In Meeniyan the short billed corellas are squawking as above the Village they fly
Towards the gum trees that stand by the old creek that flows through the paddocks nearby
By their voices they cannot be mistaken them one never ought to get wrong
They squawk on the gum trees in the paddocks all through the year and all day long,
I ran a few road races in the colours of Millstreet
But I was never much of an athlete
One could say I just took part in the race
And I always finished well out of a place.
Hate and dislike are not the same thing between them the difference is great
We well may not like everybody but our dislike should not give way to hate
For hatred leads people to bad crimes since hatred as a feeling is very intense
The feeling of hatred is noxious and is poison to common sense.
In every City, Town and Village the haves and have nots reside
But even the poorest of the poor have got their sense of pride
And it must be soul destroying for them to have to beg to stay alive
But pride has to take second place to the will to survive.
To be a master builder his claim to renown
The extraordinary man in an ordinary Town
In what he is good at he does take great pride
And as a master builder he is known far and wide.
Those who condemn others for the building of Nuclear Energy Stations
Should practice themselves what they preach
What is right for them is not right for some others
Yet they themselves are like teachers without their degrees to teach.
For to linger here in such a place perhaps is not that wise
What to many is good music to me seems only noise
A wiser thing is for me to leave a foolish thing for me to stay
When I can enjoy a cappucino in a far quieter cafe,
I've met good people in my travels quite honest and generous and kind
But in every pack there is a joker and a villian is not hard to find
The windows to their souls are curtained and light it cannot enter in
When they cheat you out of your money they see your financial loss as their win.
The poet who penned Dark Rosaleen is scarce spoken of today
He never left his home Country and and there his bones now lay
The National Bard of Ireland some have been known to say
And yet his flowering genius did seem quick to decay.
I have praised Mother Nature in ballad, song and rhyme
And writing on Mother Nature is never a waste of time
And though I am not a Burns, Francis Ledwidge or John Clare
I am one of the many about Nature who does care.