The Scoundrel From The Scrub

By Jim Egan

Story telling in its finest form as Australian poetry, The Scoundrel From The Scrub is a great way to immerse yourself into the life, times, travels and more of a great Aussie bloke who likes a yarn or two. Living your life in Australia, and particularly on the land then travelling throughout, lends itself to many a story, yarn and of course typical Aussie fun and,when needed determination and true Aussie Spirit. Poetry written to highlight and share many a story and at times in the very best, straight talking Aussie slang and 'lingo'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Egan
• Release date: Jun 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310608858

Book preview

The Scoundrel

From The Scrub

Written by Jim Egan

The Scoundrel From

The Scrub

© 2015 Jim Egan

This book is copyright. No part may be reproduced by any process

without written permission from the Author.

I WISH TO DEDICATE THIS MONOLOGUE TO

CAROLE (my tireless typist)

WITHOUT WHOM IT WOULD NEVER HAVE SEEN

THE LIGHT OF DAY.

THANKS HEAPS LOVE!

THE SCOUNDREL FROM THE SCRUB

Perhaps I’m writin’ to me-self, if no one’s readin’ this

An’ if they are, perhaps they’ll think I’m full of wind an’ piss!

It’s stories of me lousy life an’ stuff ups that I’ve had,

But grudgingly I must admit, the good outweighs the bad.

I’m poorer than a parson’s piss an’ gettin’ poorer still.

I’ll never reach the pearley-gates. I’ll find it’s too up-hill!

I guess I’ll go below with Nick, an’ hot beer in his pub,

I know he’ll yell out Welcome to The scoundrel from the scrub.

These scribblein’s are based on facts seen through me misty eyes.

I’ve used some poets licence which is short for bloody lies.

I’ve blotted out some people’s names for fear of being sued,

Now most of them would share a laugh, but some may think I’m rude.

To tell me life as it was lived me achein’ arse is bare

But I want you to hear it all, like you were sittin’ there,

But if you use it in the loo to give your arse a rub,

Don’t dare forget your mongrel mate The scoundrel from the scrub.

Our life can be a bastard, but it’s all we’ve bloody got,

An’ bluff an’ bull-shit is the norm an’ we sure cop a lot.

Now these are sayings that I’ll use until me dyin’ day.

Don’t let the truth stuff up a yarn is what we bushies say.

So in this book I’ve kept the rules! I must support me team!

But while you read this scribble-gate please take the time to dream,

While suckin’ on a stubbie or just layin’ in the tub.

He dips his lid to one an’ all The scoundrel from the scrub.

18/08/2013

THE LOVELY LONELY MAN

He’s sitting on his own each night with no one by his side,

No one to share a problem with, those things he has to hide.

No loving arm around his neck, no kisses on his cheek,

He tries to lift his heart a bit, to face another week.

He carries problems of his own, and those of others too,

They need to know when storm-clouds pass their future skies are blue.

He begs his God to find him strength. His cross is hard to bear.

He takes a stubbie from the fridge and settles in his chair.

He thinks about his childhood and his parents who have died.

He always did as he was told, he filled them both with pride.

His siblings are all far away, they scarcely ever call,

Sometimes he thinks perhaps, they don’t remember him at all.

He feels too tired to cook a meal, his empty stomach moans.

He knows that both his heart and soul have similar over tones.

Another stubbie from the fridge, a tear-drop on his nose.

He quietly sinks into his chair, his eyes begin to close.

The hospital then rings again, a lady’s passing on,

He quickly runs out to his car, his dreaming-time is gone.

He strokes her forehead and her lips and then her heart as well,

He knows she’s going straight to God, she had few sins to tell.

He comforts all her family and sets the funeral time,

He feels so very, very old, but should be in his prime.

They ask him to come round and chat. He must do that of course,

While loneliness tugs at his heart, he lessens their remorse.

He drives into his carport and then walks toward the door,

So many, many times he’s walked, this lovely walk before.

