Poems
Left Right ‘ere – In My Pocket Bob Braunsthal
April 4, 2021
From Coffs Harbour comes some more of the same,
An accident and a familiar name
That well-known character Donald Freene,
Past seventy years but no has-been
Was riding dirt bikes at a decent clip
Until his Beemer gave him the slip
He deftly put his ear to the ground
But thought he was the wrong way round,
He clutched at his ear and found it was gone!
He feared that it too had ridden on.
So now Don was in a terrible fix
For ears and gravel just do not mix.
He wondered what the hell he would do
When he finally fronted up to his Sue
Who’d see straight away that hie ear was gone.
‘Oh well’ thought our Don, ‘life just goes on.’
He lay there reclining on the ground
And that’s exactly where I found
Him calmly lying beneath his bike.
He uttered something coolly like,
“I’m stuck here, Bob. I’m pinned, can’t shift,
Could you just help me mate and kindly lift
The bike off me and look round here.
I think I’ve lost my other ear.”
I started, not knowing what to do,
His earhole seemed a different hue.
The dried pear bit had vanished, gone.
Now Don would have NO ears on!
The bike removed, we combed the grass
Around where he’d lain on his arse,
But look we may and look we might
We never ever caught a sight
Of Don’s lost ear there on the ground,
The bloody thing could not be found.
At length we left there in despair
Farewelling Don’s ear somewhere there.
Don rode back on his damaged machine
Nothing new for either Freene.
Sue would surely understand
That unkind Fate had had a hand
In robbing his much valued ear.
Sue might even shed a tear.
At 3am I could hardly believe
That I was hearing Don Freene leave
Coffs minus his ears – or so I guessed
For Don considered it was best
To head off home before a rocket
For leaving his fake ear in his pocket!!!
His real ear’s still on. If you’re amused
‘Twas me, not Don that got confused,
He’d kept his right ear out of sight
Playing at giving me a fright
No! He wasn’t doing a Vincent Van Gogh
Evening up and chopping his other ear off!!!
The Double-Decker Flying Dutchman - Bob Braunsthal
April 4, 2021
The French are famed for their Eiffel Tower,
The Dutch are known for the dyke,
They had no need to build something tall
So instead they came up with our Spyke!
There's water all round in the Netherlands
Where a dachshund would never survive.
You have to keep growing above the wash
If you want to keep staying alive.
Our Spyke is one who's done that well-
He's got inbuilt stilts in his legs.
So he towers above the rest of the mob
On those stilts that you couldn't call pegs;
And as well as being tallest he's damn near the fastest
On his silver and blue bullet bike.
It's got so much grunt and power on tap
You can dial-a-speed as you like!
So, he rides like hell like “The Flying Dutchman”
In the famous Wagnerian opera,
With every bit of the 'Sturm und Drang'
Although nowadays he is calmer
Since that fateful ride way up outback
When he lined up a stray fox or weasel,
He could never have pulled up at 200 plus.
The mess on the road was like diesel.
Our Spystra let out a colourful oath,
They heard it for miles around
With the crunching of fairings and plastic and metal
As his Yammie ground into the ground!
The weasel and bike had become part of history
But in Spyke's mind it just grew and grew.
And the next thing you know he was claiming he'd hit
A monstrous great two-metre roo!
Yes, his memory and mind can get foggy
Stuck halfway up there in a cloud,
But at least we can't hear what he's mumbling about
When he carries on thinking aloud.
And if you did hear I can tell you mate
You would not understand very much.
He is Dutch and double-sized at that,
So, of course he just speaks Double Dutch!
He has double the need for double the speed
And he doubles up at each joke.
With double the laughs he does nothing by halves.
The Bike Acquisitor - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 10, 2015
In years gone by, Rod Stoneman built a terrific orange VW trike,
but he sold it just as he sold stacks of almost new bikes.
He’s a bit more restrained these days in retirement and doesn’t turn them over quite as quickly.
THE BIKE ACQUISITOR
He’s faithful to Chris and to his new trike,
But God help our Rod when he sees a new bike.
