PEOPLE

One time he came among us,
We, the expresso Folk,
Clad in his shroud of culture,
Pride, dignity, his yoke.

He moved just like a self-styled king,
Amongst his self-styled serfs,
Sounding his Oxford Cambridge vowels,
And speaking toff-nosed F’s.

His hairless face, stiff upper lip,
To us it seemed to say,
“How jolly good of me to come,
Tho’ I haven’t come to stay”.

“A socialist is what I am,
I’ll have you all to know,
Just let me do my worker’s act,
Then I’ll be glad to go.”

He sang the old “Lost Chord” to us,
Our hearts did bleed for him,
He couldn’t see the pitying eyes,
The expresso lights were dim.

Age sang and capered culture’s act,
To the tune of old ideas,
But through the cloak of mateship,
We glimpsed his snobbish fears.

Just as he sought to judge us,
Like a sausage by its skin,
We couldn’t quite accept his gall,
Nor his academic whim.

He fled before the bearded youths,
Could help him bridge the gap,
That lies between progressive kids,
And antiquated crap.

So he doesn’t come among us now,
He thinks we are “the push”,
But we know he just can’t make the scene,
Like the “Bastard from the Bush”.

HISTORICAL NOTE: Harry wrote this in response to John Manifold’s poem “Folk” published in the 1960’s.

© Harry Robertson, and subsequently ©1995 Mrs Rita Robertson, Brisbane, AUSTRALIA
Registered with APRA/AMCOS www.apra-amcos.com.au