Francis Duggan Poems

So Sarah it's your birthday twenty two
And a happy birthday red haired one to you
And may all of your dreams for future years come true
And may you achieve the goals that you pursue.
...

She arrived here from Mexico City about seventeen years ago
And she's just had her thirty eight birthday a night out with her husband Joe
They live in Box Hill in Victoria where he has lived for most of his life
And she says in her beautiful accent 'me lucky to be good man's wife'.
...

The moorhen chirp where rank grass grow
On bank by where Sullane waters flow
And wild flowers in their billions bloom
In meadows just out of Macroom.
...

Upon the leaf litter that covers the ground
The faded rose petals lay scattered around
The last rose of Autumn has answered the call
Of the cold grim reaper and so too must we all.
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Only one can be president and only one can be pope
And for every millionaire many struggle to cope
With the business of living, poor people are not rare
There are billions of them in the big World out there.
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The weather may not be that good the sky overcast and gray
But the Millstreet Town St Patrick's parade it will take place today
From Minor Row led by the Pipers Band up through the old Town Square
I'm just one Millstreet person amongst many more who wishes he were there.
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Bruising on her face proof of her terrible life
The young woman who is a wife beater's wife
Her bruises they seem far too many to hide
But with year old twin girls to her man she feels tied.
...

You may be a very good person well known and well liked in the town
But there's one or two who do not like you and there is one to put you down
Some only search for faults in others in their ways these people are small
You may win the respect of many but you cannot win the respect of all.
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That money speaks every language has often been said before
And what also applies to money is much always wants more
And that moneyed people rule the World is something we all know
The more money they accumulate the more their power does grow.
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The fox is hunting on the mountain there's no mistaking his wild cry
And the full moon is silently stealing it's way through the Autumn night sky
The boobook owl on the moonlit acacias utters forth his distinctive mopoke call
On a calm night in early April in the prime of the southern Fall
...