Francis Duggan Poems

Don't sing me 'Slievenamon' or 'Molly Malone' or 'The Banks Of My Own Lovely Lee'
Or 'The Boys Of Wexford' or 'Galway Bay' or even 'The Rose Of Tralee'
I've often heard those songs sung in my young years and the past I do want to forget
They were and are well loved old ballads though tinged with nostalgia and regret
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Suppose football does serve a purpose some males do need other interests in their lives
Than working or drinking of alcohol or arguing with or making love to their girl friends or wives
On saturday they go to the football to cheer on their team win or lose
'Tis better for them than going to the local and wasting their money on the booze
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Forgive me if I do not seem to understand
The workings as such of The law Of The Land
For the haves and the have nots different laws seem to apply
Why this has to be one has to wonder why.
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The swallows Winter far from Hibernia's shore
And far south of the high fields of old Claramore
But they will return to raise their next brood in the Spring
The wonders of Nature an amazing thing
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You say your God is special and you say your God is great
If so a better World for your God you can help to create
Yet those who are different to you those of a different faith
You find it a great struggle to even tolerate
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For you life is an uphill battle
Success from you seems far away
Out of work in a job depressed job market
To welfare from minimum pay.
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The corellas on the tall gums are calling as darkness is cloaking the sky
The evening is calm though 'tis raining and we need rain the ground is so dry
This evening the farmer is happy his water tanks filling in the rain
Nice to hear the spluttering of rain water down the guttering to the storm water drain
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It is a pleasant evening of wind and sunshine
The temperatures close to twenty degrees
And butterflies are flitting above the flower beds
And wattlebirds call on the coastal trees.
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No friend of the Aussie workers he gave the Trade Unions hell
And those who judge will too be judged as we all know too well
And the ruthless minister Peter Reith has sounded his own political death knell
He will never be Australia's Prime Minister now on his own sword he fell.
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The dark skinned fellow from New zealand locals call him Maori Joe
Broad shouldered with great big muscles must be six foot two or so
He is well liked in Boronia good as you could wish to know
And every time I happen to meet him he flash big smile and say hello.
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