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Oh Jack of course everyone who is anyone has one of those
I will lighten it up for you Andy with a story/
At my work which I am now retired a photo went around off a very well-endowed fellow manager in a pair of stubby shorts with his tackle hanging out the bottom. Lucky dude.
Someone showed me and my response was. Dam mine wouldn't hang out the bottom of a mankini
There is nothing more off putting than a man who behaves like an exhibitionist after a certain age. I don’t like seeing selfies of show offs. Shows a lack of class, intelligence and substance. Very crass behaviour.
A great Australian once said “You’ve got no dignity Muriel!”
"Those who care about you can hear you, even when you are quiet" - Steve Maraboli
Getting back on track to poetry after Jack has tried to hijack this thread
There was a girl who wore red white blue
who was desperately clingy and stuck to you like glue
she was old and needy
it made you feel so seedy
thar it sent you running to the loo
Paddo will be very disappointed as he left me in charge of this thread in his absence lol.
Can you please tell Paddo I have tried to bring this thread back up poetry after others have tried to hijack and derail this thread some of us hold do dear to our hearts
When you trust your television
what you get is what you got
Cause when they own the information
they can bend it all they want
There was a woman who lived on the hills of Dover
who desperately craved to be bent over
but she had no luck
and couldn’t get a .uck
even when she tipped her chauffeur
Ahhh...they keep coming Andrew - gems that tug at he subliminal processes or, possibly, the simian.
Meanwhile, here is a timely one. Our spineless government has upped the support for the Taiwan war mongering with an agreement for a B-52 squadron in Darwin (4 Corners tonight).
This is an anti war piece by Wilfred Owen one of the great WW1 poets killed just weeks prior to the Armistice. I talks to wars realities. The Latin translates as "How sweet and honourable it is to die for one's country" - an age old war mongers' trope.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen - 1893-1918
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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