’69

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‘69

The rains have come and washed away the dust.
The drought of ’68 is in the past.
The old man talks of selling-up at last —
Another drought like that and we’ll go bust.
Our worn-out ploughs are little more than rust.
The overdraft is climbing way too fast.
With falling prices for our milk forecast,
There’s little chance that we will earn a crust.

Dan’s back from Vietnam — he nearly died;
Was burning up — the Yanks packed him in ice.
War kills in different ways — the fever tried,
But some are not meant for the sacrifice.
He knows my thoughts, and so takes me aside —
Gives me his army boots — and his advice.

— D.N. O’Brien

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The Bird Band

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝

One evening walking through the scrub,
(A shortcut home from Riley’s pub.)
Under the glow of a full moon,
I heard a brisk and lively tune.

I looked around, and there I saw
Upon that moonlit forest floor,
A pumpin’ out a chorus grand,
A finely feathered all bird band.

And all around on stumps and logs
Sat kangaroos and native dogs,
And emus swaying to the beat
Jumped up and down and stamped their feet.

Echidnas danced Irish quadrilles
While skillfully avoiding quills.
Goannas flicked in time their tongues,
While in the band with bursting lungs

Black glossy red-tailed cockatoos
In harmony sang out the blues.
On ukuleles magpies strummed.
A flock of honey-eaters hummed.

With twelve apostles on the drums,
The beat it echoed from the gums,
While lyre birds serenely played.
(They’re known for being rather staid).

A bell bird rang his built in chime.
A whip bird cracked his whip in time.
A kookaburra, with a smile,
On his guitar played finger-style.

I stayed a while, then home to bed
With music coursing through my head.
I woke and wondered had I dreamed.
Outside my window, moonlight beamed,

And all was quiet and nothing stirred.
I listened hard but nothing heard.
No, not a noise of fur or fowl,
Except — the hooting of an owl.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Fem — Trans Wars

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐦 – 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐬

The crazies are bashing each other;
Each feminine dad and butch mother.
It’s rather ironic
In these days demonic —
Your sister may well be your brother;

Your mother may well be your Pa,
And Pappy may be old Grandma.
The feminists even
Say Trans are deceivin’;
It’s all gone a little too far.

— D.N. O’Brien

Beersheba

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𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐛𝐚

Faint rays falling on the horses and the host,
And the Officers of Germany are dreaming of the coast.
Desert day is dawning, the defenders are dug in.
Slouch-hatted soldier scrapes the salt-beef from the tin.
Turk stokes the withered wood, spreads palms towards the fire,
And wonders why there are no mines, and where is the barbed wire?
On drags the dreary day and late grows the hour —
Before the sun begins to set, a cry from the tower:
“There are cavalry towards the east, so danger’s close at hand!”
But the Officers of Germany, the Turks don’t understand.
The Officers of Germany are tired of sweat and sand.
The Officers of Germany are in a foreign land.
An Officer of Germany screams at the Turks: “You see!
They are but mounted infantry — they are not cavalry!”
Eight hundred horsemen, mounted tall, that is the spotter’s count.
Eight hundred infantry, that’s all — and they will all dismount.
The Officers of Germany have fallen for the ruse;
The Officers in Germany will read the dreadful news.
Scream the German officers: “Men, now hold your fire!”
The Turks can see the plain, the rising dust, and no barbed wire.
Come on the lines of horsemen, and too late the Turkish sons
See that the riders won’t dismount — they’re underneath the guns.
Eight hundred riders make the charge and all of them stay mounted,
Except those who from their mounts fall, and thirty one are counted.
Slung on their backs their rifles, and with bayonets held on high,
They reach the Turkish trenches as the Turks shoot at the sky.
And suddenly the fighting is all over — as before,
This blasted land, the blood-soaked sand that knows the ways of war,
This poor Beersheba, once again, gives up her precious wells,
Remembering the pounding hooves, gun shots and bursting shells.
And many Turks that night they find a cold and dusty bed,
And slouch hats top the rifles of the riders who are dead.
The lucky Turks are led away into captivity,
As are those splendid men, the Officers of Germany.

— D.N. O’Brien

Beersheba Charge

Climbing Mount Insanity

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Climbing Mount Insanity

Australia struggles on towards the peak.
A peak that with each minute seems to grow
Still higher, ever higher, as the weak
Cheer on the mountaineer, from down below.
Australia scrambles; never does it slow
Its maniacal climb towards the height;
While all that once was high is brought down low,
And all that once was wrong now must be right.
Australia strives so all may see the light
Shine down on them from high insanity,
But for an instant, before endless night
Descends upon their foolish vanity.
And should one day it scale that mountain tall,
Then on its long descent — then it will fall.

— D.N. O’Brien

The rise and rise of the insane left

The Sonneteer!

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Trigger Warning!

{I have, with some trepidation, published the following rather rude and insensitive sonnet due to the persistent urging of the author — an unfortunate and somewhat misguided acquaintance who refers to himself as “The Sonneteer”. This anti-social but arguably talented individual has been banned from all online platforms and I realize that I am taking a risk here in publishing his work, but feel it is my duty as a passionate supporter of free speech to give him a voice. I must, however, state very clearly that I do not necessarily condone the graphic language used nor the sentiments expressed by “The Sonneteer” and have warned him that while I wish to support him, the possibility of my posting any of his works (sonnets no doubt) in future will require a reasonable toning down of such profanity.}

The Sonneteer!

Come, sing high praises to the sonneteer!
And damn to Hades all those worn-out crocks —
Those fiends who’d mock him, and his good name smear.
Upon their houses and their heads a pox!
On them, from high, descend a rain of rocks!
And let them burn in Hell for wicked words!
The sonneteer knows well the knave who knocks
His works — he knows the smell of stinking turds
Of cawing crows and vultures — bitter birds
Who feast on carrion and call it art.
The sonneteer, his loins with courage girds,
And in the faces of such fools does fart!
He voids the moist miasma of his bowels
Unto the lungs of such fine-feathered fowls.

© The Sonneteer, 2019