As I was going to St Ives

I saw a man with seven wives;

"Turn left dear," the first did say,

Then, "Right!", "Left!", "Right!", how he did pay

For joining that wierd sect, where any

Man could practice poly-gamy!

Back seat drivers, all of them,

But one, who sits beside him when

She is the 'flavour of the week'.

The others then are free to seek

The title of 'Tormentress Rex'

From rearward seats; he needs a Bex!

Mid the hills of Tarrawingee

Sat a little, huddled town,

Shrinking from the fearsome climate,

Gathered close, at Tarrawingee,

All because a hill of limestone

Had its uses in a smelter

Back in Broken Hill. A railway

Brought the workers and their families,

Took the limestone off for smelting,

Left the Dads and mums and children,

Lonely, out in Tarrawingee.

Little Freddie was not lonely

He was owner of a Teddy

Bear, in those days not so common.

Teddy made a funny growling

Noise, a soft and whooshing whisper;

Shooshed his fears at Tarrawingee.

Years went by. The bear forgotten.

Little Fred became a miner,

Only then to see the township

Disappear when closed the quarry.

Every building pulled apart, or

Carted off to Broken Hill and

Rebuilt there. But, what of Teddy?

Left behind on desert hills there.

Hills laid bare by children searching

For some twigs to start the kitchen

Fires, so Mum could cook their tea, but

In so doing killed the plant-life

For a half-hour's walking distance.

Teddy Bear got lost one day there.

Now I walk the bare hills, quiet

But for sounds of wind on desert.

Weird the sounds when night is falling,

Maybe it's the Bear a-growling?

Shooshing fears at Tarrawingee

Nothing to be scared of out there;

Nothing left, at Tarrawingee.

A Bombing Raid

Michael Jessop

The land that passed, on either side,

With anti-aircraft guns

Was bristling, waiting for a chance

To stop their daily runs

Into the heart of Germany,

But still their country called.

The planes flew on, in droves, in queues,

Through gaps; a project bold!

The broken shapes of Berlin lay

Ahead, "Ten minutes, Skipper."

The hours of flying came to this;

Just seconds to deliver,

And change the lives of those below

Who'd suffered long already,

The pilot, on his fifteenth flight,

That month, held his craft steady.

The years of war had left their marks;

It made it easy now

To turn and run in, dark or light,

And those below knew how

The plane would hold its course until

Above them, then a door

Would open, then a load fall out,

Upon the waiting poor.

The bitter, stupid, clever men

Had made these flights a need;

The only way to break the will

Of hard men, and to feed

The hopes of those who hoped for peace,

And food, and freedom too!

The aircraft crew were taking risks,

But, doing good, they knew.

The giant radial engines once

Were used to help to kill,

But now brought food and hope and fuel

To Berlin; waiting still

For peace, though war had long since ceased,

And children on the mounds

Of bricks would wait as each plane passed

For biscuits to rain down.

The blockade-running DC3s

And bigger aircraft, too,

Brought pilots back to Berlin skies;

The way there, they all knew.

But now their task was different, not

To blow the place asunder,

Their task? To break Joe Stalin's grip

With just a biscuit-bomber.

"I have nothing to declare."

He said at Customs, but,

The officer insisted that

He open up, the lot!

So, suitcase, bum-bag, laptop, too,

Came under expert eyes,

And dirty jeans and other clothes;

One pair of ill-used ties.

"What is this here?" the officer

Asked with a knowing smirk,

A little cylinder in hand,

"We've caught you at your lurk,

You budgie-smuggler, you'll do time,

For trafficing in fauna!"

"Just open it, you'll find it's just

My swimsuit from Majorca."