that old Aussie Swagman
Posted: Thu Feb 05, 2015 4:10 pm
this may not be ABPA poetry but this is a poetry story written and told my way
That Old Aussie Swag man ©
By Bill Williams
Those many years of living, had made their mark on him,
For he was old and kinda grubby, and wrinkled like a prune.
Bent over and hunched, his hand, twisted like a claw.
His skin, burnt brown like well worn burnished leather.
But what took your attention, was the twinkle in his eyes,
And there beneath his grey bushy eyebrows, and his scruffy beard.
You heard his voice, soft gentle, compelling you to listen,
To his story’s of good times, and bad, of fire flood and drought.
His cloths much like him, were old and worn, scruffy, in need of help
Just like his grubby flannel shirt that used wire instead of buttons
A broad leather belt that held up his well worn moleskin trousers
His feet, sock less, encased in strong boots, good for many miles.
An old battered army great coat completed his small wardrobe.
While his swag, a piece of canvas wrapped around a grey blanket
With maybe spare trousers and flannel shirt rolled inside of it
A piece of light rope tied it together to hang over his shoulder.
His tucker bag, on old gunny sack of calico he held in his hand
Contained not much? Maybe tea and salt, tinned tucker and flour.
Slowly he shuffled on to camp, under the bridge in the distance
Along with his old battered billy, and his dog to keep him company.
That Old Aussie Swag man ©
By Bill Williams
Those many years of living, had made their mark on him,
For he was old and kinda grubby, and wrinkled like a prune.
Bent over and hunched, his hand, twisted like a claw.
His skin, burnt brown like well worn burnished leather.
But what took your attention, was the twinkle in his eyes,
And there beneath his grey bushy eyebrows, and his scruffy beard.
You heard his voice, soft gentle, compelling you to listen,
To his story’s of good times, and bad, of fire flood and drought.
His cloths much like him, were old and worn, scruffy, in need of help
Just like his grubby flannel shirt that used wire instead of buttons
A broad leather belt that held up his well worn moleskin trousers
His feet, sock less, encased in strong boots, good for many miles.
An old battered army great coat completed his small wardrobe.
While his swag, a piece of canvas wrapped around a grey blanket
With maybe spare trousers and flannel shirt rolled inside of it
A piece of light rope tied it together to hang over his shoulder.
His tucker bag, on old gunny sack of calico he held in his hand
Contained not much? Maybe tea and salt, tinned tucker and flour.
Slowly he shuffled on to camp, under the bridge in the distance
Along with his old battered billy, and his dog to keep him company.