He opens up the darkened door, then walks inside the house.

He’s greeted by a gecko’s bark and footsteps of a mouse.

No loving wife to greet him with a kiss and warm embrace,

No children running down the hall and messing up the place.

No dinner on the table, just a cold pie is his feast.

He’s just a lovely lonely man, a faithful Catholic priest.

09/07/2006

WHERE THE OL’ ENDEAVOUR FLOWS

‘Twas great to hear your voice again! A kiss for lonely ears!

It’s been almost a decade love, and that’s too many years!

It brought back thoughts of yesteryear, the Cooktown that I know.

Where curlews walk the streets at night, while lively breezes blow.

Where people take you as you are, and never make you change,

Where you can be a poodle, or a mongrel, full of mange!

Where strangers are made welcome, as a blow-in like me knows,

There lies a bit of heaven, where the ol’ Endeavour flows.

Where black and white are all best mates, and never need to fight,

But share a carton and a laugh, at morning, noon or night.

To do a mid-night wharfie as I did so many times,

Watched over by the southern-cross, you have no fear of crimes.

To hear a night-hawk calling or to hear a watch-dog bark,

Or hear a curlew crying in the stillness of the dark.

While high above on Grassy-Hill, the Cooktown breeze still blows,

I spent two years in heaven, where the ol’ Endeavour flows.

So when I go to sleep to-night, my love, I’ll dream of you.

I’ll dream you’re lying by my side, with love so fond and true.

Though unrequited love is sad, and dreams are all my own,

While I enjoy your friendship love, I’ll never feel alone.

But when I look up to the moon, and milky-way above,

It’s then I really miss you, as I have for years, my love.

And as the years go slowly past, my love for you still grows,

My Angel lives in heaven, where the ol’ Endeavour flows.

30/07/2011

THAT LONELY PORT-A-LOO

Now as we travel on through life there’s many things we note,

They all make up our memories to keep our minds afloat.

I’ve seen a lot of things myself, so some dwell in my mind,

It seems no matter how I try, I can’t leave them behind.

There’s one thing in particular that I just can’t forget,

It surely was the saddest thing that I’ve encountered yet.

It’s not a thing of beauty, but of loneliness that’s true.

Some twenty ‘kays’ from Georgetown, Sat a lonely Port-A-Loo.

It stood there all neglected with a sadness, all obscene,

It seemed to get no takers though it looked all bright and clean.

I wondered what it had to do to get bums through it’s door,

All unused dunny paper and no footprints on the floor,

I felt so sorry for this loo I thought I’d use it’s seat,

And as a mark of pure respect I even wiped me feet.

Sweet smelling scents filled up the air, soft paper on the wall,

I sighed This is a perfect place to answer Natures Call."

I sat upon the lonely seat, a smile upon me face.

I wore a sanctimonious look, this was a holy place,

I knew I cheered this Port-A-Loo an’ made it feel first class,

Until I got a bloody bite upon me naked arse,

I yelled an’ screamed blue-murder till I nearly woke the dead,

An’ then I jumped so bloody high the roof fell on me head.

I panicked, What the hell was that?! A red-back" or much worse?

If it’s a bloody taipan, well, I’ll soon be in the hearse!"

The Port-A-Loo had come to life! But death was in the air,

The only client that it had was dyin’ then an’ there,

I saw it grin from wall to wall " a customer at last!

At last it had a bloke come in, while all the rest ran past,

But here the bloody bloke it got was howlin’ long an’ loud,

Because he knew before too long, he’d wear a bloody shroud.

A whingein’ ‘effin’ Port-A-Loo"! An achein’ bashed-up bum,

I may as well just sit an’ sulk before the hearse can come

Me arse was achein’ like me head, like I’d been on the grog,

I knew that I was buggered like a poisoned mongrel dog.

