Dave SmithWhite Poems

I got a blog the other day,
But it came from a different place.
It claimed to be from the son of god,
Who lived in outer space!
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Take off your hat! Off with them coats!
You can't be too formal when sowing your oats.
Take off your hat! Take off your shoes.
Give me a smoke and I'll break out the booze.
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Did I see the sun, retrace it's steps,
From noontime back to morning?
Did it rise triumphant, from the west,
And trump mere physics, scorning?
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When I say, I remember the future,
As a play of imaginary cast;
I'll tailor and dress it to suit ya,
With the latest full cloth from the past.
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At my School of Christian Hope,
I detest the foreign pope;
And scrub the lye of virtue on my girls.
With their filthy catholic habits,
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My name is Shylock Jones. I speak in undertones.
And dabble at forensic arts and the phrenology of bones.
My work's not widely known and so in secret can be honed
To a unique, commercial asset, that I possess alone.
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As English as the Noble Game,
Australian Coin was Struck.
And minted new as national fame,
For Arfur Sleep had luck.
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As a paid newshound or snoop,
My name is I B Croupe.
The Sydney Argus Ace Reporter.
I send my willing troops,
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Miss Ogden-Nest, is one the best
Theatrical Ladies, to visit this town.
Miss Ogden-Nest lives life with a zest;
Her bounty paraded to pare the world down.
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Beware of fakes or clones, for my name is Shylock Jones.
The best detective England can produce.
My name is Shylock Jones, who'd see evil overthrown;
It's collective head suspended by a noose!
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