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~ 1 ~
'Tis always what is said and done,
Despite it's form or way,
That brings to us a warming sun,
Or a clouded rainy day.
'Tis not so crucial to be the Swan,
With graceful wings so white,
For beauty lives inside the one,
Who divides not wrong from right.
For though the waves, reach the shore,
In lines of perfect flow,
The "freak" wave rouses wisdom more,
By its spontaneous undertow,
For 'tis how we perceive it from the shore,
That its rhythmic contours show.
~ 2 ~
'Tis not the realm of learned folk,
To have the gift of words,
Though History provides the perpetual joke
In expressing such absurds.
No doubt 'tis often in Gods time
That the poor man's verse was lost;
That theirs of influential rhyme
Was in the garbage tossed.
No labourer played in the national team,
That beat the British, down at Lords,
And who of note can be seen
Who cannot spell the words.
'Tis only they of better school,
Who punctuate absurds.
~ 3 ~
'Twas in those places colonized
From where great nations grew,
That the local people recognized
Some poorer poets true.
Like Henry Lawson in his day,
A poet fine and grand,
Who wrote and gave his heart away
In a brown and droughted land.
He set his own rhythmic pace
Designed by his own hand
And ever will he have a place.
A grain upon the sand,
When all the beach has washed away
To leave a small island.
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