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Poem	There's nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time, With nought titanic in. The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It's bare of golden thoughts -- It's just a pannikin. I think it's rather hard That each Australian bard -- Each wan, poetic card -- With thoughts galvanic in His fiery thought alight, In wild aerial flight, Will sit him down and write About a pannikin. He makes some new-chum fare From out his English lair To hunt the native bear, That curious mannikin; And then the times get bad That wandering English lad Writes out a message sad Upon his pannikin: "O mother, think of me Beneath the wattle tree" (For you may bet that he Will drag the wattle in) "O mother, here I think That I shall have to sink, There ain't a single drink The water-bottle in." The dingo homeward hies, The sooty crows uprise And caw their fierce surprise A tone Satanic in; And bearded bushmen tread Around the sleeper's head -- "See here -- the bloke is dead! Now where's his pannikin?" They read his words and weep, And lay him down to sleep Where wattle branches sweep, A style mechanic in; And, reader, that's the way The poets of today Spin out their little lay About a pannikin.
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