Ode To An Australian Magpie Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

My head aches and throbbing numbness pains
My sense, as though of Bundy I had drunk
As I drag my bike out from the drains
One minute past where pavement-wards had sunk;
Tis through disdain of my unhappiness
That thou, pied-wing bomber from the trees
In some invidious lees
Of eucalypts and shadows numberless,
Chortle with glee in full-throttled ease...

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

O for a draught of Fosters! That hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth
Tasting of hops with a dark tan sheen,
Garden bars, cask plonk, and sunburnt mirth!
Full of the true, the brashest youthful scene
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
Past pouted jaw-set mouth;
That I might slink and spot the bird unseen
And with a shotgun make an end of him...

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

Fade far away, shoot through and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here where hangovers give forth added groan
And headaches shake the morning's parted hairs
Where youth grows jaundiced, grey and sallow
With parrot-parched despairs;
Where sobriety cannot keep her lustrous eyes
And new rounds shout for us beyond tomorrow.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

Away! Away! For I will deal to thee -
You that were never in my best regards
Will meet my measure by Rule 303
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards;
Already fly thee! Tender is the pate
And unhappily I again make moan
Knocked about by dive-bomb ways;
But yet it is not too late
Save for what from heaven is with the flies blown
And murderous intent and vengeance pays.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

I cannot see what wrigglers are at my feet,
Nor what soft insects hang upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each treat
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the eucalypt, and the gum-tree wild;
The wattle and the coastal turpentine;
Retiring serpents cover'd up in leaves;
And November's eldest child,
The scarce-born lamb athwart the twine,
The murderous haunt of flies on summer eves.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

Darkly I listen; and, for many a time
I have been in love with thy most painful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my choking breath;
More than ever is it right for thee to die,
To cease upon the midnight with some pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such cacophony!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I thoughts in vain -
That thy high requiem become a sod.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

Thou wast not born for life, oh mortal Bird!
The hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the heart of Sinbad, when, sick for home,
He stood in fear amid the darkening gloom
Bearding the Roc's wrath
On tragic battlements, louring on the foam
Of perilous seas, in feathery lands way-worn.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".

Way-worn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back to thee to strip thy pelf!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving self.
Adieu! adieu! thy final anthem fades
Past the paddocks, over the quaggy seep,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the acacia glades:
Waddle giggle gargle up the creek
Fled is that music - still I shake and weep.

"Quardle oodle aardle wardle doodle".