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93 MAQUARIE STREEET
By Evalds. E

I worked there once, 'twixt heaven and hell!
I know their stories,I know them full well,
Toiling at distributing scholarly supplies,
Corresponding with teachers, and responding to their replies,
Clerking below heaven's gate,
Clerking above hell's reception (where the sinners wait),
These are the tales, I know full well,
And some of these tales to you I will tell.

Ah, heaven, I never saw it at any time,
but yes, I heard it, it was oh, so divine,
Processing orders and glancing at invoices,
Whilst transported by the trills of such heavenly voices,
Singing arias, of Puchini, and Verdi, and Gounod,
Singing bel canto softly, and can belto loud!
Listening to recitative, delivered with repetitive refrain,
As the tutors remonstrated with "again", "again", "again"!

Voices crystal and pure, voices harshly strained,
Voices inexperienced and voices well trained,
I heard them often, and it seemed so absurd,
That below in muted silence, waited the sinful herd,
But no matter! It broke the tedium,
The welcome distraction of a vocal medium,
I think now of those voices that I once heard projected,
And wonder of those: Which ones were accepted? And which ones were rejected?

Above me heaven's conservatory,
Below me, hell's bestiary!

Hell was so well placed!
where under a blue light, the sinners paced,
And from the bar, I saw them as they passed the First and Last,
Some ambled to hell slowly, while others went furtively fast,
I watched them all as I drank my shout,
I watched them going in, and I watched them coming out,
They were the ones, whom had acted rash,
And they each treavelled to hell, to check out their rash,
They each took their chances, damn silly wankers!
And they appointedly went there, to treat of their chancres.
to hell, the working girls brazenly sauntered,
Whilst grim husbands approached, guiltily haunted,
Each attending, at their appointed time,
Some leaving relieved, some paying the fine,
Some men composing, quite plausible lies,
As they wept from each, of their red, angry eyes,
But the scholarly suppliers, those in the know,
down the central stairwell, to hell they could go,
They needn't make their descent so fast,
For they needn't run the gauntlet past the First and the Last!

Angels above, with voices eathereal,
Patients below, with vices venereal.

And so at that place of work, I did dwell,
That time of my life, between heaven and hell,
Was I miserable there? Why no! Not I! Not even a skerrick!
Reading my Browning whilst avoiding dear Herrick!
They were my salad days, full of youthful fun,
Where young ones were my friends, yes, every one,
Where love and flirtation and office romances,Took place, and the married ones, too, took their chances,
They were the days that I fondly recall,
Where at week's end, to the pub would go all,
To recount to each other the wins and the losses,
To congratulate the heroes, and to tease the tossers,
But the past is another place, that is not to be lived in,
But visited momentarily, and reme,bered with a grin,
Those grand times are still within me, that very pleasant part,
Tucked away safely, within my memory, and within my heart.

Copyright: Evalds. E. 2001