But I was dyin peaceful like. But slowly gettin’ worse,

I had no mobile coverage so I couldn’t ring a nurse,

But then I heard a buzzin’ sound like music in the air,

I rubbed me ear an’ then me arse, a nest of wasps was there!

They had their home down in the dark. They’d stung more than a few,

That’s why no bugger ever used, that lonely Port-A-Loo.

23/01/2013

MY SWEETHEART WON’T BE BACK

I dreamed a dream of long ago, of one I’d loved and lost!

Now as the lonely years go by, they all increase the cost!

Her lusty laugh, her child like wit, her arms so keen to hug,

Were all that I could think about, the day her grave was dug.

Her children stood around and cried, their dearest Mumma gone,

They bravely held their teddy bears for tears to fall upon.

That lovely garden that she kept, red roses by the track,

But who would wait upon them now? My sweetheart won’t be back.

A soldier lady, brave and strong, who stood above the crowd,

Who went to serve her country, as she marched away so proud!

Equality was all she asked. To fight beside the men,

But courage can’t stop bullets. Now she’ll never serve agen.

There, far across a desert plain with men well trained and tough,

Where life was cheap and every day was wicked wild and rough.

Where soldiers fell beside their mates, beneath a blood-soaked pack.

My lovely lady lies as well, My sweetheart won’t be back.

Now as a ghostly moon shines down upon those hills so steep,

Where one eye’s always open, when a soldier tries to sleep!

Where breezes from the long ago, blow through the ages past!

To write the words on every lip How long will this war last?

Our girls are dying with our boys to do our nation proud.

There’s broken hearts and broken dreams, entombed in every shroud!

But death will deal with anyone, when luck is what they lack,

My heart is broken with my dreams. My sweetheart won’t be back.

13/11/2011

BENEATH THE OL’ SLOUCH HAT

He sat and gazed up at the moon, set in a cloudless sky

And thought about the life he’d led, through many years gone by

About the mates whom he had lost, in bloody battles fought

When they laid down their lives for love, without a second thought.

They sought no glory as they fought for freedoms almost lost,

They saved them all, and never stopped to estimate the cost.

He mused, "some wars are glorified, but fighting’s not like that!

But it’s an honour just to serve beneath the ol’ slouch hat."

"Sometimes in desert sands and dust, sometimes in fields of mud.

It’s never fun to see your mates fall down in pools of blood.

Those battles in the jungles, where to live you seldom slept.

Where even to this very day, there’s secrets quietly kept.

Those desert battles far away, in trenches searing hot

While waiting for the bombs to fall on land that God forgot.

It’s always good to see your foes put firmly on the mat

But better still to know you fought, beneath the ol’ slouch hat.

So as he quietly sipped his tea, before he went to bed,

He shed a tear, and thought about, his mates, a long time dead.

He thought about his enemies in wars so long ago.

"They now sell us their bloody cars in every motor show!

Our enemies are now our friends. Thank God all hatred’s gone.

My mates all died to give the time, to let the world move on."

He closed his eyes and went to sleep. They found him where he sat

That night he’d quietly marched away, beneath the ol’ ‘slouch hat’.

25/04/2010

THE SHADOWS THROUGH THE TREES

The Japanese had landed! P.N.G. was set to fall.

The only thing defenders had was hope and bugger-all

Then Singapore had just been lost. The Philippines as well.

It seemed like everything was lost to Japanese and Hell.

Now P.N.G. seemed easy prey. No hardened fighters there!

The Japs just had to wade ashore and plant their flag somewhere,

But there was more than Aussies there to meet the Japanese

They never thought to reckon with The shadows through the trees.

Where clouds hang high on mountain peaks, and never seem to go.

Where morning mists all softly rise to watch the rivers flow.

Where birds of paradise roam free to play as children do.

The sound of angry rifle-fire was something bad and new

We’ll only need to walk ahead! The Japanese all thought,

But many simply disappeared before they even fought!

They searched to find a reason then, desertion or disease?

