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~~~ What You Hate To Hear ~~~

When was it the last time? That you heard somebody say.
How are ya' goin' cobber, it is a bonzer day,
How is ya' me old china plate how the heck are you?
I'm proud to be Australian and I guess I'm real true blue.

Has our heritage ended? Has it really gone for sure?
Have we failed to protect? Australia's sacred shores.
Our diggers fought for freedom in many foreign lands,
Many of them gave their lives when danger was at hand.

They seem to have forgotten to help those left behind,
Their wives, their kids and families, have we really lost our minds?
It looks to me like others all seem to get a better go,
They have forgot about the folks? Who made this country grow.

The crime rate really rising at a fast amazing rate,
Our children get molested, its time we shut the gate.
The Judges they are failing, they make the innocent pay,
They should put the crims in jail and throw the keys away.

But we have all those do-gooders, who get to have their say,
They get the judge to let the criminals out, to offend another day.
All those smart do-gooders, they really haven't got a clue,
So let the flamin' criminals do to them, what they have done to you.

Lets talk about our Gay friends, let's hear what they must say,
About the Gay Olympics, the games their gunna play.
They say we are the bigots, against the homosexual race,
The straight they are not welcome there, because we're out of place.

Gee, I am mistaken, about the thinking of the Gays,
The normal folks are welcome there, of course that's if we pay.
Of course they'll take our money, they'll stick it in their bin,
If we cast doubt, upon their rights, the coppers run us in.

Now about our coloured friends, I guess we have some doubt,
Do they get to much help with dough, or do they go with out.
But I'd better keep my mouth shut, cos' no matter what I say,
I'll get accused of being prejudice, until my dying day.

But I'm gunna' stick me neck out, I'm gunna' tell ya what I think,
If you are a battlin' Aussie and you can't afford a drink.
Tell them your Aboriginal, or a Kiwi, or say you are a slope,
The Government will give you everything, while the Aussie's have no hope.

They give it to the Asian's, the Kiwi's and the Gay's.
If you're a white Australian, you'll never get to have your say.
So tell them you're a quarter cast, or your mother she was black,
You'll never have to work again, and that's a bloomin' fact.

I read a flamin' newspaper, that was laying on the seat,
On the train I catch to town, almost every week.
But sadness crept in to my heart, as I read the words they write today,
There is madness, hate and anarchy, in the things that they must say.

Why do they vent, all there hate, when there's beauty all around,
They teach the weak, to act like sheep, and pull the good things down.
Could it be that they don't know, or that they, don't really care,
About anybody but themselves, and they have no love to share.

If you have no love to share, just hate and fear and greed,
You'll never be contented, and you never will succeed.
So why don't all those papers; print really what's been said,
And stop editing out the words of truth, for words from some fools head.

