R. K. Hart
He sat in mist of the smoke laden bar,
Well away from where the barmaid keeps swear jar.
His battered hat sweat stained and torn,
Some say he'd had it since born.
He told many a story that he had ventured,
Where he was as a young man indentured.
He says it was to the Kelly gang of bushrangers,
The bar thought he and the Kelly's were strangers.
A few more glasses of the golden ale,
And he'd get even more wind in his sail.
Australia years ago won the Americas cup,
To hear him he caused the wind to blow up.
The towns' people considered him harmless,
No one considered him putting them under duress.
So to his seat he remains rusted,
If he were boat, he'd be barnacle encrusted.
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