They never thought to reckon with The shadows through the trees.

When wounded Aussie soldiers fell from gun-fire left and right

They somehow never seemed to die but lived on still to fight.

The enemy just shook their heads. Few Aussie bodies found.

They somehow seemed to disappear and never made a sound.

But when the war was over and the Japs all put to flight.

Old Aussie soldiers shed a tear, in stillness of the night.

They know they never fought alone and owe their lives to these

The fuzzy-wuzzy angels where The shadows through the trees.

25/04/2011

‘THE LADY DRESSED IN BLACK’

Sometimes I dream of ‘long ago’ and ladies whom I’ve met.

While most times memories slowly fade, there’s some I won’t forget.

So here I’ll write about a girl, whom I loved long ago

A beauty who’d turn every head of any man I know.

It’s now a decade in the past since I gazed at her face

Each time I quietly dream of her my heart picks up it’s pace

I know we should look forward. There’s no use in looking back

But still, I hold her memory dear. The lady dressed in black.

Her lusty lips, her gentle touch. That mischief in her eyes

As we held hands on moon-lit nights, beneath those northern skies

A full moon shining from above, to light her sexy smile

Would rival Cleopatra, while she sailed upon the Nile.

A laugh that every man should hear, to brighten up his life

To make his heart beat faster, and to wish she was his wife

There’s not another like her. She’s the queen of every track.

God broke the mould the day he made The lady dressed in black.

To walk along Endeavour’s bank and squeeze her sexy hand

And watch the sea-birds flying, as we cuddle on the sand

When misty-morning dews shine bright to kiss the rising sun.

I’d love to lie beside her then until her heart is won!

We’re all allowed to dream you know, and I have lots of her.

I’d love to kiss her lusty-lips to make my hot blood stir

I know she is my long-lost love, but I don’t have the knack,

To lure her to my lonely bed, The lady dressed in black.

So memories are all I hold. I guess that’s how life goes

I’ll always love this lovely lass, from gorgeous head to toes

With heaven’s jewellery-box above, behind a misty-moon

I still hope that my dreams come true and that I’ll hold her soon

So as I gaze up to the skies I’ll shed a tear and wait

And send my prayers to God above, she’ll never turn up late.

I’ll tell her when I get the chance, her love is all I lack

I long to love her as my wife! The lady dressed in black.

30/10/2011

GOOD-BYE TO COOKTOWN

I’ve headed out of Cooktown, with a tear-drop in one eye

And ‘something’ in the other, from a sea-gull that flew by!

With memories that I’ll cherish till I’m goin’ down the hole.

Of people who were millionaires, and others on the dole.

Of times I did a wharfie and then wandered slowly back

Are things I’ll long remember, as I stroll life’s lonely track.

Of times I sat at Finch’s Beach, and watched the waves roll in

Or staggered up to Grassy-Hill, to bark me bloody shin!

Or servin’ in the Westie just to see the glasses fill

And keep the money flowin’ from the wallets to the till.

To hear the merry laughter as the punters drank their share

Or cop the constant rude remarks about me lack of hair.

Or yarnin’ with ol’ timers who told stories by the score

The truth must never interfere, with yarns they tell for sure

The problems of the world were small, while sittin’ round the bar

With people droppin’ in and out, from places near and far.

No matter where I go from here, no matter what I do,

A corner of my heart, Cooktown, is occupied by you.

I know Aunt Hazel said it all, the day I hit the track.

I’ll say good-bye, Jim, for a while, I know that you’ll be back!

28/09/2001

BEHIND THAT ROLLER-DOOR

I stood and stared at closing down signed on a roller door

It sadly told me, hopes and dreams of someone, were no more.

A sign that hides a broken heart, and tears of those behind

Who’ll never ever find the future, that they hoped to find.

All working hard to pack up stock, still sadly, never sold

To go at bargain prices at the clearing sale they’ll hold

No one can help the owners of a business that’s no more,

Or help to mend those broken hearts behind that roller-door.