February 14, 1998

~~ 227 ~~

~~~ It's Writ in Black and White ~~~

I am a true blue Aussie and, I bet you think you are one too,
But you want our land divided, what the hell is wrong with you.
You say that you're hard done by, by the white men of this land,
And you want your old ways to come back, like the sea sends back the sand.
You are the black-man of the desert, and the black-man of the coast,
You see your long lost family in your dream-time as a ghost.
When they roamed, this great big land, on their endless walkabout,
Sometimes the food was plentiful, and sometimes they went without.

But sometimes you do forget, about your dream-time ways,
And you want to be a white-man, unlike your yesterdays.
Your life started at the ocean, when it rained you moved inland,
And when the land began to dry, you moved back unto the sand.
That was the pattern of your life, until the white man came,
White and black both got killed, but white and black were both to blame.
Ignorance it is the word, of white and black alike,
Neither under-stood the other, or who, was the first to strike.

But white-man they had had advance, in technology and in skill,
And the black-man he had not advanced, his culture had stood still.
The white-man had built cities, made roads, the land he cropped,
The black-man wandered aimlessly, content to camp where're he stopped.
The white man stored his food for drought, and learnt to freeze his meat,
But the black-man starved in time of drought, so his kids he chose to eat.
Or they attacked their neighbours, the tribes that lived near by,
They killed the men and took the kids to eat the flesh they prized.

Then they started killing beef, and sheep and killing squatters too,
Then they blamed the white-men, for the missing kangaroo.
So the white-man gave the black-men work, looking after sheep,
And looking after cattle, with tobacco, salt and sugar for their keep.
The white-man brewed a potent drink, made from grapes and hops,
And when the black-man tasted it he knew not how to stop.
They called it grog and called it plonk, this white mans stuffs all right,
But the black-man never knew to quit, he drunk it day and night.

Then his culture slowly faded, and his dream-time ways were lost,
His pride it disappeared and he'd drink at any cost.
Then sniffing glue and petrol was the next thing that he'd try,
But he couldn't really work out why, all his kids began to die.
So he blamed it on the white-man for all the unjust things,
And blamed it on the white-man for all the pain it brings.
He forgot about the reasons and the cause of all his pain,
And it's hard to make him under-stand, that it's killing all his brain.

Now, tell me who is trying, to fix the black-mans plight,
Its not the flamin' full bloods, it's the ones, whose blood is mixed with white.
It's the half-caste and the quarter-caste and the one with less than that,
The ones that wear the Nike's, and wear the Yankee baseball cap.
It's the ones who've been to white-mans school and think it's all-ok,
It's the ones who, have a bit of knowledge, learnt from the white-mans way.
But with-out the white-mans education and the white-mans DNA,
They'd still be just a nomad tribe, 'cos they'd know no other way.

And the ones who in the white-mans world made their claims to fame,
A politician, lawyer, doctor or professional all had white-mans DNA.
So how many bloody full bloods, have a say in what they do,
It's the ones who say there're black, but look more white, than me and you.
And it's all the white do-gooders, who wouldn't know what's black from white,
They procrastinate, they're hypocrites, and they wouldn't know what's wrong or right.
They should go to Docker River, Warburton or Jigalong to have a look around,
Or go out west to back 'o 'Bourke and see what's being burnt down to the ground.

The white-man is no better, in the way he rapes this land,
He steels and lies and murders to put money in his hand.
He tries to hid the full-bloods, on missions and reserves,
And hides them from the public, so their cries for help can not be heard.
It's the white, high-priced politician and the white lawyers with their greed,
Who lie and cheat and rip you off, with their deceitful deeds.
And the only ones who suffer are the ones with out-stretched hands,
Who try to help the underdog from the ones who rule these lands.

That's how it's been for many years, since we inter-bred,
Now all the ones of mixed-blood, just can't get it through their head.
That they are not black and they are not white, they're a mixing of the two,
And they have the best of both worlds and they know that's bloody true.
But! The stolen generation, you say, I would wish I could disagree,
'Cos, some of those kids were given up, so their parents could be free.
Or their father was a station bloke, the boss, ringer or a cook,
And sent the kids to white-mans school, to learn to write and read a book.

I wonder how it would have been in World War number two,
If the Japanese had invaded here, what would you bloody do?
If the white-man had of left you here and all the black-men had to fight,
The Japs they would have hunted you, and then you'd have been in strife.
But some white-men gave their lives for you; some black-men did the same,
And now you want the lot for free, that is a crying shame.
You say you want your hunting grounds, you want your country back,
And the ones who want to get the most, aren't even bloody black.

Land rights, bloody land rights, what a joke that is,
If you were, to tell us of you sacred sights, that is a tribal sin.
And the ones, who suicide, have got white-mans DNA,
'Cos a full-blood he won't suicide, it's against his dream-time ways.
And if you want to make it hard, and you want to get your way,
You chop and change your tribal law, to suit the order of the day.
'Cos no one knows your dream-time ways, 'cept a very few,
And when those elders they have died, what are ya' gunna' do.

But whether you are black or white, or a bit that's in between,
It shouldn't really matter, and we shouldn't make a bloody scene.
There is too much racist fightin', that breeds fear and breeds hate,
Before you know, it won't be long, it'll be too bloody late.
'Cos our kids will grow up hating, and despising one and all,
Where the heck has friendship gone? When in strife who could ya' call.
We argue 'bout who's culture, and the one that we should claim,
But we all are bloody Aussie's, that's, our main claim to fame.

We should put out culture's side by side, so our culture's can be seen,
As one's of understanding, to fulfil our every dream.
So if ya have a bit of black blood, and bit of blood that's white,
Does it really matter? Does it mean we have to fight?
Then, you have the gift of both tribes, the gift of black and white,
Then you only have to understand, to use that gift for right.
Or if ya bloods, just bloody white, or it's pure bloody black,
Lets be proud that we are Aussie's, and get this country back on track.

August 11, 1999

~~ 240 ~~

~~~ It's A Joke ~~~

Have you heard that funny gag?
about that Irish bloke,
Or, about the blacks, or the Jews-
or the simple-minded folk.

Or the Kiwi and his native friend
and about the Moari's what they say,
Or the septic tank, I mean a yank,
you hear them every day.

The funny things some people say
"It t'was, just a simple joke
And I didn't mean no bloomin' harm,
with those funny words I spoke".

We all find mirth within those words
that pokes fun, at colour, race or creed,
The old, infirmed and handicapped
and the animals we breed.

