John Philip Bourke
Shakin' - Poem by John Philip Bourke
Wages ! No, not us old party,
While a rattle's in the shaker
Patched and grimy, strong and hearty,
Best of cobbers with the baker.
She's a beauty - hear her rattle -
Bet she understands her biz, sir ;
Them's the very kind of cattle
Made this country what it is, sir.
Money ? Well, that ain't no topic
For this question of dry blastin' ;
We're alluvial, cold or tropic,
We're alluvial, full or fastin'.
Let her whistle to it, matey,
Keep yer lamps upon the hopper
For the jagged jots and weighty,
Show the gent, all right and proper.
Dusty? Oh, jeust how you take it
Yaller dust is what we wishes ;
Rip the side out, Save, and shake it
Keerful in the blastin' dishes.
Keep your eye to windward, Mister,
Where the dross falls dull and duller
Well ! May imps condemn and blister !
Not a blarsted, blanky color !
Whisky ! Well, as you're so free, sir.
Here's yer health, and to the lydies
Clean forgot that Dave and me, sir,
Never have no luck on Fridays.
But that shaker theer a-glintin'
Surely any sketchin' gaffer
D' make a picter worth the printin'
Praps, you'd like to fortygraf her?
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