Francis Duggan Poems

Born in a Village near Paris in eighteen seventy and he went to the Reaper in nineteen fifty three
And in his most amazing life he was for awhile a British M P
But it is mostly as a great writer that he is remembered today
He may be dead for half of a century but his genius with us will stay.
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Those who abuse their power over others in their lust for renown
Are those who are letting humanity down
They come in all shades of colors black, white and brown
And are to be found in every village and city and town
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It is a fact of life and fact never lie
We are born of a woman eventually to die
Like all other life forms for us there's an end
We are only mere mortals why otherwise pretend
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Near the sea in South Australia the Murray River flows brown
Through the old and dry countryside by Tailem Bend Town
A river that has flowed for centuries before the dinosaur time
And has been the inspiration of story and rhyme
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In the clear blue sky woolly looking clouds of gray
The sun it is shining on a lovely Spring day
A high of a warm enough 28 degrees
With only the faintest sign of a slight breeze.
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For years as an amateur rhymer i have penned a whole heap of rhyme
Since back in the early nineteen seventies when i was in my life's prime
I have been addicted to rhyming long before time left me feeling and looking older and gray
An addiction that will surely be with me right up till my last night and day
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Radovan Karadzic he will die in jail
As a human being he is one who did fail
For his crimes against humanity in Bosnia the price he does pay
In prison he will spend his last night and day
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It is said about writers that they are born not made
Though some from the memory are quite quick to fade
And some to their disappointment never make the grade
Yet every writer is needed in the wordsmith trade
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Birds I see often though not every day
Galahs the cockatoos in feathers of pink and gray
Their calling in flight is quite pleasant to hear
And though not very shy of human beings they are cautious and hold a healthy fear
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In memory i never left west of Millstreet
And the green rushy fields where the waterways meet
And in fancy i often does hear the birds sing
In a leafy grove in the prime of the Spring
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