Francis Duggan Poems

Who are these 'Howard Battlers' of them so much we hear
Perhaps middle class Sydney Suburbanites wee Johnny they revere
And not blue collar workers since Howard himself to them does not endear
And their voting intentions have always been so clear.
...

Whilst Joe is supposedly drinking with his mates down at the local pub
His wife Ann is out walking with the women's walkers club
At least that's what Joe think she is doing and he wishes to believe
That Ann to him is faithful and him never would deceive.
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I've never been a great athlete nor wrapped myself in glory
And I know when my days are done that I'll not live in history
And I've never been a football great like Pele or Jerd Muller
I'm just an ordinary bloke the duller type of duller.
...

When Anthea is teaching and Peter is roof tiling
Poor Robin the poodle must sit at home all day
Quite bored he lay upon the lounge room carpet
And where is Rachel to himself he say?
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O'er the fields of Aghabulloge the larks pipe in the sky
And in and out of hedgerows the nesting songbirds fly
And nostalgia always visits him at this time of the year
He closes his eyes and he visualize and the chaffinch's song he hear.
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What brought you here to man made motor way
From your safe and wooded sanctuary for to stray?
And blow flies lay their eggs on you today
For maggots for to eat your flesh away.
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Young Albie has ambition to appease
And he doesn't see a future on clearing trees
He says I'll be a carpenter by trade
And be right up there with the highly paid.
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The road that runs beside her house is unsealed twisty and hilly
And she's the pride of Kalorama Doug and Jodie's daughter Lilli
She's only seventeen months old but she's a little cutie
And those who know better than I say she's a future beauty.
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I remember her from Claraghatlea she was six years younger than I
And on looking back the decades the time just seemed to fly
And now I've heard the sad news from all of those miles away
That Catherine dear Catherine with the dead of Ireland lay.
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He said to me mate you've written reams of rubbish and it's time you gave writing doggerel away
And though my ego by him had been wounded I will survive to write another day
I will survive to write another doggerel for my right to life I ought to justify
And it won't matter to me if I am forgotten for the famous dead their fame cannot enjoy.
...