They couldn’t pay the increased rent when it was raised still more.

They could have had a fighting chance if it stayed as before.

Their house was mortgaged at the start to purchase all the stock

Accountants did the figures then as solid as a rock.

But no one held a crystal-ball, to forecast G.F.C.

The profits that they’d hoped to earn, now just a memory

It’s only death and taxes that will come to us for sure

No one could see the heartbreak sneak behind that roller-door.

Their home is on the market now, sale by the mortgagees.

Those little kids all crying for their rooms and memories

The husband thinks of suicide. This failure all too much,

But loves his wife and children and their soft and loving touch.

He knows he has to fight this fight and get his life on track,

Some day the sun will shine again and wind blow on his back.

He knows they’ll get on top again. No more of Murphy’s Law,

He’ll quietly leave those memories behind that roller-door.

21/04/2013

WHEN IS A HOUSE A HOME?

When we take time to meditate on all aspects of life

We only ever hear about, the negatives and strife.

The T.V.’s full of doom and gloom. No happiness in that!

Especially when we’re dying young, and all a heap too fat!

And people who have got the most all whinge the loudest still.

While they sip on their Moët in their mansion on the hill.

It seems it’s like that everywhere, no matter where you roam

Perhaps it’s time to quietly ask, When is a house a home?

While flesh and blood are soft and warm, all brick and mortar’s cold.

All little kids are full of life! Too busy to grow old.

But kids are getting less and less while pregnancy’s a curse

And as each generation comes the problem’s getting worse

Five bedroom houses with no kids! There’s mortgages to feed!

They suck all love from couples. Then they have no time to breed.

No laughter in those empty rooms, no children’s hair to comb,

Just T.V. gloom and silent meals, When is a house a home?

And then when quiet retirement comes, no Grandkids at the gate

No Grandson or Grandaughter you can call your little mate.

You had no time for bloody kids! The mortgage ate it all!

You had no dirty nappies, while you had no babies crawl.

You pay someone to mow your lawn, you’re now too old for that.

You sit there in your arm-chair while you quietly stroke the cat,

And when your partner passes on, and lies below the loam,

You’ll sit alone, and sadly ask, When is a house a home?

13/05/2013

RED ROSES FROM THE GARDENS OF THE MOON

The shifting shadows softly close around the evening sky

Another day is nearly done as sun-light says good-bye

I sit and gaze up at the sky and heaven’s jewellery-box,

And listen to the murmurs of a lonely flying-fox

While gentle breezes softly blow and kiss the mountains steep

I rest upon my lonely seat as daylight goes to sleep

But I won’t be alone for long, for far above me soon

I’ll pick red roses growing in the gardens of the moon.

A million stars that I can see, and no doubt millions more

All softly dancing ‘round the moon, like they’ve all done before.

While heaven’s angels play their flutes, the planets sing in tune.

Sweet star-dust settles down to rest, and fertilize the moon

With vapour flowing from the sun, and ice from Saturn’s rings.

I marvel at the universe, and wonders that it brings.

Someday I’ll knock upon your door. Perhaps I’ll do it soon!

I’ll give you those red roses, from the gardens of the moon.

07/03/2007

MY FIFTY SHADES OF GOLD

I’ll guess you’ll know that I love books! I own just one or two,

About four thousand at last count! Well, give or take a few!

There’s one most women rave about called Fifty Shades Of Grey.

Some fifteen million copies sold as female porn they say,

I struggled through the thing for weeks! It bored me all to tears.

I’d rather spend the purchase price on bloody boiling beers!

That Christian Grey’s a bloody dud! Poor Ana’s out of luck!

Eight chapters in the bloody book before she get’s a fuck!

Now even I could out-gun him! But then, I don’t feel old!

Especially when I dream of you My fifty shades of gold!

One of the sweetest girls I’ve held, or had the right to know.

It’s time some things