HANDS IN THOUGHT
Paganini, with his bony, white hands,
In the graveyard,
Playing for the dead
What a thought!
All that cold, weathered stone,
The few leafless trees,
What a diseased sort of scene
And the great Italian violin virtuoso,
So thin, so hook nosed,
Courting Satan
So they thought
Hands of old grandfather disturb,
Reminding the hour,
Pointing up
For sure, the fiddler,
Weird, stick of a man,
Was headed south,
Or so they thought
And so this crazy fiddler thinks,
At his late hour,
Hands hanging limp
Rage?
No
Hands clasped in prayer?
No
Just a chuckle
At the outrageous thought
Of being no more
Dave Austin
Pig a billa
Good tucker is ol pig-billa,
Porcupine Echidna hey,
Favourite food of Aboriginals,
Has him own spears anyway,
Track him cross the hot red sand,
Which way does he go, today,
Claws on his back legs are a pointing,
Where he come from, there we say,
Dead possum hanging oer the water,
Maggots falling soon they may,
Yellow belly sucks em sorta,
Big ol Cod could eat em hey,
Marbuk silent as a Gum-tree,
Waits with fishing plurry spear,
See the flash of yella-belly, see,
Him on the coals to sear!
Swish of killer boomerang,
As the wild ducks leave the water,
Pelted as a hundred swam,
Got a Shag hook nosed just sorta,
Break-em wing as it leaves the water,
Bloody tough meat make you chew,
Yarraman is a horse you see,
Milinbri beast of cattle, be,
Crocodile he waits for you,
Don’t swim where he will maybe chew,
After the death roll kills you, oughta,
Fresh meat ol tourist brought ya,
To Cape York for interview.
Ole Croc can get you too!
Sidestep this frenzy slaughter….
Whatever ya bloody do.
Ole Johnson the reporter …Don
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