You lazy boy, you-re here at last,
You must be wooden-legged;
Now, are you sure the gate is fast
And all the sliprails pegged
And all the milkers at the yard,
The calves all in the pen?
We don-t want Poley-s calf to suck
His mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken rail
And make it firm and neat?
I s-pose you want that brindle steer
All night among the wheat.
And if he finds the lucerne patch,
He-ll stuff his belly full;
He-ll eat till he gets -blown- on that
And busts like Ryan-s bull.
Old Spot is lost? You-ll drive me mad,
You will, upon my soul!
She might be in the boggy swamps
Or down a digger-s hole.
You needn-t talk, you never looked
You-d find her if you-d choose,
Instead of poking -possum logs
And hunting kangaroos.
How came your boots as wet as muck?
You tried to drown the ants!
Why don-t you take your bluchers off,
Good Lord, he-s tore his pants!
Your father-s coming home to-night;
You-ll catch it hot, you-ll see.
Now go and wash your filthy face
And come and get your tea.
Trouble On The Selection
Henry Lawson
(1)
Poem topics: father, home, hunting, lost, mother, never, soul, good, fast, face, wash, broken, talk, patch, choose, night, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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