Francis Duggan Poems

The saltwater waves blue in the sunshine gently laps on the sandy shore
Far distant in sunny South Australia in beautiful old Semaphore
The lure of his Hometown is beckoning he's not been back for three years or more
In the Sem park with his mates he played cricket the cheers rang when runs he did score.
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I've been called worse things than a rhymer and worse things than that one might name
The poets are those who write the poetry the poets are those who know of fame
I suffer of compulsive obsession compulsion to pen doggerel
The stuff I write long out of fashion the rhymes I make I cannot sell.
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John Masefield was England's Poet Laureate when I sat on the dunce's stool
In the class room by the road to Clara in Millstreet's old Primary School
One of the last great rhyme men of literature to the Reaper he has long gone
But long poems such as Reynard the Fox and The Everlasting Mercy and Dauber as testimony to his greatness live on.
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Gray haired Dave in the house at the corner I often see him on the Street
He says I am an ex Policeman to everybody that he meet
Perhaps he has got a big ego or he is low in self esteem
And he needs the approval of others at least that is how it would seem.
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In this World there are all sorts of people the timid and bashful and shy
The arrogant and the deceptive those who find it easy for to cheat and to lie
We all share a few things in common we live for awhile and we die
Though our different personalities make us interesting are they any different to I?
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The lorikeets on the flowering gums chirping the silver gulls call in the Bay
The sun through the gray clouds is peeping it sure is a beautiful day
The noisy miners chirp around their borders aggressive and noisy by Nature and name
The rivalry between different bird species is for real but in the Human World it is the same.
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On the grassy bank of the old stream buttercups are blooming
bright
And on the ditch by the Bohreen snowdrops in their petals of white
And primroses in their light yellows and bluebells so lovely and blue
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Pink flowers on the potato stalks blooming I see them row upon row
Where the stream darkens and deepens as near to the ocean it flow
And the bells of old St David's I hear them ring in my dreams
The past lives in the subconcious without ever ageing it seems.
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I did not ask you to pray for me since I don't need your prayers
Go pray for yourself and your family and dwell on your own cares
If you are so convinced of a life hereafter your own soul you must save
There's nothing out there Mister your life ends in the grave.
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You say your name will live forever and your poems are destined to live on
And your words of genius will be quoted in centuries after you've gone
Into the non existent hereafter though your poems bound to insure your fame
At least that is how 'twould seem you see it that your's will be an immortal name.
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