But when the shoe is swapped about
that's when we lose our cool,
We curse and swear and carry on
just like a flamin' fool.

So! Have we lost the flamin' plot
and we take too much to heart,
A simple word, just said in jest,
that causes fights to start.

We try to find some humorous way
to make life, just a bit more fun,
But is it fun, or is it hate,
is that how the wars begun.

And have we put the mockers on
to our funny side of life,
And have we had, enough of fun
'Cos it causes too much strife.

People have they lost the art
of laughing at those words.
And all they do is con-demn those
with insults that's absurd.

So do we go back to those days?
when, we were savages and beasts.
And kill those ones, that make those jokes,
Then upon his flesh we feast.

September 27, 1999

~~ 304 ~~

~~~ A Froggies Epitaph ~~~

It's nice to see the rain drops
Falling from the sky,
So all the trees and flowers
Will not have to die.

The grass turns green so quickly
When the rain begins to fall,
And all the trees they shine and sparkle
And stand up straight and tall.

The flowers open up their blooms
With shades of every hue,
And the buds upon the tiny shrubs
Return and grow anew.

There's pools of water everywhere
Full of tiny life,
That's when the froggies all come out
To find a froggie wife.

They mate in all the puddles
To lay their eggs abound,
And when their tadpoles all hatch out
They wriggle all around.

They slowly turn to little frogs
As the days pass by,
And the birds and bugs all have a feast
And the froggie's tadpoles die.

But that is just a part of life
That nature shows us to,
We live our life and so do they;
What ever can we do?

March 17, 2000

~~ 311 ~~

~~~ The Pensioners Lament ~~~

"There's worse to come," he said, as he shook his flamin' head
"When the GST, it comes in to full force,
The old and sick and lame, will be broker once again,
But the "Pollies" say, we're better off of course!"

"And the banks, they bleed us dry, but no matter how we try
The "Pollies", won't step in to give relief,
And they think it is a joke, to see us all go broke,
And suffer once again with flamin' grief."

"And the petrol prices fly, right up in to the sky,
So they can screw us, when, the GST comes in,
It'll cost more than ten percent, with out no re-compense,
And they'll screw us for our money once again."

"But! They say we're being rash, and they'll give us all more cash,
A miserly four percent I do suppose,
And they say we'll make ends meet, with our shoppin' down the street
If we stop buyin' too much food, and brand new clothes."

"And of course, we can't get sick, so we'd better keep in nick,
'Cause, we can't afford to die ya' bloody see.
'Cause they'll sell off all our stuff, and make it flamin' rough
To leave some memory's to our family."

"We've all, done our bit ya' see, to help this coun-ta-ry,
To be the best'est nation that's alive,
But the "Pollies" need to fashion, a bit more positive-compassion,
Or we'll never, ever, will sur-bloody-vive."

February 28, 2000

~~ 322 ~~

~~~ A Land In Pain ~~~

I look from my verandah through the terrace's of trees,
Across onto the mountains, to the floating clouds I see.
I see the far horizon of beauty and of shame,
The shame is white-mans coming, and shame in how he came.

He bought his cats and fox's, and rabbits by the score,
To destroy the native wildlife, to be gone forever more.
Then he took away the timber, the trees and all the scrub,
Then he stripped the vegetation in his careless, endless hub.

Then his ceaseless tramp of cattle, and his sheep stripped ever blade-
Of the struggling scrub and grasses, in this foolish game he played.
Then he stripped the land of timber for his planting of his grain,
But he never knew, the grain he grew, grew from a land in pain.

Then the grass's died and shriveled, then turned to brown and grey,
Then the ground it cracked and dusted and the wind blew it away.
Then the weather started changing, with no trees to lure the rain,
Then the land and all the country cried out in endless pain.

But man he never listened to those cries from out the land,
Then the salt it killed the beauty that made this land so grand.
Now the only trees we see now, are void of all their leaves,
And man's wires stretched, from one to each, that screams ghostly on the breeze.

May 4, 2000

~~ 324 ~~

~~~ The Plight of Mr. Platypus ~~~

Many, many years ago, when we were just young boys,
We lived out in the bush and scrub and we had no time for toys,
We soon found things to pass the time, so for fun that's where we went-
Into the bush, that was the place where all our time was spent.

We'd walk along the old bush track that lead down to the creek,
That's where we'd see that furry bloke that had the strangest beak,
A duck-billed platypus that's what it was, that's what we all called him,
And when we got too close to him, by crickey he could swim.

