Francis Duggan Poems

Why worry of death and of dying when you will be forever dead
The present is all that does matter who knows for us what lay ahead
We will die that we know for certain and we only can live in the now
The father of time is our master and to the father of time we must bow
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Can one see hope for the future of humanity when the foes of Nature in business and commerce succeed
When our Earth Mother is being raped for her resources by those known for their financial greed
In South America's Amazon Rainforest thousands of acres of trees are cut down every day
The uncalled for destruction of the natural environment for agriculture for to make way
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The peals of the funeral bell echo to the calm sky
For someone today 'tis a final goodbye
And on some future date whenever that be
A similar bell will be ringing for me.
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They should not have a Nationality on them to all people they should belong
Those three wonderful gifts of humankind known as music and dancing and song
They do not belong to any one Nation at least that's how it does seem to me
Though many Nationalists hold such things precious and with my thinking would not agree.
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A war about God and a war about Land
The tragic loss of lives I do not understand
A just war in truth is a damnable lie
For in modern day conflicts many civilians do die
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It's the home of 'Puffing Billy' it's one just claim to renown
And the Premier Town of Sherbrooke that is little Belgrave Town
Forty k's south east of Melbourne where the mountain grays stand tall
And where when darkness cloaks the forest one can hear the boobook call.
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As the train approach the station it slow down
And the conductor shouts the next stop Violet Town
At the station platform it grinds to stand still
And the Melbourne V line whistles loud and shrill.
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I've always thought that the word holy involved prayer
But the Muslims of Ambon in Indonesia say they ought declare
A holy war on all Christians living there
And religious tolerance seems strained beyond repair.
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I've seen them out by Woori Yallock way
On insects, grubs and grasshoppers they prey
In mid November latter days of spring
A time of year when young birds take to wing.
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Down at his local Raymond makes a whole lot of noise
His loud voice heard above the din 'boys always will be boys'
He and his mates meet every evening for an hour's drinking or two
And their subjects seldom vary as pub talk seldom do.
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