Page 17 - eMuse Vol.9 No.05_Classical

An Australian History Lesson but whenever the Ashes come under dispute,
© Beryl Stirling 2020
It started way back at the Oval.
Yeah! August, in eighteen eight two,
when we took out the match with seven run win –
something they didn’t dream we could do!
Now this was a famous occasion!
Went to school, did yer? What’d yer learn?
That’s the year when the Pommies said Cricket had died but check out the umpires’ calls.
and its ashes was stuffed in an urn.
On the side of this urn there’s some writin’ –
crook meter and terrible verse –
that listed the team they’d selected next year
to regain it for better or worse.
Now, you’ve heard of that other world scorer
what writes Yay or Nay ’gainst yer name?
Sez it matters not whether yer win or yer lose
but yer attitude, playin’ the game.
But yer Ashes is no way a friendly,
where everyone cheers when yer score.
No, yer Ashes is more of a stoush if yer like –
unofficial, but yeah! It’s a war.
And so it’s gone on over decades,
a grudge match if ever there was.
We all lose our blocks if the Poms win the urn
and they rage when it comes back to Oz.
Tell yer the truth, though, it never gets back,
for the Poms keep it locked up at Lords.
It’s a trophy that’s never presented, y’know
and an ongoing source of discord.
You’ll of heard of the body line series?
‘Thirty two, when the Poms tried it on?
Puttin’ theory of fast leg to practical use
in an effort to do in The Don.
I tell yer, that’s no understatement –
no slanderous yarn or a myth!
An accident, maybe, in that second test
when Archer damn near clobbered Smith?
No! Yer Ashes is serious business.
No pussyfoot, sandpapered balls.
Barmy Army and sledgin’s just commonplace stuff –
but check out the umpires’ calls.
Like I told yer it isn’t a friendly.
It’s all about winning the game
and after a loss there’ll be heart searching probes
to decide where to settle the blame.
See, if they win they’ve used dirty tactics
and when we do, they reckon we cheat,
but when it’s a draw, it seems nobody’s pleased.
It’s gotta be win or defeat.
‘Retained them?’ It’s time that we claimed ‘em,
the way the Invincibles did
in that ’48 test when we won every game
and the Pommies was really outdid.
See, in cricket there’s no compromises
when the Pommies and Oz take the field.
Yeah! A hundred years back and a century on
don’t give quarter’s the word. Never yield!
God save the Queen? There’s no problem
with Him keepin’ her happy and glorious –
May 2020 eMuse
it’d better be us that’s victorious!
I tell yer, that’s no understatement –
no slanderous yarn or a myth!
An accident, maybe, in that second test
when Archer damn near clobbered Smith?
No! Yer Ashes is serious business.
No pussyfoot, sandpapered balls.
Barmy Army and sledgin’s just commonplace stuff –
Like I told yer it isn’t a friendly.
It’s all about winning the game
and after a loss there’ll be heart searching probes
to decide where to settle the blame.
See, if they win they’ve used dirty tactics
and when we do, they reckon we cheat,
but when it’s a draw, it seems nobody’s pleased.
It’s gotta be win or defeat.
And to complete the triolgy . . .
It’s Time Now for Our
Magnum Opus
Our country had just finished burning as her SOS sounded like Morse,
In a series of sirens…through the vast burnt environs…to spike
nature’s spellbinding force
While outside the king parrots kept coming, to the rails of our
house for a feed,
Now the butterflies’ bright wings were drumming, since good rain
has helped them to breed.
The sky had become less crowded… our own QANTAS had
grounded its kites,
As corona uncoupled her droplets kerbing our cravings for flights,
Clamp down spawns collaboration… as the unseen brigantine
Unfurls her sails… as a wounded world wails… for the gift of a
failsafe vaccine.
The age of entitled indulgence… had sent forth its legionnaires,
It’s time to mine the metal… to ‘divvy up’ and dismantle… the
wealth of the billionaires.
Let’s scratch the disgrace… called the ‘Arms race’… and unload its
cruel bandoleers,
Make trans global a law… to ban all acts of war… and make moth-
ers its chief engineers.
I’ve built these last lines with a tightly clenched fist…on a patch-
work of low lives that seem to exist
Like the hosts of unlawful house party’s…and those who pad up
and attend
Who seem to take pleasure…at others displeasure…and glow
when they grossly offend
Like that “A” class arch idiot who maintains a right…to face off
with the fighters at the Front Line of the fight
Name them and shame them and dip them in locks, the ones that
have close links with cobras and crocks.
Show them the consequence of their epic fail… that has flooded
the eyes of Nurse Nightingale,
A monster had escaped from its eastern cage… to usher in the
spectre of this Isolation Age,
It’s Time Now for Our Magnum Opus… to make this dark space disappear,
Mindful that Shakespeare, when plague quarantined him… held
rein… to ordain his ‘King Lear’.
© Robert Raftery 2020
17