ORIGINAL VERSE.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXI, Issue 70, 19 October 1916, Page 4

ORIGINAL VERSE.

PACES FROM THE BACKBLOCKS. (By Farewell.) The sullen tide Hows deep and wide Between the Whanga banks, That turgid stream in Nature’s scheme Is just a wild fantastic dream, Where frothing billows ride In wild disordered ranks ! Adown, the rent that Nature meant To carry Noah’s Ark, Come broken tins, the waters rinse Tlidir insides out—-and fishes’ fins Hobnob with snails intent, On gardens in the dark ! The lamps are lit, the shadows flit, The streets are bright as day. The simile you’ll scarcely see It’s like crook sales of property, Unless—Oh, doubtful wit!— A full moon in the way ! Gay doings then of sundry men, A man’s size nigger crew, With bottled jokes and secret pokes At people under various cloaks, And chickens ‘ trembling then To higher perches flew ! So here’s a toast to Whanga’s boast “Her nigger minstrels fair (H)” “Good luck to them” and if the trait That’s wrapped up in the darkie’s fate Comes uppermost, “The Stratford Post” Will not judge harshly there !