High Plains Drifter

High Plains Drifter

Vengeance had God on his side and a badge which shimmered in the sunlight as it flickered through the tree line. Just below the ridge doggedly following the trail of the murderous scum that had butchered his sweet family. Justice was coming just as sure as night followed day. It was the time of blood and dying. Once over the peak the squinted eyes surveyed the hombre’s in the distance. Giddy up boy! The clip clop was replaced with horseshoe thunder heralding the coming apocalypse. With a pounding heart good faced off evil. Blue, steel clasped with white alabaster and sheathed in angry tooled leather confronted the trilogy from the badlands. There was no need for words in this final battle, Complete silence….until the black hat desecrated the honor with a concealed Winchester. To no avail, crack, crack, crack the good the bad and the ugly fell heavily into the dust. The universe was re-calibrated and Ennio Morricone reigned supreme.

WHISPERING WALLS by Carpetbag Kelly

St Patricks

Here is a wonderful poem by my father;

I look down from the balcony
And my vision falls
On that part of the building
Made up of bluestone walls.

Sometimes I hear the clacking
As the trowels lay down the base;
Sometimes the hammers tapping
As the stones are laid in place.

And I see the ancient foreman
With a plumb bob in his hand
Saying “Thin the mix there Norman
Add just a little sand”.

Now the stones remain quite perfect
And the joints are neat and grey;
Are the ghostly hands that laid them
Still maintaining them today?

Forty years or so before
The First World War began
The masons worked hard to ensure
The joints all level ran.

Now their children’s, children’s children
Have multiplied a score
From their father’s, father’s father
Who built the walls next door.


Is the skill of the old masons,
Who lie beneath the clay,
By technology diluted
In the masons of today?

I Like Cheese by Dufflehead Kelly

Emmental Swiss cheese isolated on a white studio background.

Here is a poem by my 14 year old son;

I Like cheese oh beautiful cheese

lovely texture big amounts lots of cheese

cheese all day cheese on crackers cheese on burgers

cheese on toast Cheese on toasties cheese sandwich

Cheese on Cheese oh beautiful cheese makes me warm inside boy oh boy I like cheese.

Happy Birthday Baghead


Today is my birthday, hip, hip, hooray,
I’m stuck with the kids while my wife’s run away.
I thought I was good but it can’t be so,
cause the wife’s runnin wild with her pack of lesbos.
Next week I suppose, we’ll all re-attend,
Our life as it appears, so not to offend.

The Garbage Man

Baghead Glenrowan

Collector of plastic collector of cans
who might it be but the old garbage man.
At sunrise he toiled and worked hard for his quid
he drove the truck and behind tagged the kid.

The kid was a star down the old footy club
the old man his trainer, mentor and bud.
Together they worked and together they earned
though not related it was together they learned.

There ages were different and so were their fates
it made not a difference cause they were best mates.
But one day through the valley in rode the court jester,
a boil in the district full of puss, yet to fester.

He spoke the vernacular of silver forked tongue,
he stood on his soap box each day in the sun.
Where was he from……well it wasn’t from here,
but he had a vision, although it wasn’t quite clear.

“Revitalized, modernized, everything new,
strategically, developed – for just me and you.
Sustainable living amongst urban sprawl,
economic growth well it benefits you all”
The people they listened and bugger me dead,
the people were mesmerised with each word that he said.
But I thought to myself, this is garbage, Man!,
I heard all the words but I didn’t understand.

Well one day in the yard the boys they were told
that their services weren’t needed, that their methods were old.
A contract was written, without their consent,
drafted by lawyers and set in cement.

Everyone was sad – to see the boys leave the show,
fellas could you clean out your lockers fore you go.

The new bloke’s alright – he does the work of two,
with shiny hydraulics in his truck spankin’new.
His shirt is fluorescent and he’s usually not late,
don’t know his name yet he’s from interstate.

Sometimes at Christmas when I’d put out a beer,
I think of those garbo’s who were mates yesteryear.
The young kid he shot through, looking for work,
forgot about footy and now he’s a clerk.

As for the old boy from what I understand,
he travels the roadways looking for cans.
As time it rolls on its abundantly clear,
we all have a due date and yours…..is it near?

The Look

The Look

With insincere sincerity
The best that could be mustered
I heard the words and caught the look
that caused me to be flustered

“would you like a canapé Sir?

Well upon a time I could see
that she was once a flower
head held high in dignity
for a mere ten bucks an hour.

but caste my way and said that day
A servant to their master
Know not they to whom they serve
In this class system disaster

For who be I that lives this lie
and garners such respect
A fraud I’m sure, unpleasantly
reminded to reflect

Baghead’s Poetry Manifesto



I’m not really a poet but on occasions I have dabbled with the art form. Furthermore I was recently surprised to find that my father also has toyed with the concept and although I haven’t laid eyes on any of his poetry, I eventually will. With this sketchy background I henceforth lay before you what meagre attempts I have with the promise of more material to come.