    He scratched his head and whispered, five - six - seven hundred - eight.
    Soon he's past the thousand, as breathlessly I wait.

    With furrowed brows, in hundreds, he counts it up again,
    as my superannuation disappears down the drain.

    He grimly said "TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS", his face as bold as brass.
    My first response, (which I withheld), was "You can kiss my tail."

    I know I'll get no answer as with dismay in my heart
    I ask how it can cost so much for labour and for parts

    So reluctantly, I had to give, the man the 'Go-ahead'.
    Without this car, my trip outback is well and truly dead.

    Now when I count how much it costs, because outback I want to be.
    I wish that like Mahomet's mountain, the outback could come to me.

    At last our noble steed was fixed and she's safe for what we'd planned.
    So we left on our historic trip, to explore the vast inland.

    N.

    ON KNIGHTS TO THE RESCUE

    KNIGHTS TO THE RESCUE relates the indicent when I posted an article in the writing folder. Clairesum mistakenly thought I was wrong in posting the article in this folder and said so.. The White knights, (system operators) Joan Grimes and Pat Scott sprang to my defense. N.

    clairesum 08:24pm Jun 2, 1998 PDT

    Norm this is a place to talk ABOUT writing not to post an entire article or story.

    Claire
    Joan Grimes 07:47am Jun 4, 1998 PDT RoundTables Host - Gardendale, AL ------- ICQ#4793731

    Claire,

    I am sorry but your are very wrong. This is a place to post your writing. Norm (Jolly Swagman) has posted things here before.

    I am sure that your are just trying to promote the place for which you have left a link but you must realize that we enjoy Norm's writing here and want him to post it here.

    Joan>

    Pat Scott- 08:12am Jun 4, 1998 PDT 617 of 664 RoundTables Host...Guelph, ON, Canada

    I've enjoyed yet another of your wonderful short stories. I don't post here very often as I'm not a writer but I do read all of the posts and when I see your name pop up, I know that I'm in for a treat.

    I'm printing it off to take upstairs to Jack to read. I know that he will enjoy that one for sure.

    Hope to read another one soon, and I'm sorry but I'm not a critique person! I just know whose writing I enjoy reading and whose I don't, but your writing is at the top of my list of enjoyment!

    Pat

    Jolly Swagman - 10:57am Jun 5, 1998 PDT (#623 of 664)

    June 6, 1998

    The 'Writing Page', it seemed to me, had been a trifle slow.
    It seemed to lack the repartee, it had some time ago.

    I thought I'd post a page or two to stimulate some life.
    But little did I realize, I'd be causing someone strife.

    Claire said "My boy your writing, should not be here, GET OUT!
    This page is not to post your stuff, but just to talk about."

    Now Rejection Slips I'm accustomed to, (I've had them from experts.)
    Tho' I've been rejected many times, being 'kicked out' always hurts.

    For several days, I walked around with downcast saddened face.
    Whate'er I do, I know I can't, please all the human race.

    The teardrops fell on my trembling hands, and smudged my little verse,
    Damned tears blurred my reddened eyes, making matters so much worse.

    Then from cyber Camelot did come, the Ladye Joan de Grimes,
    The Jolly Swagman's 'Noble White Knight', his champion just in time.

    "Pray hold thy tongue." quoth The Ladye Joan, "Yon swagman's wrote before.
    Some folk like to read what yon scribe hath writ, don't boot him out the door."

    Nay fancie rules hath yon fellow broke, nor laws hath he transgressed,
    Yon wand'ring bard spake hum'rous tales, pray leave the swagman rest."

    Then along came another defender, the fair sysop Pat Scott,
    "Oh Norm" she said, "I really do, enjoy your work a lot."

    "I like to read your written work, post another one 'real soon.'
    OK fair Pat, I'll do what I can, before the end of June.

    Now I sit and count the entries, for the work which I have done.
    The score is in my favour, 'Welcome' two against 'Get Out' one.

    How kind of them to take the time, to give me their support,
    It's always nice to hear the words, "I like what you just wrote."

    So now the downcast face which I, was wearing for a while,
    Has gone, now it has been replaced, with my normal blissful smile.

    I now don't feel that no one cares, or that my work has been in vain.
    I'll carry on writing down my thoughts, then soon I'll post again.

    I'm pleased that the piece I posted, brought some pleasure, not just strife.
    Now let's hear from others who like to write. Tell what happens in your life.

    Norm.

    Joyce Sheley - 11:10am Jun 5, 1998 PDT(#624of 664)

    Norm.......Please continue your fine writings. Loved the verse you just posted.

    Pat Scott- 11:49am Jun 5, 1998 PDT(#625of 664)
    RoundTables Host...Guelph, ON, Canada

    My dear Norm!!!

    I'm sitting here and the tears are running down my face too...but tears of laughter that I've not been able to contain!!

    What a wonderful poem. I know that Claire will also have a laugh at that one.

    I look forward to your next instalment.

    Luvya

    Pat

    Joan Grimes- 09:17pm Jun 5, 1998 PDT (#626 of 664)
    RoundTables Host - Gardendale, AL ------- ICQ#4793731

    Norm,

    Thanks for making me smile this evening. I needed that!! You are wonderful as always!1

    Joan

    clairesum- 11:37am Jun 6, 1998 PDT(#629 of 664) NORM: (giggling and gasping) I was WRONG I APOLOGIZE and[[[[[[[[[HUGGLES]]]]]] big guy don't.(S) cry.


    ON THE FALL OF A PHILANDERER

    -Jolly Swagman - 12:43pm Aug 28, 1998 PDT #656 of 664)

    I've been outback for quite some time, as Swagmen like to do.
    Observing nature's beauty and its 'Open Zoo'.

