Francis Duggan Poems

This is the lucky Country but not for everyone
Not for the grieving mother who has buried her young son
Left to die on the roadway in a case of hit and run
Not for her the lucky Country when all is said and done.
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Have you in your flights of fancy seen the fog roll down the hill
And heard the dipper singing in the babbling mountain rill
From it's birthplace by the mountain by many a hedgerow
For to join with the big river forever it does flow.
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They are supposed to be the good guys the likes of Bush and Howard and Blair
But the damage they've created only time it can repair
With little provocation they went on the attack
They started with Afghanistan and now they are in Iraq.
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Was it a foul smell from my direction that in the wind to them did blow
For they passed me by without speaking when to them i said hello
They seemed cold and unfriendly though them i did not know
At the strangeness of some human behaviour my wonder only grow.
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Why bow to pope or president or why bow to queen or king
For to bow to anybody is a subservient thing
When they are only mere mortals the same as you or i
The clock is ticking on their lives and one day they too must die.
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I'm just a mere poetaster with words I like to play
I try to bend and twist them in every different way
To rhyme it is so easy cat always rhymes with rat
And brown it is the colour of the limeburner's hat.
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That our Nation's sports women and men should be the best Worldwide
Has got nothing to do with our love of sport only false Nationalistic pride
'Tis not for their love of Country that individual sports people compete
But for their own self glory and for their own self conceit.
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Those i do not rate highly some others see as great
And a good friend to one person to another not a mate
We all are very different in we see others differently
And you in your ways are different so different to me.
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Since Robert Service penned his poems of the Land of ice and snow
His Sam Mgee and Dan Mgrew many have come to know
And though the master wordsmith to the reaper has long gone
In memory his characters are fresh and living on.
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The cold winds of November blew with a heavy chill
On the last time I saw Cullen the Village on the hill
'Twas early in the morning from pub opening some three hours
And a heavily overcast sky was threatening sleety showers.
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