Francis Duggan Poems

'Tis written of the man who murdered Lincoln that he was not right in the head
But of anyone who commits such a crime the same thing can be said
But in truth he only was fulfilling his life's destiny
And none of us are perfect or so 'twould seem to me.
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The toasting glass in their honour we should raise
The kind of heart they are worthy of our praise
To help those in need they go out of their way
Just for to be helpful and without asking for pay
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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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'Life wasn't meant to be easy' a quote from George Bernard Shaw
But from that familiar saying your own conclusion you draw
Those words maybe for the masses for those who drudge on and then die
But life wasn't meant to be easy to everyone does not apply.
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They will always be the first Australians that privilege to them alone belong
Their ancestors lived in Australia sixty thousand years ago and their bond to Nature strong
The children of the Dreamtime they should take pride of place
As the Aboriginal people of this southern Land but such is not the case.
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I left my love in the Fairy Glen
Home of the litte fairy men
I met her there on a July night
When a Summer moon was beaming bright.
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When women will rule the World sadly i won't be around
My bones will be resting forever in some quiet dead person's ground
But what a World 'twill be to live in the flower of peace will bloom again
And for as long as women do rule the World peace in the World will remain,
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No matter what our Nationality our colour or our creed
We are air breathing mortals and when we cut we bleed
We may look on them as inferior as weeds amongst the flowers
But the proof of their equality is their blood flows red like ours.
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She is quite a beautiful looker a thing that she already knows
But one thing that does give her bother is she feels that she has a big nose
And each time she looks in the mirror a big nose is all she can see
But what she feels is on the large side does seem rather petite to me.
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One can hear the voice of sorrow sobbing, sobbing endlessly
Yet it hides in dark recesses sorrow you can never see
It's a black and brooding creature with a voice that aches of pain
And all of those who have met with it hope not to meet with it again.
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