    I hadn't checked my radio, or TV for the news.
    I'd heard only the outback sounds, and only watched the views.

    But now I'm back, I've caught up with events which have occurred.
    I must admit I'm mystified, if not to say disturbed.

    I'll offer this small ditty, as I observe the USA.
    Chastising Mr Number One, it's the custom of the day.

    Let me tell it as a story, our hero is named Bill
    A serial philland'rer, couldn't keep his zipper still.

    His political opponents, said notoriety he'd earned
    For playing round with a sweet young thing, (A young White House intern)

    He vehemently denied it, claiming "NO SIR! I DID NOT!
    Have a sexual relationship". (Was it one that he forgot?)

    He was sure they couldn't prove it, they'd need a magic wand,
    They would need to have firm evidence, like 'smoking' gun in hand.

    They spent 40 million dollars, proving that Bill was a liar,
    For their victim holds high office. They don't come any higher.

    Now little did he know, indeed, how could he guess,
    that hidden in a closet was that - 'still smoking' dress.

    With threats of tests on DNA and samples to submit,
    The evidence was building, damning bit by damning bit

    At last he did remember. "Indeed" he did admit,
    "I had a sex encounter which was inappropriate."

    Our sympathetic thoughts, go to his daughter and his wife,
    as insensitive reporters intrude upon their life.

    He brought shame to his family and his highly esteemed rank,
    But he said it wasn't serious, just a harmless little prank.

    No it wasn't very serious, (if you believe his tale),
    As he claimed about his smoking, (S)he didn't really inhale.

    I suppose he just can't help himself, he can't resist their charms,
    when a sensuous shapely female, is in his waiting arms.

    He can't resist a cuddle then a fondle and caress,
    then 'conduct inappropriate', that they force him to confess.

    His henchmen gathered round him, some distraught, some filled with rage,
    "Billy boy, we've gotta move this story from Front Page."

    "Let's fire a hundred missiles - doesn't matter where they land,
    we'll say our real target was some 'terrorrorrist' band."

    And if we hit some buildings, we'll say "But that's all right,
    they've been making nasty chemicals, - been at it day and night."

    Well I must admit, philandering was moved from the front page,
    Shots of carnage and destruction show the madness of this age.

    Now the Rouble is in TRouble and the Dow is in 'free fall'
    But the spotlight's off the White House. A relief for one and all.

    Indiscretions move from front page news, away from public glare,
    They're out of sight where they belong. Most folks don't really care

    Don't think I'm down here laughing, at your Billy's sorry plight,
    Our 'pollies' too are imprudent when their pants are off at night.

    Well that's my observation. This swagman's tale has ended.
      If good taste I've transgressed, forgive me. No offence intended.

    Norm.

    Teresa Bloomingdale - 08:41am Aug 29, 1998 PDT (#657 of 664)
    Omaha, Nebraska

    Norm! Are you Jolly Swagman? I love your poem...really it should be published! (Or has it been? I assume you wrote this!) Please consider sending it to your local newspaper; it's really very well done and just the right length.

    Let's see more of your stuff!

    Teresa
    Janette- 11:54am Aug 29, 1998 PDT(#658of 664)
    Spring Hill, FL +3

    JOLLY SWAGMAN - I think your poem is a riot and agree with Teresa that it should be published. However, I have to add that I disagree with your assessment of the reason for the bombing. Right on target otherwise.

    Jolly Swagman- 06:33pm Aug 29, 1998 PDT (#659 of 664)

    Dear Janette and Teresa, I'm grateful for your comments,
    It's nice to know I've raised a grin, with my rhyming nonsense.

    Now Teresa, if you'd really like to see more of my stuff,
    This folder keeps its archives, you can track them fast enough.

    Just click on 'Search' and type my name and soon upon your screen,
    Like droppings in the forest, it reveals where I have been

    Yes Janette I agree, bad headlines were not instrumental,
    Though suspiciously convenient, it was just coincidental.

    But when you write of pollies, you must be an opportunist,
    If you want to raise a smile, as a 'rhyming words cartoonist'

    Norm.


    Teresa Bloomingdale- 10:05am Aug 30, 1998 PDT (#660 of 664)
    Omaha, Nebraska

    Norm: Great! Have you been published? If not, why not? Please think about it...get a copy of The Writer's Market and see who buys that kind of verse.

    Modern Maturity would be a perfect place...just a thought.

    Teresa

    Rhea Coleman- 08:51pm Aug 31, 1998 PDT (#<661 of 664)
    Hurley, New Mexico

    Jolly Swagman: I've saved each poem you have written during the time I have been on Senior Net, especially the one about my stories. This week I've started my book of booklets and with your permission I'd like to include it. The title of the book of booklets is: Say: She lived. So, I wrote a poem for my family to be a part of a poster. We are hoping to have the pictures developed tomorrow, and then the fun really starts. Please, may I put your poem as one of the triumphs this one received while she lived? I mean really lived.
    Janette- 11:17am Sep 3, 1998 PDT(#662 of 664)
    Spring Hill, FL

    JOLLY - After your latest reply I'll have to start saving your poems, too. They are great. I agree with TERESA - if they haven't been published they should be.


    Jolly Swagman - 02:31am Sep 6, 1998 PDT (#663 of 664)

    Rhea,

    I'm flattered that you would want to use one of my poems. The poem to which you refer was of course written for you. If you would like to use it, you are most welcome.

    Norm.


    http://geocities.datacellar.net/Heartland/Estates/9291
    e-mail me norm@hotkey.net.au
    Copyright     Ó Norman Oliver 1998

    Updated May 30th 1999
    ===================================================


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