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The Cop and the Comet by C.J. Dennis

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A Bendigo policeman is said to have discovered a new comet in the southern sky. His claim has been supported by other observers.

On Sunday morn, yer 'anner, while proceedin' on me beat
   In proper execution of me jooty,
I observed defendant comet from me station in the street
   Sez I, "Yer loiterin' wid intint, me beauty."
He was actin' in a manner
   Most suspicious-like an' sly,
An' I sez to him, yer 'anner,
   "Move on, now! Git off that sky!"
But he failed to leave the premises, an' acted in a way
Like he'd designs upon the milk along the Milky Way.

So I went to get a ladder for to apprehend accused;
   But when I returned, he'd vanished with the night.
An' he might have been a burglar or he might have been just boozed;
   But his conduck, to my thinkin', wasn't right.
An' (whisper just between us)
   He frequents celeschil bars
Wid a shady piece named Venus
   An' convicted felon, Mars.
So I'd ask you to convict him in his absence, if 'tis right;
An' I'll try to apprehend him whin he comes tomorra night.

First published in The Herald, 6 December 1927

The Silent Cop by C.J. Dennis

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In spite of protests by the press and public bodies the Police Department's secrecy concerning reports continues inexplicably.

Books in running brooks there are,
   As the Bard knew well;
Yet, as to what crooks there are,
   Cops never tell.
Lacking all loquacity,
A limited capacity
For stories whose veracity
   Might raise a public yell,
They plead, with rare sagacity,
   And cops never tell.

Sermons still in stones there are,
   Found by dale and dell,
Tales in bleaching bones there are;
   But cops never tell.
Tho' with rare rascality
And much illegality,
Rascals, in reality,
   The daily crime lists swell,
Scorning in vain verbality,
   Cops never tell.

Tongues, we know, in trees, there are,
   Voices in the shell
That speak of surging seas there are,
   But cops never tell!
Unless, thro' insobriety,
Or, seeking notoriety,
The troubler of society
   Is safe within the cell,
With, stubborn contrariety
   Cops never tell.

From out all Nature come to us
   Confessions none may quell,
Nor earth nor sky are dumb to us,
   But cops never tell.
Despite the multiplicity
Of crimes and man's duplicity,
Which over our felicity
   Has cast an evil spell,
Shrinking from crude publicity,
   Cops never tell.

First published in The Herald, 23 November 1935

Culture and Cops by C.J. Dennis

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Beauty and policemen seem to me, somehow, intrinsically antipathetic. They are as far apart as butterflies and hippopotamuses, or the Law of Torts and the Pastoral Symphony. - An artist in Melbourne Argus.

Five nights agone I lay at rest
   On my suburban couch.
My trousers on the bedpost hung,
   Red gold within their pouch.
The twin-gods Law and Order seemed
To me all powerful as I dreamed.

My life was staid, my rates were paid,
   And peace was in my mind.
Nor recked I of unruly men
   To evil deeds inclined --
Strange, primal atavistic men
Who shock the peaceful citizen.

But all the same, by stealth he came,
   A man of vile intent.
What cared he that my life was pure,
   Or that I paid my rent?
He willed to violate my shrine
For household treasures that were mine.

He planned to thieve my household goods,
   Heirlooms of divers kinds.
(I cannot understand such men,
   Nor fathom their dark minds.
Why cannot they abjure all vice,
And be respectable and nice?)

With purpose vile and with a file
   My window he attacked.
A stealthy scratch upon the catch
   Awoke me to the fact.
Softly, with sudden fear amazed,
A corner of the blind I raised.

I saw his face!...Oh, what a man
   His manhood should degrade,
And seek to rob (I checked a sob)
   Except in honest trade!
A predatory face I saw
That showed no reverence for Law.

With whirring head I slid from bed,
   Crept from my peaceful couch;
Forsook my trousers hanging there,
   Red gold within their pouch.
Out through my chamber door I fled
And up the hallway softly sped.

Into the murky night I stole
   To see a certain cop,
Whose forthright feet patrol the beat
   A stone's throw from my shop.
In my pyjama suit went I....
Across the moon dark clouds swept by.

I saw him draped upon a post,
   Like someone in a swoon.
His buttons gleamed what time the clouds
   Released the troubled moon.
He gazed upon the changing sky,
A strange light in his dreamy eye.

"Now, haste thee, cop!" I called aloud,
   And seized him by the arm.
"There is a wretch without my house
   Who bodes my treasure harm" ....
Toward the sky he waved a hand
And answered, "Ain't that background grand?"

"Nay, gentle John," said I, "attend
   A thief my household gods
Seeks to purloin.  Go, seize the man
   And scourge his back with rods!"
"Those spires against the sky," said he,
"Surcharged with beauty are to me."

"I give the man in charge!" I cried,
   "He is on evil bent!
He seeks of all its treasured art
   To strip my tenement!"
He answered, as one in a dream,
"Ain't that a bonzer colour-scheme?   

"Them tortured clouds agen the moon,"
   The foolish cop pursued,
"Remind me of some Whistler thing;
   But I prefer the nood."
Said I, "Arrest this man of vice!"
Said he, "The nood is very nice."

"My pants," cried I, "unguarded lie
   Beside my peaceful couch --
My second-best pair, with the stripes,
   Red gold within their pouch!
Thieves! Murder! Burglars! FIRE!" cried I.
Sighed he, "Oh, spires against the sky!"

Then, in my pink pyjamas clad,
   I danced before his eyes.
In anger impotent I sought
   His ear with savage cries.
He pushed me from him with a moan.
"Go 'way!" he said.  "You're out of tone."

"Why do I pay my rates?" I yelled --
   "What are policemen for?
Come, I demand, good cop, demand
   Protection from the law!"
"You're out of drorin', too," said he.
"Still, s'pose I better go an' see."

I guided him a-down the street;
   And now he stayed to view
The changing sky, and now he paused
   Before some aspect new.
And thus, at length, we gained my gate.
"Too late!" I cried.  "Alas, too late!"

Too late to save my household gods,
   My treasures rich and rare.
My ransacked cupboards yawned agape,
   My sideboard, too, was bare.
And there, beside my tumbled couch,
My trousers lay with rifled pouch.

"Now, haste thee, cop!" I called again,
   "Let not thy footsteps lag!
The thief can not be far away.
   Haste to regain the swag!" ...
His arms I saw him outward fling.
He moaned, "Where did you get that thing?"

With startled state I looked to where
   His anguished gaze was bent,
And, hanging by my wardrobe, was
   A Christmas Supplement --
A thing I'd got for little price
And framed because I thought it nice.

It was a Coloured Supplement
   (The frame, I thought, was neat).
It showed a dog, a little maid --
   Whose face was very sweet --
A kitten, and some odds and ends.
The title, rather apt, was "Friends."

"Accursed Philistine!" I heard
   The strange policeman hiss
Between his teeth.  "O wretched man,
   Was I hired here for this?
O Goth!  Suburbanite!  Repent!
Tear down that Christmas Supplement!"

And, as athwart my burgled pane
  The tortured storm-wrack swept,
He bowed his head upon his hands,
   And wept and wept and wept....
So, on the whole, it seems to me,
Art and policemen don't agree.

First published in The Bulletin, 28 January 1915;
and later in
Backblock Ballads and Other Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1918.

Note: this poem is also known by the title The Cultured Cop.

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