The Gun Poem by R. K. Hart

He'd been on the grog the night before,
He woke with this morning needing a score.
His numbers had been down of late,
Today he needed a number great.

His alarm rang with the shriek of a banshee,
His fist hammered down on it like a falling gum tree.
The alarm sounded against the corrugated wall,
He jerked awake and sat on the side of the bed tall.

Stumbling toward the water-tank his braces hung low,
He broke the ice with his hand splashed his hair of snow.
The chilled water was minimally applied to his face,
Braces up and just about all was in place

A quick breakfast of toast, porridge, eggs and bacon,
The usual 6 sugars and tea were taken.
Hands cupped his mug as the team walked the rutted soil.
The shed awaited and yarded sheep for a day of toil.

The jenny sputtered into life, pieces oiled,
Rouseabouts, tar boys and shearers were as athletes coiled.
The Cocky struck the bell above the generators whine,
They began the first blows at wool so fine.

The Gun took sheep after sheep and his tally grew.
Each blow was correct and true.
No chaff left on the Redeye
Nothing left and the board was dry.

The Boots, the boss of the boards hit the bell,
And upon the shed a deathly silence fell.
A pannikin of blackest tea,
And sugar poured from the bag free.

Ducks on the boards during the break,
Brought a tray of lamingtons, they did make.
The shed were on them without decorum,
Like flies, they barely left a crumb.

Back at work the Guns tally was chalked,
Then into the pen each time he stalked.
After taking the wool he used the chute,
He assisted each on with a nudge of a boot.

Tucker and afternoon tea passed on bye,
Thoughts of ale came to mind under evening sky.
Of the evening meal and a veranda glass,
With the team, Guns to Chaff.

This was the day he realized he'd come to the end
He was beat and could barely bend.
He would no longer shear two ton,
He was headed for the shade and the younger the sun.