POETS' CORNER

With Marmaduke Fortescue

This month, some classic short verse to divert and uplift.

THE PSYCHIATRIST

So you'll to the psychiatrist,
Your little psyche's queer
You need, I think, to see a good
Psmackbottomist, my dear!

Anon.


FOOTNOTE TO TENNYSON ON THE SUBJECT OF MARRIAGE

I feel it when the game is done
I feel it when I suffer most
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than ever to have loved and won.

Gerald Bullett

A LIMERICK

There was an old man of Khartoum
Who kept a tame sheep in his room
"To remind me," he said,
"Of someone who is dead,
But I never can recollect whom."


LAST MONTH'S POEM

To Tina, On the Occasion of Her New Breasts
By Rupert Hogwalloper

Tina, Tina
I've never seen a
Pair of paps like those.
Two proud titties
Sitting pretty
And pouting through your clothes.
Grown from Nature's small creations,
Thanks to Mankind's skill and patience.
See the ripened fruit that burgeons
And thank the Lord who gave us surgeons.

Last month's poem, by noted Australian poet, Rupert Hogwalloper, was greeted with such universal critical acclaim that we're publishing it again, together with Marmaduke Fortescue's incisive review.

A first reading of "To Tina, on the Occasion of Her New Breasts" leaves one in no doubt that one is in the presence of a truly extraordinary work. Of course, on one level, there is an undeniably earthy, even pithy quality to the poem. One is immediately put in mind of the ubiquitous Young Lady of Buckingham, whose colorful exploits have inspired so many poets through the ages. And yet surely there is more, much more, to this work.
Of course, Queensland's vibrant poetry scene is justly famous for its earthy qualities. No one who has read "Will You Look at the Arse on that Sheilah?" by Bruce Figgins or "My Enormous Trouser Snake" by Richard Head can be in

Movie Review
Brigadier General Sir Crispin Maddingley Snorrt, K.B. (retired) at the "Oscars."

any doubt of the significant stirrings that are taking place Down Under.
What imparts to this poem its peculiar power? Surely it is the sheer honest and uninhibited joy with which Hogwalloper  approaches his theme. This is a celebration of the breast, a hymn to the mammary. One imagines the poet leering at the eponymous objects over a half-empty pint of Fosters in a sleazy Brisbane bar, and what could be more, totally, vibrantly, rapturously alive than that?

FOOLS' PARADISE

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