Francis Duggan Poems

He sits in the car and waits for his wife whilst she shops in the superstore
He is such a very patient person he waits for her for an hour or even more
And when she arrives to the car with the full shopping trolley he helps her put the bags of groceries on the back seat
He's a patient and a good husband as one might say a gentleman complete,
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A three quarter square metre of ground covered in concrete compared to the other graves small
With the name and age of the deceased on the headstone a sad memory for to recall
Even to the eyes of a passing stranger a beloved child to her parents hearts dear
Who had not been granted a long life she passed on in her second year.
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With shoulder length brown hair she is close to her prime
And beauty such as she has does inspire bards to rhyme
A twenty one year old not lacking in charm
She lives and works with her mum and dad on the farm.
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No bird sings in the frosty dawn
When the salmon swim upstream to spawn
And the frosted fields are looking gray
Though expect that for November some say.
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With the local football club he plays under fourteen
In their football colours the black, brown and green
He dreams in the A F L he will star one day
Against Australia's finest he will be picked to play.
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Those cruel to animals can be cruel to people they find their pleasure on inflicting pain
For cruelty to the cruel is a power thing gratification from seeing their victims suffer they gain
Cruel people they have lost their human compassion the window to their soul shaded to light
They even are bordering on the psychotic in distinguishing on what is wrong from right,
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Though little information on him in which to read
Jack Gleeson a young stockman founded the kelpie working breed
Of dog in Casterton in Victoria in eighteen seventy one
They rival the border collies as farm dogs next to none.
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'Tis said money speaks every language and talk can come cheap
But a promise you make is one you ought to keep
Your word should be your bond but with some 'tis not that way
Some don't stick to their word that does seem sad to say.
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For to be called a poet I am not good enough
And though my rhymes may seem slipshod and simple and rough
I will keep on penning for as long as I can
Since writing does make me a happier man.
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As the dark clouds of rain are gathering in the sky
The birds sing and whistle in the parkland nearby
From listening to Nature's creatures knowledge of weather we do gain
The birds always whistle and sing before rain
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