A BUSHMAN SLOWLY DYING
Posted: Sat May 28, 2011 12:08 am
One of my recent ones, a bit of satire...
A BUSHMAN SLOWLY DYING
© John Peel 20/5/2011
I’m a bushman slowly dying and I contemplate my fate
but there’s no-one here to hear my words, alas it is too late
for soon enough I will be dead, there’s not much I can do
since no-one knows for sure just when their life might well be through.
I’m supposed to be in solitude, so who can truly know
what final thoughts are in my head before I up and go.
I’m meant to be illiterate, so I can’t write them here,
how is it that you’re reading this, did these words just appear?
Were they drifting on the breezes? Were they floating on a stream?
Were they carried by the morning sun upon its first bright beam?
Was it Mother Earth that mentioned them? Perhaps it was the trees?
Perhaps my thoughts were spread around just like a vile disease?
My faithful dog is clever though, perhaps he passed them on?
But then I’ve never heard him speak – my mind’s not that far gone –
I’m just a simple bushy and I’m pretty close to dead.
Perhaps I’m just a vision that is stuck in someone’s head.
Then suddenly, I realise that I can never die,
these are not my final moments and I’ll give the reason why –
it won’t be very long before another poet’s pen
will bring me back to life before he makes me die again.
The words I use are simple, even then I’m pretty sure
that a poet might use great big words that I would just ignore.
I wouldn’t know their meanings though, I haven’t had much school –
instead of looking clever, he would look a downright fool.
Have you ever heard a bushman use a word like ‘abnegate’?
I’m not too sure what that one means, although it might sound great.
Such words would make my story sound a little less than true –
why would a poet think that in my language it would do?
Perhaps they are the ones who’ve never heard a bushman speak –
it’s not in perfect metre and the grammar’s pretty weak
(I’m not sure how I did it, but it's just been made quite clear
that my metre and my grammar both look spot-on up to here).
Well anyway, I’ve said enough, it’s time for me to die –
I’m pushing out my final breath and mouthing this…goodbye!
Oh bloody hell, I’m back again, my spirit speaks somehow –
if no-one heard my last few words, how can they hear this now?
A light ahead is beckoning, but then I’m told, “Go back.”
The light is quickly fading, all around me turns to black.
I open up my eyes to find that I’m no longer dead –
as predicted, I have entered thoughts inside a poet’s head.
I’ve endured pain and suffering like no-one else before –
I only wish I didn’t have to go through this once more!
It seems these thoughts that I’ve just had will all be forced to wait –
I’m a bushman slowly dying and I contemplate my fate…
A BUSHMAN SLOWLY DYING
© John Peel 20/5/2011
I’m a bushman slowly dying and I contemplate my fate
but there’s no-one here to hear my words, alas it is too late
for soon enough I will be dead, there’s not much I can do
since no-one knows for sure just when their life might well be through.
I’m supposed to be in solitude, so who can truly know
what final thoughts are in my head before I up and go.
I’m meant to be illiterate, so I can’t write them here,
how is it that you’re reading this, did these words just appear?
Were they drifting on the breezes? Were they floating on a stream?
Were they carried by the morning sun upon its first bright beam?
Was it Mother Earth that mentioned them? Perhaps it was the trees?
Perhaps my thoughts were spread around just like a vile disease?
My faithful dog is clever though, perhaps he passed them on?
But then I’ve never heard him speak – my mind’s not that far gone –
I’m just a simple bushy and I’m pretty close to dead.
Perhaps I’m just a vision that is stuck in someone’s head.
Then suddenly, I realise that I can never die,
these are not my final moments and I’ll give the reason why –
it won’t be very long before another poet’s pen
will bring me back to life before he makes me die again.
The words I use are simple, even then I’m pretty sure
that a poet might use great big words that I would just ignore.
I wouldn’t know their meanings though, I haven’t had much school –
instead of looking clever, he would look a downright fool.
Have you ever heard a bushman use a word like ‘abnegate’?
I’m not too sure what that one means, although it might sound great.
Such words would make my story sound a little less than true –
why would a poet think that in my language it would do?
Perhaps they are the ones who’ve never heard a bushman speak –
it’s not in perfect metre and the grammar’s pretty weak
(I’m not sure how I did it, but it's just been made quite clear
that my metre and my grammar both look spot-on up to here).
Well anyway, I’ve said enough, it’s time for me to die –
I’m pushing out my final breath and mouthing this…goodbye!
Oh bloody hell, I’m back again, my spirit speaks somehow –
if no-one heard my last few words, how can they hear this now?
A light ahead is beckoning, but then I’m told, “Go back.”
The light is quickly fading, all around me turns to black.
I open up my eyes to find that I’m no longer dead –
as predicted, I have entered thoughts inside a poet’s head.
I’ve endured pain and suffering like no-one else before –
I only wish I didn’t have to go through this once more!
It seems these thoughts that I’ve just had will all be forced to wait –
I’m a bushman slowly dying and I contemplate my fate…