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Repaired Post by :derrickm Category :Poems Author :Edward Dyson Date :October 2011 Read :2998

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HAULED I was from out the tip
Fritz made with his demonstration,
All broke up, a fractured hip
In me Darby Kell a rip
Settn' up a cool sensation
Like excessive ventilation

One 'and cluttered up a treat-
On me oath you wouldn't know it
From a 'andsome plate of meat.
They had sorter pied me feet,
And a bullet of the foe hit
Where no decent bloke could show it.

'Arf a year they've botched me now;
Ev'ry scientific schemer
In the cor' has faked me prow,
Soled 'n' heeled a bloke somehow-
Gawd, the last one was a screamer.
Wirin' up me flamin' femur!

Comes a guy and pipes you square,
Gogglin' at you through his glasses,
Swings you in the barber's chair,
Tilts you this end up with care,
Lets you have a whiff of gasses
Chattin' off-hand with the lasses.

Then he slices clean 'n' swift,
Like a cobbler cuts his leather,
Gives the splintered knob a lift-
S'elp me tater, it's a gift
How they glues you all together,
Sayin' it's bin nicer weather!

Surgeon wipes his 'ands, a verse
Chort1e softly as he pitches
Probes and sponges to the nurse,
Thinks the lunch might have bin worse;
Close your little gap he hitches,
Whistlin' as he jabs the stitches.

I'm caught in with fiddle-strings,
Stuck about with bits 'n' patches,
Fixed with ligatures 'n' springs,
Lath 'n' plastered, swung in slings
Skewered with little wooden matches,
Hung with hinges, knobs 'n' latches.

Till I lay behind me screen,
Serious 'n' sober one day,
Satisfied 'n' all serene,
'Arf a man 'n' 'arf machine
What they winds up ev'ry Monday
'N' it tilts all ways by Sunday.

'Ome again I'll come, a neat,
Semi-autymatic loafer,
Number up, 'n' all complete,
Creakin' round on Collins Street,
With a licence (which I'll owe for)
My own car and my own shofer!

(The end)
Edward Dyson's poem: Repaired

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I SLUNG me khaki suit to-day. Civilian now front heel to chin I 'op round on a single shin;At home in peace I'm bound to stay.'N' so they've took me duds away. It 'urt like strippin' off me skin!I put it on three years ago, The ole brown rig. There wasn't then A prouder chicken in the pen.Jist twenty turned, me nibs you'd knowFor how I give me chest a throw, A man among the best of men.Me little no the touch I give, Me chin's ez

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The Moralist
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