So fantastic were Lawson’s poems
That I bow to him with glee
And when I die my miserable death
He just may be here with me

You see it’s a mutual admiration society
This writing of bloody poems
And you need to capture the readers
“Imagination”, with interest as it roams

And Mary Gilmore got it wrong
When she knocked me old mate back
What on earth was she thinking?
That he took the bottle back

A gentleman of kindness and talent
Our Henry was underrated
But the gentry feared his honesty
And his writings were ill fated

So jail time became the norm
And Henry suffered well
There was little chance of helping a man
Who couldn’t write the toffs up swell?

The life he hoped was gone in a flash
And the bottle grasped his soul
For nothing whatsoever read “Australian”
Of class literature “would take such a dreadful toll”