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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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777.
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Brutus The Alpine Rescue Dog
They baptised him up on the Berner ridge,
the dog thought Brutus was a splendid name.
He trained between the summit and the bridge
a perfect pupil who adored the game.
The day when churchbells sounded through the day
a thousand tourists tortured tired feet,
tomorrow was the second day of May
the local Vicar took a bite to eat.
They saw him leaving the Cafι De Mange
but not again until the evening Mass,
a hundred people saw the Avalanche
it started at the top of Brenner Pass.
Brutus had been the Vicar's special friend,
he powered up the mountain's icy slope.
He slobbered and he fretted, would the end
be simply death or was there any hope?
He barked the loudest he had ever done,
the scent was something slightly in between
the stench of porkers having lots of fun
and yellow roses up near the latrine.
He did not scold the Vicar for his fear,
instead the odor was a pleasant breeze
his canine tongue inserted in one ear
the holy man sat up and had a sneeze.
Brutus lived long, in fact some twenty moons,
up in the church inside the Vicar's flat
was fed each meal from ancient silver spoons
and died a proud and happy dog, and fat.
He had succeeded early in his life,
and glory followed him like turbulence,
he took a Weimaraner as a wife
but she got cataracts inside a lens.
So they retired her with a new mate
up near Geneva in the lower land
while he stayed with the Vicar and his fate
it was a thing that few would understand.
So was he resting on his laurels then?
Performed no other service to mankind?
Oh no, inside the Vicar's holy den
he read the Bible to improve his mind.
Herbert Nehrlich
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778.
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Bucketloads
The sky did open,
and bucketloads
of what is usually
contained inside
the honeywagons
rained down,
as if to drown
the lot.
It was the logical
and pertinent
as well as long-awaited
conclusion,
to an investigation
of the people's souls.
And afterward they closed
the sky for good,
for one, the sewers
had been emptied,
the other reason?
it does escape me now.
Herbert Nehrlich
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779.
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Bufus Marinus
A fly of rather noble class
had flown across the Strait of Bass.
He was quite proud of this great feat
and looking for some things to eat.
The sun had set and it was late,
it had been ages since he ate,
and, coming from the Southern parts
he liked his chicken pies and tarts.
Tasmania is, as you may know
the island where they chop up crow
and mix the feathers, beaks and feet
into their favourite pies of meat.
Victoria (this makes me shudder) ,
is known to grind up Emu udder
and add a bit of kangaroo,
to make a most revolting stew.
The rich though eat down at the pubs,
they like their roaches, ants and grubs.
They top it all with Vegemite
and have roo oysters late at night.
Well, luckily, flies aren't selective
each sees himself as a detective.
They seek to find nutritious fare
there favourite is fromage gruyθre.
This afternoon, the fly had landed
inside an otherwise abandoned
and quiet room inside the town.
He rested now and wore a frown.
His bones were tired from the journey
and in his gut, near the McBurney,
he felt a rumbling and a pain,
he needed tucker, that was plain.
The fly, I should have added early,
was rather handsome with his curly
and black and silver speckled hair,
he was surrounded by an air
of feudalistic foreign roots,
and did I mention, he wore boots?
He was, as fate would have decided
en route from Europe on a guided
and Yankee missile launcher rocket,
he'd flown inside the pilot's pocket
and landed safely then Down Under,
the day they had that awful thunder.
Australia, it must be mentioned,
is as a country, well-intentioned.
The Natives like the Northern yanks,
their jets, their money and their tanks.
But, those who think that they can come
be welcomed with a mug of rum
would skip their homework at their peril.
Australia can be quite feral!
As you will see, just bear with me.
The fly stood up, prepared to pee
when on the ground a little critter
walked through the room with a large litter.
Bufus Marinus is a toad
who'll shoot at enemies a load
of toxic venom when he's scared.
No fly can ever be prepared.
The little toads now watched their mother,
release a bucketful, oh BROTHER!
The fly was hit, fell without grace
and landed on his lifeless face.
A toad, who looked polite and groomed
(he was the one who had assumed
his father's role when he passed on)
a custom for the eldest son
did get the honour to imbibe
the fly, watched by his canetoad tribe.
And thus, the story ends and teaches
that you may visit foreign beaches.
But be aware that other lands
(it's what the smart bloke understands) ,
have traps for those on every street.
Be careful, what you choose to eat.
And if you need to take a wee,
in matters of great urgency,
watch for the little critters, sunny.
It always pays to use the Dunny.
Herbert Nehrlich
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780.
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Bumblebee Creation
When God sat down to have iced tea
(His weather had been hot) ,
he thought that he would change the bee
as it was really not
exceptional or beautiful
it lacked a certain trait,
he poured a silver teaspoonful
of phosphopyruvate
into the mouth of the small bee
then waited for a bit,
the bee flew up into a tree
and had a minor fit.
Petit Mal thought God and as he sat
the bee let out a rumble,
and from within, from bellyfat
it grew a handsome bumble.
So now you know that bumblebees
were touched by the creator,
unlike all flies, and roaches, flees
and every alligator.
Herbert Nehrlich
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