The car horns toll the knell of
parting day,
The toxic fumes creep slowly o’er
the park,
The traffic homeward plods its weary
way,
And leaves the world to joggers and
the dark.
Now
fades the shimmering lakescape on the sight,
And
to the air the dusk its stillness brings,
Save
where mosquitoes wheel in droning flight,
Ross
River virus loaded in their stings;
Save
that from yonder television tower
The
besieged magnate to his “mates” complains
The
A.B.T. has exercised its power,
Sent
him packing without ill-gotten gains.
Beneath
those tiled roofs, that mortgaged shade,
Where
heaves the serf in many an exhausted heap,
Each
of the dole queue mortally afraid,
Whose
forefathers once rode upon the sheep.
The
wheezy cough of beery-breathing morn,
They
swallow Berocca for their straw-filled heads,
The
clock’s shrill clarion, or their arguing spawn,
Once
more shall rouse them from beloved beds.
For
they no more have savings in their banks,
Both
busy partners toil to meet their ends;
No
children run to lisp their heartfelt thanks,
They
clamour for Air Jordans like their friends.
Oft
did their annual jaunt
to Bali yield,
Their
furrows smoothed by oily massage strokes;
How
jocund were their Customs trolleys wheeled!
Their
cases bowed by extra grog and smokes!
Far
from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their
media-fed dreams have learned to stray;
The
Holy Grail of the Lotto life
Has taken free out
of the word Freeway.
(with apologies to Thomas Gray)
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