Memory

[Yorkshire Lad]

Give me a minute
It will come back to me
I wrote a poem down
Put it somewhere safe
And now I can't remember
What I have done with it
Oh well it was only a poem

[lizzytysh]

You put it here, thankfully...

[Byron]

Give me a minute
It will come back to me
I wrote a poem down
Put it somewhere safe
And now I can't remember
What I have done with it
Oh well it was only a poem

Give me an hour, or two
I'll have a hunt 'round for you
It'll be in a draft next to your desk
I'll get it to you
Ah..it's coming through

You've no need to ask
Your etherial prose
Is under your nose
Look at this screen
There, see what I mean.

[Yorkshire Lad]

To all you good people of literal prowess
Who have patiently waited now I must confess
There was never a poem for you to see
It was just a bout of naivety
To think that my words could congregate
Into a poem worthy of debate
Was quite absurd and not very wise
As this poetic concoction
Admirably implies
So please take a moment just like me
To erase these sad ramblings
From your memory

[Boss]

I cannot, I cannot
I cannot you see
These ramblings
Have reached me
Across the sea
They entered my veins
They entered my heart
In this I extol
To me they impart
I send out my thanks
This Antipodean’s posit
I dip my hat's lid
Sure as Yorkshire Lad does it

[Yorkshire Lad]

Thank you dear Boss
For your humble praise
And to you my friend
A glass I will raise
To think my ramblings
Touched you so
Is gratifying
And good to know
So from now on
I have gained a mate
Who says he is from
“The other side of fate”
Where could this be
Now let me see
Somewhere between
Death and destiny
If this be so
Whatever the worst
I wish you good fortune
Whichever comes first

[Geoffrey]

Yorkshire Lad wrote:
>It was just a bout of naivety


don't ask me why,
it's just the way it has to be -
but there should always be two pricks
over the 'i' in naïvety

[Boss]

Good fortune I need
For the road it is long
I ain’t complaining
I cannot be wrong
“The other side of fate”
It happens round three
This dyin’, this dancin’
A fait accompli
You have gained a mate
Do you speak with an accent?
I’ve looked at your work
From afar, it is decent
I’m a hard one to crack
Ask Mat or Diane
But I’m loyal, I’m honest
Just a little deadpan
I read out your poem
It made a good morning
I often feel hated
Like the end is a-dawning
I know little of Yorkshire
A cricketer, or not
I’m sure there is one guy
I call him ol' Boycott
Speaking of Geoffreys
This guy above me
Is clever, but cheeky
Like Muhammad Ali
I knew but another
A broken down lawyer
Money his master
So he shat on Tom Sawyer!
I think I said too much
I’m beginning to blether
Thanks again mate
Say, “G’day,” to your weather

[Yorkshire Lad]

This Geoffrey chap
Is clever you say
But I choose
To ignore him anyway
I don’t mind cheek
And I don’t mind clever
But always beware
When they conspire together
Then they become
Sarcastic deeds
On which the vitriol
Of hatred feeds
So let us converse
Of happier things
You mentioned cricket
And the joy it brings
But just at this moment
I feel your pain
The last few weeks
You have prayed for rain
But alas so cloudless
And rather sunny
Which here in Yorkshire
Seemed somewhat funny
But we do not gloat
So cry if you must
We have the Ashes
You have the dust
No worries my Friend
Not long will it be
Before sweet revenge
Is inflicted on me
For one thing you Aussies
Cannot stand
Are times when the poms
Have the upper hand

[mat james]

For one thing you Aussies
Cannot stand
Are times when the poms
Have the upper hand

Ha!
Very true

[Boss]

Mat James is so right
It’s so bloody true
Losing to England
Makes ya’ feel blue
But listen old Yorkshire
Who won the one dayer?
I watched it last night
My beard a bit greyer
Watson on fire
One sixty one
An MCG epic
In the night, in the sun
My dad was a pom
London at war time
Kicked Hitler’s arse
It was just sublime
Came here on a boat
To Melbourne, late forties
But like any young kid
He still dreamed of the sorties
He was the gunner
His dad flew the Spit
So you see Yorkshire Lad
Papa was a Brit
He came from Poland
The year nineteen twenty
I thank G-d that he did
For my life consequently
But I was born here
Vegemite on my toast
Aboriginal mystic
This land, I won’t boast
One dayers out of seven
The next one’s in Hobart
If the English win that
Be too much for my heart!

