Like the first
fleet making land
And having to
contend with
Tropical torpor
What a burden
And yet we
shoulder it each year
Like the
dutiful sons of empire
How rich their
bounty must have been
To subject us
to this torture
Or perhaps it
was specially devised
For those of us
Less used to
colonial methods
Whereby the
blimey is bled out of us
Through sun and
dust
And giving the
natives blankets
Or beads to
blind their disgust
A fine legacy
this
The
unpreparedness of a conqueror
The
dissimilation of a nation
The abnegation
of trust
© shaun patrick green 2012
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