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The old man and his grandson viewed A barren bladeless ground. When to his left the young lad's eye Saw bleached bones scattered 'round. 'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay There exposed to the sun. It seemed more like a battlefield Where only death had won. The old man saw the young lad wince, He reined in close behind. As memories of what took place Came flooding through his mind. A century turned, but not his luck, For rains had failed again. He slowly watched the dams dry up While cattle died in pain. A little water still remained Though sought by feral stock. Some brumbies which came down at dawn Still often used the block. In good times no one cared that much, But not so any more. The young lad's dad and this old man Both knew what lay in store. A high log fence closed off the dam, The timber they had sawn. Suspended gate it lay in wait For piccaninny dawn. Then as the last mare ambled through Wood gate it dropped like lead. A wood rail race seemed their escape, But death lurked there instead. Their capital had all dried up, No cash for lead and gun. To execute the feral stock Took knife and old man's son. With legs astride the wood rail race Son grimaced as he drew That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein, Then slapped the victim through. Each fleet foot spirit faltered there A hundred yards away, While blazing eyes showed fear of death, Mouths gave a weakened neigh. Then one by one their weak frames fell Onto the dusty ground. The racing hearts of those poor beasts Then gave their final pound. The slaughter did not save the stock For all the dams went dry. It fin'ly broke the old man's son, He watched the grown man cry. All this the old man told the lad, The picture was now drawn. On why his dad then took his life One piccaninny dawn. The young lad then took from his head his father's sweat stained hat And as he wiped the tears away He said, Gramps thanks for that." I'd always had my doubts you see About the way Dad died, But now I know the truth at last I'll wear this hat with pride.
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