Francis Duggan Poems

On the last time that I was in old Toora Town
The hills all around were in their Autumn brown
The dark winged swallows were circling in the sky
And the day I recall it was sunny and dry.
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She was nineteen years old the Rose of the Town
With brown eyes and shoulder length tresses of brown
But the reaper on all of our lives has the final say
And all is quiet and dark now where she does lay.
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Do not waste your prayers on such as I save your own soul from hell
And leave me in peace will you please to pen this doggerel
To some I am a pagan and to some an infidel
Yet by passing judgement on me to Satan their souls they sell.
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When last I heard the dunnock sing along the ditch of the bohreen
The snowdrops and the bluebells in clusters to be seen
And the hawthorn trees looked lovely in their white flowers of the May
But that was many years ago and many miles away.
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A billionaire in his mid thirties quite famous and very well known
But money and fame it cannot make him happy he just wants a life of his own
To live where he would feel a stranger though for him there is no such a place
From his fame 'twould seem he cannot hide for his is too well known a face.
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In a Nation of many well off people they call it hidden poverty
The poor souls of the back streets that the wealthy never see
They live in condemned houses that are clearly in decay
And out of sight is out of mind or so 'twould seem that way.
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Before we think of changing the World 'tis ourselves we must change
To say something like that may seem a bit strange
To old mistrusts and half truths 'tis not hard to cling
Compassion for others it is such a great thing.
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Don't you try to do my thinking for me
Don't tell me me what I should eat or should drink
Since I do respect your opinions
And I never tell you what to think.
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We fear and we worship our God in the sky
And we insult our great Goddess who lives nearby
Yet without her we would not have life to enjoy
And the beauty of Nature we choose to destroy
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A poet in the style of Kipling he pens such readable rhyme
Yet the literary critics dismiss him saying he is not one of our time
This is the 21st century the age of the modern poet
A poet in the style of Kipling nowadays not worthy of note,
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