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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - Page 71
PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK
Business letter
Taking a bath Nephew John Broad is the gate and wide is the path, That leads man to his shining bath, But ere you spend the shining hour, 'Midst spray, and soap and sluice and shower, Be careful, where'er you be, To shut the door and turn the key. I had a friend-my friend no more, Who failed to bolt the bathroom door, A maiden aunt came in one day, As in the bath submerged he lay. She didn't notice Nephew John And turned the boiling water on. He had no time, nor even scope To camouflage himself with soap
But gave a yell, and flung aside The sponge with which he sought to hide. It fell to earth I know not where, He beat his breast in wild despair And then like Venus from the foam, Sprang into. view and made for home. His aunt fell swooning to the ground Alas ! they never brought her round, She died, intestate in her prime, The victim of another's crime. And so poor John cannot forget How by a breach of etiquette He lost in one foul swoop and plunge His aunt, his honour and his sponge. DANNY WEBB (3DB)
The Monkey’s Viewpoint
Three monkeys sat on a cocoanut tree Discussing things as they're said to be; Said one to the others-"Now listen, you two There's a certain rumour that can't be true ; That man descended from our noble race, Why! The very idea! It's a dire disgrace. No monkey ever deserted his wife Starved her baby-or ruined her life, And you've never known a mother monk To leave her young with others to bunk Till they scarcely knew their mother. And another thing you'll never see A monk build a fence round a cocoanut tree, And let the cocoanuts go to waste, Forbidding all other monks a taste. Why,,if I built a fence around this tree Starvation would force you to steal from me. Here's a thing another monk won't do Go out at night and get on a stew, Or use a gun, or a club, or a knife To take some other monkey's life. Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss, But brother-he didn't descend from us.
Why worry?
Dear Sir, In reply to your letter requesting me to send a cheque, I wish to inform you that the present condition of my bank account makes it ordinarily impossible. My shattered financial condition is due to Union Laws, Provincial Laws, Sister-in-Laws. Brother-inLaws, and Outlaws. Through these Laws I am compelled to pay a busi ness tax, super tax, railway tax, petrol tax, gas tax, excise tax, sales tax, tariff tax and amusement tax, of which I have none. Even my brain is taxed. I am re quired to get a business licence, car licence, truck licence, not to mention marriage licence and a dog licence. I am required to contribute to every society and organisation which the genius of man is capable of bringing to light the women's relief, the unemployment relief and the gold diggers' relief. Also to every hospital and charitable institution in the country including the Red Cross and the double cross.
For my own safety I am required to carry a life insurance, property insurance, liability insurance, burglary insurance, accident insurance, earthquake insurance, war risk insurance, unemployment insurance, old age insurance and fire insurance. My business is so governed that I do not know today, nor can I find out, who owns it. I am inspected, expected, suspected, rejected, disrespected, examined, and re-examined, informed, required, summoned, fined, commanded and compelled until I provide an inexhaustible supply of money for every known need, desire or hope of the human race. Simply because I re fused to donate something or other, I am boycotted, talked about, held up, held down, and robbed until I am ruined. I can tell you honestly, that except for the miracle that happened, I could not enclose the cheque. The Wolf that comes to many doors nowadays, had pups in my kitchen. I sold them, and here is the money ..
... and another
Dear Sir, For the following reasons I am unable to send you the cheque you ask for I have been held up, held down, sand bagged, walked upon, sat upon, flattened out and squeezed by the Income Tax, the Super Tax, the Motor Tax, and by every Society, Organisation, and Club that the inventive mind of man can think of to extract what I may or may not have in my possession. I have been sucked dry for the Red Cross, the Black Cross, the Blue Cross, the Double Cross, and every hospital, male, female and infantile, in the country. The Government has governed my business until I don't know who owns it. I am inspected, suspected, examined and re-examined, informed, reformed, required, requested, com-
manded and demanded, so that I no longer know what I am, where I am, who I am, or why I am here at all. All that I know is that I am expected, suspected, surmised, alleged and accused of being an inexhaustible supply of money for every need, desire, want, lack, requirement or hope of the human race, and because I will not go out and beg, borrow, filch, purloin, misappropriate, rob, thieve or steal money to give away, I am cussed, discussed, scandalised, boycotted, talked to, talked at, talked about, lied to, lied about, held up, hung up, rung up, written to, wired to, robbed and damned near ruined. The only reason why I am obliged to live at all is to see what the hell is going to happen next, in case I have been missed somewhere. Hoping cordially that you are the same, Yours faithfully.
Either you are successful or you are not successful. If you are successful there is nothing to worry about. If you're not successful there are only two things to worry about ; Your health is either good or you are sick. If your health is good there is nothing to worry about; if you are sick there are only two things to worry about, you are going to get well or you are going to shuffle off this mortal coil. If you get well there is nothing to worry about, and if you are going to shuffle off this mortal coil, there are only two things to worry about; you are either going to heaven or you are bound for the other place. If you are going to heaven there is nothing to worry about; if, on the other hand, you are going to the other place, you will be so busy on your arrival shaking hands with old friends that you won't have any time to worry so why worry?
The Little Woman
The little woman, to her I bow And doff my hat as I pass her by; In reverence the furrows that mark her brow And the sparkling love-light in her eye. The little woman who stays at home And makes no bid for the world's applause; Who never sighs for a chance to roam, But toils all day in a grander cause. The little woman, who seems so weak, Yet bears her burdens day by day And no one has ever heard her speak In a bitter or loud complaining way. She sings a snatch of a merry song, As she toils in her home from morn till night. Her work is hard and the hours long But the little woman's heart is light. A slave to love is that woman small, And her burdens heavier yearly grow, But somehow she seems to bear them all As the deep'ning lines in her white cheeks show. Her children all have a mother's care, Her home the touch of a good wife knows; No burden's too heavy for her to bear, But, patiently doing her best, she goes. The little woman, may God be kind To her wherever she dwells today; The little woman, who seems to find Her joy in toiling along life's way. May God bring peace to her workworn breast And joy to her mother-heart at last; May love be hers when it's time to rest And the roughest part of the road is passed. The little woman-how oft it seems God chooses her for the mother's part, And many a grown-up sits and dreams To-day of her with an aching heart. For he knows well how she toiled for him And he sees it now that it is too late; And often his eyes with tears grow dim For the little woman whose strength was great. E.A.G.
Be sure to wipe your boots
Young Willie was a grubby boy And he was very fond of play, Though home he crept, just like a mouse, He'd always hear his Mother say, "Be sure to wipe your boots." Poor Willie had an accident, Was cut in pieces by a train, The ambulance men brought him home, They also heard the same refrain, "Be sure to wipe your boots." The shock killed Mother and she flew To regions of celestial air, When Willie came, he heard her voice, "Before you climb the golden stair, Be sure to wipe your boots." F. OSWALD BARNETT