Hello.

I 'm going to write some poems from C.J Dennis.

Heres the first one which is called THE AUSTRA-LAISE.
Blokes an' coves an' coots,
shift yer bloody carcases,
move yer bloody boots.
Gird yer bloody loins up,
get yer bloody gun,
set the enermy
an' watch the b__s run.

Get a bloody move on,
have some bloody sense.
Learn the bloody art of bloody self de-bloody-fence.

Have some bloody brains beneath
yer bloody lids.
An' swing a bloody sabre
fer the missus an' the kids.
Chuck supportin' bloody posts,
an' strikin' bloody lights,
support a bloody fam'ly an'
strike fer yer bloody rights.

Get a bloody move on.
Joy is bloody fleetin',
life is bloody short.
Wot's the use uv wastin' it all on bloody sport?
Hitch yer bloody tip-dray
to a bloody star.
Let yer watchword be
"Australi-bloody-ar!

Get a bloody move on.
'Ow's the the bloody nation
going to ixpand.
'Let us bloody blokes an' coves lend a bloody 'and?
'Eave yer bloody apathy
down a bloody chasm;
'ump yer bloody burden with enthusi-bloody-asm.

Get a bloody move on.

W'en the bloody trouble
hits yer native land,
take a bloody rifle
in yer bloody 'and.
Keep yer bloody upper lip
stiff as stiff kin be,
an' speed a bloody bullet for
pos-bloody-terity.

Get a bloody move on.

W'en the bloody bugle
sounds ''ad-bloody-vance''
don't be like a flock uv sheep
in a bloody trance.
Biff the bloody foeman
where it don't agree.
Spifler-bloody-cate him
to a Eternity.

Get a bloody move on.

Fellers of Australier,
Cobbers, chaps, an' mates,
hear the bloody enermy
kikin' at the gates!
Beat the bloody drum,
upper-cut and out the cow to kingdom-bloody-come!

Get a bloody move on,
have some bloody sense,
learn the art of de-bloody-fence.

This is another poem from C.J Dennis thats called GREEN WALLS

I love all the gum trees well. But, best of all, I love the tough old warriors that tower about these lawns, to make a great green walls and guard, like sentries, this exotic bower of shrub and fern and flower.
These are my land's own sons, lean, straight and tall,
where crimson parrots and grey gang-gangs call thro' many a sunlit hour.

My friends, these grave old veterans, scarred and stern, changeless throughout the the changing seasons they. But at their tall knees their tall sons lift and yearn-
slim spars and saplings-prone to sport and sway like carefree boys at play;
waxing in beauty their young locks turn to crimson , and, like beacon fies burn to deck Spring's holiday.

I think of Anzacs when the dusk comes down upon the gums-of Anzacs tough and tall.
Guarding this gateway, diggers strong and brown.
And when, thro' Winter's thunderings, sounds their call,
like Anzacs, too they fall....
Their ranks grow thin upon the hill's high crown:
my sentinels! But, where those ramparts frown, their stout sons mend the wall.