[Yorkshire Lad]

So your dad was a brit
I'd put money on it
By the way your fairplay
Shines through
You have won a one dayer
Something quite rare
So I'll give you credit
When due
But there a long way to go
For this cricketing show
I am sure we will bounce back again
And win in Hobart
So then it will start
Austrailians praying for rain
Then your beard will turn white
Such a lovely sight
But I sure hope your ticker
Keeps going
For it will be tough
When our bowlers hit rough
To prevent you puffing and blowing
So roll on Friday
And then I can say
Two one to the poms
I'm in heaven
Six one will do
We'll take pity on you
And give you one
Out of seven

[Boss]

I Googled up ‘Yorkshire’
A few things were unclear
But I knew in my heart British Isles
They said it was greenest
And also the keenest
This county’s a state by a mile!

To the white rose of York
I pop off this cork
Did Robin give one to Maid Marion?
Ben Kingsley pray tell
Played Gandhi so well
He forgot about hate and just carried ‘em

So you are up north
D’ya have a big port?
There’s a muso from there named Joe Cocker
And where I am from
Near my southern billabong
Like the Yanks we call football the ‘soccer’

But a better game than that
It remains all untapped
It is graceful, yet tough, not for fools
Its secret is scoring
No ‘one-one’ that’s boring
Its name is ‘Australian Rules’

I’m back onto sport
My trusty resort
So you think you will win it six one?
Come on Friday night
Gold and green in the fight
With Trott down and out on his bum!

We Aussies are tough mate
It’s our character trait
I reckon we’re the best in the world
From old Uluru
To Mick Dundee’s shoe
But our flag’s a bit stained when unfurled

I was in England perchance
In Wales and France
In the years 92, 93
And I really ain’t fakin’
‘Cos my heart is still achin’
To be kibbutzing again Galilee

[Yorkshire Lad]

So you googled my Yorkshire
Well now theres a poser
For up here theres no internet
A search engines found us
There are spies all around us
Watching me now I bet

And as to the rose thing
It's merely a "zen" thing
A symbol of innocent life
So when Marion met Robin
She said you can't bob in
To my bed until your my wife

And yes there's a port
There is also a fort
And Joe Cockers dad lives near me
An old yorkshire rocker
Who deserted to soccer
But hey what will be will be

And what are these "rules"
For Austrailian fools
We're not back to cricket I hope
If so watch your ticker
As it starts to beat quicker
When losing please tell me you'll cope

I will write again weekend
Condolences I'll send
When it's over bar any shouting
For my crystal ball
Is predicting it all
There gonna be a routing

[Boss]

It’s our national game
From the Gaelic it came
‘Cept we use oval balls like the rugby
A goal is worth six
A point if you miss
A draw is unheard of, they bug me

The big men soar high
Up into the sky
A catch ain’t no catch it’s a ‘mark’
Most play ambidextrous
This game is adventurous
On an oval, a ground, in a park

Twenty two on one team
And some of ‘em mean
They tackle, they bump and they shepherd
I barrack for Carlton
Bit like Eddie Charlton
Crafty and strong as a leopard

150 years going
Don’t look like it is slowing
I’m just waiting for the world to catch on
Better than basketball
We too call it football
See us southerners we have our songs

100,000 you see
At the famed MCG
To watch a grand final in September
And then it goes dead
It does in my head
There’s this vacuum, this calm to surrender

It starts back in March
The scheming, the sparks
Until then I make do with the cricket
Be watching tomorrow
The poms in their sorrow
Lost on the ‘Hobartian’ wicket