He’s owned so damned many, you could call him a junkie,
But his orange Volks trike that’s oh-so-spunky
Is his own creation, a prized design
And we all think the same, “Wish it was mine.”
What a battle he had with those bureaucrats,
You know the sort, those f..ing fat cats
That strut round their offices putting on airs
Thinking up fool rules and splitting more hairs,
Insisting on seatbelts and in between fags,
Scheming to force Rod to mount driver’s bags
With skyhooks in front of the handlebars.
You’ve got it, it’s plain, they think with their a..e.
But to focus on Rodney, though a builder of trikes,
Is a hopeless born junkie when it comes to bikes
And his repertoire shows an expensive taste
But it saves not the bikes, they all go in haste
Both along the roads then out the door,
Rod’s motto is, “More, gimme more more more!”
It’s enough to make you drop your jaw.
He’s just sold a monstrous great luxury Beemer
In the SS Black shade of the dread Heinrich Himmler
A huge two-wheeled Bismarck with not many miles,
“It wore out the tyres,” Rod blithely smiles.
Before that he had an affair with a ‘Wing,
And that was an even briefer thing.
His rare Honda Turbo, it too copped the chop,
And both his STs soon rolled back to the shop
Where Rod is well-known as a regular visitor,
In fact, they call him, “The bike acquisitor”.
He recently pondered an early sports Guzzi
But these days his memory gets rather fuzzy
And he can’t recall what he thought of last week,
So he heads to his favourite bike-shops to seek
A fresh wave of two-wheeled inspiration
And the state of his lounge-room’s an indication
Of a disordered, acquisitive state of mind,
There are more brochures there than I dreamed I could find,
But I confess I’m plain jealous, talking out my behind!
Guzzi Bob
Telemachus Marcus - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 10, 2015
TELEMACHUS MARCUS
Tell us Telemachus Marcus
(God this is a verbal fracas)
Tell of your award
Tell us Marcus, don’t just nark us
By falling on your sword.
Tell us Telemachus Marcus
Were you expecting this?
A Telemachus Medal
As the Pres's farewell kiss.
We thank you Telemachus Marcus
For your nimble wit and fun
So bask in all the glory mate
For a great job so well done.
You steered the good ship Torrens Valley
Through much varied weather,
But thanks to your fine leadership,
It’s hanging well together.
I won’t meddle with the metal of your medal,
Be it bronze or gold,
But just pay tribute to your mettle
Recalling days of old.
Guzzi Bob
Happy Sixtieth Robbo - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 11, 2015
No explanation needed, though this mate’s given up fagging,
he now rides a Honda trike and he’s got a grand-daughter too.
Happy Sixtieth Robbo
Sixty years?? Well I’ll be damned,
I reckon this old hooligan’s crammed
Two lifetimes into sixty years,
Motorcycles, stoushes, beers,
Rising through the ETSA ranks
With lots of work and p’raps some pranks!
Marrying his love, Lorraine,
She found him quite a challenge to tame!
Coaching softball for his girls,
Aren’t those two a pair of pearls?
Loves his hobbies, loves his sport,
Of course he could only barrack for PORT!!
Stirring Ulysses with all his jokes,
Disobeying the doc with smokes,
Riding far on his Yamaha,
Says they’re the best value by far,
Takes computers right to heart,
Yep, the old boy’s pretty smart,
And grandpa to a tribe of boys,
Who play it rough with lots of noise
Like someone else of long ago,
In Broken Hill, our young Robbo!
His tribe are dinky-die with guts,
Their genes mean they are all tough nuts,
And Robbo “disciplines” this crowd,
Though secretly he’s very proud
Of each adventure or black eye,
You wouldn’t really wonder why!
Yeah Robbo, you’re a mate to all,
You live life like it’s all a ball,
You’re civilised now, travelled but still..
You’re still a son of Broken Hill.
Happy sixtieth, enjoy your cake,
I’ll shut up soon and give you a break,
But first you guests get off your arses.
And drink a toast, let’s raise our glasses.
Here’s to Robbo at sixty years.
Let’s drink to his health and give him three cheers!
Hip-hip, Hooray! Hip-hip, Hooray! Hip-hip, Hooray!!!
Guzzi Bob