Francis Duggan Poems

He is on the water waggon big Joe who loved his beer
He hasn't tasted alcohol since around this time last year
Too late to save his marriage but suppose such is life
His lovely ex spouse Miranda is now some one else's wife.
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The things you stand for say more of you than words can ever say
Have we the right to judge others do you see that as okay?
Do you see those who are different as inferior to you
Or are you one of those people who gives everyone their due?
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He won't be going to grow old north of Echuca where he first saw light of day
In South Gippsland in Wonthaggi he will grow old and gray
And in the Wonny cemetery his bones will forever lay
In the historical coal mining Town he feels happy for to stay.
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They are in our mouths and nostrils, they are in our eyes and hair
In our toilets and wash basins they live around us everywhere
In our hearts, kidneys, brains and intestines they work their way in there
And the damage they do to us doctors can't seem to repair.
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Freedom is a thing you can't impose
By bomb or bullet or at the point of the gun
A Government led by a Dictator foreign powers may over-throw
But freedom for the people in that way can't be won
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You may move distant from your old Hometown only to find your past has come with you
It follows like a scent hound on your track and to your new address you it will pursue
In your past there may not be any acts of shame but still it will keep following you around
It is with you where ever you will go it is not back there in your old Homeground.
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In leafy suburbs pubs and clubs they do their socializing
Their mates like them upper wealthy middle class which does not seem surprising
For these are aspirational people and like they say birds of a feather
Do not socialize with other birds they mostly flock together.
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Back there in old Duhallow at the dawning of this late November day
By the banks of the river the grass is hoary gray
From the frost that lingered overnight the air has a heavy chill
And dark rain clouds are gathering above old Clara hill.
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When I am gone forever and in Nature's bosom lay
I do not want those who know of me to for me kneel and pray
Since their prayers won't bring me back to life why waste their time on me
And praying for dead people seems such a waste of energy.
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Above the undulating hills the welcome swallows fly
And the skylark o'er Penhallow is carolling in the sky
The nearest place to Utopia that one might wish to see
The high country of South Gippsland seems beautiful to me.
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