Doctor Death’s World Tour

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Doctor Death’s World Tour

I hear each story – sometimes shed a tear;
But wield my weapons for the woman’s sake.
I make the little devils disappear.
They can’t fight back, so it’s a piece of cake.
It’s sad I know, but with the cash I make,
It’s on a worldwide cruise I soon will go.
Old Europe, and the Med, Geneva’s lake,
And India, the tropics where winds blow
So warm, and too, the land of ice and snow –
Siberia – the steppes so vast and wide.
I’ll see the deserts, and the great Nile flow
In Egypt – on a camel I will ride
To see the sphinx – I’ll climb the pyramids.
I need a break from daily killing kids.

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Bill’s Boats

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Bill’s Boats

With Bill in charge the boats will soon be back.
Wrecks once again will sail the briny seas.
Of “refugees” there will not be a lack,
As Labor and the Greens rush to appease
The U.N. – they will fall upon their knees
And beg forgiveness for sins of the past:
The mercilessness of their enemies –
The Liberal scum who on a far isle cast
The people of the boats – soon at half-mast
They’ll fly the flag, and mourn all those returned
To their homelands – state: “They will be the last!
Let no more boats be sunk! Let none be burned!”
Flotillas gather on those distant shores.
The going price to smuggle people soars.

Under Labor illegal boat arrivals will resume

Hand Grenade Instructors

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Hand Grenade Instructors

It’s not a job most people would desire;
The guys who do it always seem so tense.
They count each day until they can retire.
Their extra pay is little recompense
For teaching those without an ounce of sense,
And petrified with fear, just how to throw
Grenades – the strain I guess must be immense.
Some fool beside you with a bomb – you know
That he may drop the bloody thing and blow
You both to Hell: “Don’t panic – pull the pin.
You see those dummies lined up in a row?
Now throw!” – the trainee’s face twists in a grin.
The primed grenade drops as his body shakes;
And in a cold sweat the instructor wakes.

10 Grenade fails

Commuzombies

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Commuzombies

We killed off communism once again;
But then we turned around and it was back.
And so we fought it, knocked it down, and then,
We killed off communism once again.
But soon the fiend came crawling from its den;
And so we bashed its skull, and heard it crack.
We killed off communism once again;
But then we turned around and it was back.

That Lazy N

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That Lazy N

It stood for Noel, that lazy N.
He passed it on to me back when
He had no cattle left to brand.
He said: “It’s yours”, and shook my hand.

I used it then for many years.
It branded cows, it branded steers.
In glowing coals was often fired;
But now the old iron is retired.

No longer will its letters sear
The heifer’s hide – the wild-eyed steer
Won’t bellow as with fire and spark
The red-hot metal makes its mark.

Now painted green, the brand is cold.
The last to use it hot grows old.
It rests there on its wooden stand.
There are no cattle left to brand.

{photo – D.N. O’Brien}

Alice

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Alice

Was in a bar, a dingy dive,
That Alice worked – just twenty five,
A bar girl, by grief driven mad.
A Yankee sailor, handsome lad,
She’d tell me was her absent beau:
“The ships are in – I want you go
And find him – bring him here to me.”
Each time this was her tearful plea.
And humour her, each time I would,
For in her heart the girl was good.

“He come – I know he will!” she’d cry.
“Alice, I’ve looked – not yet.” I’d lie.
Her son they’d taken from her breast;
Mad Alice never more would rest
Until she saw his father’s face.
At closing time she’d leave the place
And make her way through midnight’s gloom
Back to her wretched rented room,
And at her shrine, prayer candles burn;
And wait for her love’s safe return.

A Comforting Millstone

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For the sins of the fathers no men should be whipped –
For the men who were murdered or slaves who were shipped;
But the sins be acknowledged, a lesson to learn,
Lest the sons be inclined to repeat them in turn.

And the sons of the slaves and the men who were killed
Must acknowledge that they are now free and free-willed;
That they owe naught to any, nor do any owe
For what’s passed, compensation – all claims to forgo.

Now the words writ above are but vain hopes and prayers.
History’s “victim”, a scowl on his countenance wears,
As he sinks neath a burden of self-imposed weight,
And he never will drop it – or wipe clean the slate.