Francis Duggan Poems

When women will rule the World sadly i won't be around
My bones will be resting forever in some quiet dead person's ground
But what a World 'twill be to live in the flower of peace will bloom again
And for as long as women do rule the World peace in the World will remain,
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One can hear the voice of sorrow sobbing, sobbing endlessly
Yet it hides in dark recesses sorrow you can never see
It's a black and brooding creature with a voice that aches of pain
And all of those who have met with it hope not to meet with it again.
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Oh Ireland Mother Ireland brave men for you have been shot
But are you worth one cup of human blood you most certainly are not
Your noble sons who fought for you by British guns were slain
But what value to a dead hero is worthless immortal name.
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He is not a philosopher, he is not a poet
And he is not a man of note
And though he yearns for wealth and fame
There's many like him feel the same.
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The pleasant scent waft in the breeze of the freshly mown hay
And the blackbird singing sweetly in the warm sun of the day
And the capeweed in their yellow blooms in their billions one can see
In the paddocks and roadside margins by the roadway to the sea
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Compassion and kindness are born in the heart
And in the making of a better Human World to live in they play a huge part
And those who have such rare gifts are lucky indeed
And of more of their type we are badly in need
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The gap between the rich and poor expanding getting bigger by the day
But in a fair and just society things would never be this way
Those born into a poor family are forsaken by the gods
And if they wish to be successful they must fight against all odds.
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There's no secret in being a good person in being a good woman or man
You can only live as good as you can live and live for as long as you can
You can help one in need of help out of trouble you can do a good deed every day
There's no secret in being a good person it's that some people are born that way.
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Without death, bloodshed and suffering wars are never won
And only hatred and grief survives when the fighting is done
And war heroes honoured in every war street parade
By war men the memories of war not allowed for to fade
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When compared to mine his dreams are very humble he does not seek much out of life at all
A small flat he could call his home to live in compared to most his wishes seem quite small
At sixty seven years he's on the street and homeless a Winter dawn is breaking cold and gray
With long gray beard and looking thin and shabby he walks uptown as he does every day.
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