Classic Poem

O a wondrous land is the Jim-Jam Land to one who has been there,
Where the Grim Past drags you by the feet, and the Future by the hair;
Where the Ghastly Present grasps your throat and sits on your stifling chest
And Imps of the Blue-Funk prod you up when you would seek your rest.
Ask any man in the Public Bar. If he only grips your hand
And says no word, it may be inferred that he's been in Jim-Jam Land.

When it's Ten O'Clock in the Public Bar, and you've left off Beer for Rum,
And the Landlord's face is an evil place in the lurid clouds that come;
When you seek to fight your dearest friend, and you hug your foe instead;
When you sit down hard, and you find yourself three miles away in bed —
And the bed swings round to its proper place to the bang of the Fiend's own band,
And the door and the window waltz to theirs — then you're bound for Jim-Jam Land.

When the plastered ceiling's centre-piece is a Devil's grinning face,
And round and round the skirting-board the little Fantods race;
When your clothes behind the bedroom door, no matter how hard you look,
Are either a man who has hanged himself or a shrouded, skull-faced spook;
When a Caliban squats and glowers and glows where stood the mild washstand,
And the arm of the lounge is a coilsome snake — 'tis the Border of Jim-Jam Land.

When a grisly Something nudges you in the early morning mirk,
And yelps your name in your startled ear, as you sit up with a jerk —
When a Something taps as you settle down and try to sleep once more,
And a Lurk looks in with a cheerful grin at your balcony bedroom door;
When a hairy arm comes reaching round with a monstrous claw-like hand —
And its mate comes in through the nearest wall — O then you're in Jim-Jam Land.

When an old hen roosts on the rod o'erhead with the face and the beak of a hag,
And in spite of the Jim-Jam chorus round continues to nag — nag — nag;
While the friends of your Dead Past barrack for you — those dear old friends long dead —
And your aunts, and the rest of your living kin have a row behind the bed;
When the wife that divorced you takes you back, and your future lot is planned,
And her friends come round to congratulate — O-o-o-h!! then you're in Jim-Jam Land.

When you're out, far out, in the Mulga Scrub (or you think that you are there),
And you've blued your cheque at the Take Down Pub, and you've lost your swag somewhere;
When the Nothing slaps you on the back, and your kick-out bottle's done,
And the Voices wail in your maddened brain till you shed your pants and run;
When the Jumps and the Screamers race abreast across the burning sand,
And your feet are scorched by the floors of Hell — O then you're in Jim-Jam Land.

When the short, thick serpents pave the ground, and they shoot their tongues and hiss,
And their black heads wave to the sky-line round — O there is no land like this.
When you climb a tree and the limbs are snakes, and you drop down in despair —
And they cross like swords, and your shirt's a kilt, and you dance the sword dance there;
When you streak at last for the Edge of Things, and chance their fangs — it's grand!
You're glad to catch up with the Leaps again in the heart of Jim-Jam Land.

Yet cheer, my friend, keep your pecker up — in a week you'll be all right.
And you'll learn to know as the years go by that the Jim-Jam snakes don't bite.
And the Lurks and the Howls are a jovial crowd, all born of the jovial cup,
And the little Fantods, if you only know, are trying to help you up.
You'll come back fresh to the world again with a Will at your command,
With a kinder heart and a clearer brain for a night in Jim-Jam Land.