We'd hide behind the bushes there and watch him at his play,
Sometimes we'd watch him and his mates, swim round and round all day.
We called him Mr. Platypus, he was the biggest one by far,
And he swam around the other ones just like a shooting star.

They'd burrow 'neath the creek banks where they slept and had their young,
They laid their eggs inside the clay of the banks that overhung.
And when the young hatch out their eggs and leave their nest to swim
Mr. Platypus he stays close by, and he makes sure they're safe with him.

* * * * *

But that was many years ago, that creek has gone for sure,
The trees are gone the scrubs are gone there's nothing there no more.
There's a six foot concrete pipe in place, that guides the water on its way,
And above that pipe, there's a freeway there, with cars that race all day.

Mr. Platypus has lost his home, to progress and to greed,
And his family too, have lost their place, where they lived so they could breed
So once again man has destroyed, the homes, of our native friends,
And does that mean, our native friends, have lost their means unto their ends.

We take too much for granted, for things we do, today,
And we still have got no answers of how to mend our ways.
It seems that we are all hell bent on extinction, not protection,
And we blame each other for the wrongs, there will be no redemption!

And when they're dead and all long gone, we'll clone them back agin',
Then they'll poison us, and take our lives, to pay us for our sins.
So, before it is too late for us, lets protect what we can save,
Or their death and their destruction, will haunt us to our grave.

May 11, 2000

~~ 374 ~~

~~~ "Children Please Beware" ~~~

The sign upon the furthest hill
Says, "Children Please Beware",
The people here before you came
Spread poisons everywhere.

They took the trees from off this ground
To plant their crops to feed,
The multitudes of people here,
But, sharing turned to greed.

With greed they changed to hybrid strains,
Then changed the DNA,
The ground produced great bumper crops,
Then slowly died away.

Then, they change the genes within those plants
The grasses, grains and fruits.
They even changed the way meat grew,
With their, greedily pursuit's.

The day it came and end it did,
Those plants had run their race,
Man had bread death into life,
To make this a barren place.

The soil that's here is mostly dead,
But, the weeds still seem to grow,
And a poison bush, grows everywhere,
There's nowhere left to go.

September 24, 2000

~~ 375 ~~

~~~ A Cloud of Evil ~~~

The darkened days of gloom,
Lays heavy on this world,
As the people of tomorrow wait patiently in pain,
In the womb of mother nature
With very little yet to gain.

Their cross of past redemption's
Stands upon that barren hill,
Where once before mankind had stood,
With hopeful dreams of yesterdays
For a better brotherhood.

A cloud of evil rings this land,
From those who came before,
They spread their foulness on those fools,
The weakness of those mindless ones
Became the devil's tools.

The slime and filth of all these days,
Have leached in to this land,
Polluted all the seas turn black and all the forests die,
All those children not yet born
Have already learnt to cry.

The world now heaves in agony,
It's rotted to the core,
It cracks its skin convulsively and blows its top,
When will man just realize
His greed it has to stop.

The world is slowly dying,
We are the ones to blame,
It is too late to fix the world with all its broken parts,
Unless we start within ourselves
To mend the broken hearts.

With broken hearts there is no soul,
No pathway to the new,
Our children have no future here they have no place to play,
Because the ones that came before
Have taken it away.

September 23, 2000

~~ 390 ~~

~~~ From Whence It Once Become ~~~

The widening cracks within the ground,
Grow without a sound,
The leaves that once were shades of green,
Have turned to shades of brown.

The big old gums are dying now,
Where they have lived for years,
Sap rolls down, their once rich bark,
Like waves of broken tears.

The haze it's filled with tireless heat,
Waits, for clouds that never come,
And winds they blow their ceaseless tunes,
Like a far off kettle-drum.

The water-hole holds only dust,
And the river's dry in pain,
The frogs have burrowed way down deep,
To sleep and wait for rain.

With hopes to keep the grasses green,
Man waters just by hand,
But, the grass it dries and shrivels up,
And slowly turns to sand.

Far off shines a mirage there,
For fools to run and drink,
But when they get too close to it,
Into the ground it sinks.

Then craziness invades the minds,
Of those left in the sun,
Thirst it takes the toll of man,
When there is no where to run.

With thoughts so dry our cattle die,
Their carcasses turn black,
So, we pack our bags and what we can,
Then head off down the track.

The shack we left begins to die,
It's roof it peels and falls,
The wind comes in and blows the tin,
That once became the walls.

Dry rot comes to eat the wood,
Like a cancer does to man,
The tin and wood returns to dust,
From whence it once began.

October 6, 2000

Copyright 1996-2001 - KRACKATINNI IS THE REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF RODNEY JOHN O'BRIEN