Francis Duggan Poems

The weather rather chilly it is cold enough to snow
And the flat paddocks under water where the Powlett river overflow
And even in the distance one can hear the ocean roar
As the tide up the beach races and splash on rocks along the shore.
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Bureaucracies rule the world they tell Governments what to do
And at the expense of the many they favour the privileged few
And Government for the wealthy only the catch cry of the day
And the rich keep getting richer though 'tis always been that way.
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In flights of nostalgic fancy I see them every day
Those old hills of my younger years far north and far away
Overlooking the green countryside to memory I recall
Too high and rough for men to plough them they haven't changed at all.
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Another Olympic games for the wealthy only doesn't life seem so unfair
In the Athens Olympic Stadium there won't be many there
Who live on a low income or struggle to get by on welfare
And who should win the medals why should I even care?
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As I browsed on the internet I came upon Deirdre's site
Her picture tells more of her than any words that one could write
For she surely looked beautiful so innocent and young
And tears have been shed for her and her praises have been sung.
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Old hills around Archies Creek you once had many trees
Before Cook and his sailors sailed down the southern seas
And placed the flag of England on this far southern shore
And something of great beauty to be changed forever more.
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Your prime years fast approaching the good days gone for me
For I am nearly sixty and you are twenty three
Old men have had their innings it is of youth we sing
And the red rose on the rose bush enjoys only one Spring.
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You love the wide brown country the flatlands sparse in trees
Where when the moon is rising in the freshening evening breeze
You hear the dingoes barking out hunting for the night
They chase the mob of kangaroos for miles in the moonlight.
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The last time I saw young Jo Jo the wind tossed her long brown hair
On a bright and breezy morning when Spring was in the air
As she passed me by on the footpath she smiled and said hello
Her eyes were as brown as ripe chestnuts and her teeth as white as snow.
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The last true wild horses of Planet Earth of them it has been said
Of stocky build with dark brown mane and coloured brown to red
Przewalski's horse it is their name in the wild state now quite rare
In the Gobi desert years ago they were seen everywhere.
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