Onward
Onward ever onward down the awesome lanes of time,
Coming going, dying reborn, another life inclined,
One time in Tasmania the Pommy hunters killed us out,
A prisoner in irons, cat of nine tails cut about,
Ever suffering for my crime,
What is it all, this doubt?
Ironic is the suffering feel,
in Ireland I was starved,
Potatoes stole, caught and flogged,
Escaped and was at large,
Informer talked and I was caught,
Transported on the Belle,
Bonded servant, flogged, yes sport,
In the cotton fields of hell,
But I lived awhile orright.
Cannon roared, hot lead, aboard,
The yard was crashing down,
Over the side, a Spaniard to board,
Cutlass slashing blood n gore,
death there to seek me out.
In the dark, in a tribe away out west,
Speared a bullock for the tribe to eat,
The Squatter shot us with his friends,
The Troopers not so sweet,
The Crows would not be denied,
Another death I tried?
My bones are incomplete…Don Johnson
Copyright © Don Johnson | Year Posted 2012
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