The Old Homestead
She was standing just as silent in the forties when the war
sent our allies to us wounded, caring, waiting, sick and sore
Then returned them to the battle, some of them a last deep breath
Some to come and bless the silence and forget the fields of death.
She was there in the fifties when the jitterbug went down
How her walls creaked out in protest when a jukebox woke the town
How she spluttered, loudly tutted, when the young girls even then
Knew their maidenhead was forfeit to attractive, sex-crazed men.
In the sixties the old homestead saw enough to make it quail,
Saw the nudity and glamour, saw it cheapened through a veil
of the smoking from tobacco, of the thrill from taking drugs
saw the overdosing, drinking, and the vomiting on its rugs.
In the seventies the homestead nearly quivered to support
The marches and the sit-downs, folk protesting as they ought ,
Each man who drew the number was conscripted and ere long
would be fighting for his life against the fearsome Viet Cong.
Then the eighties were upon us with a government so slack
We tossed out bold Gough Whitlam and welcomed Fraser back,
Set his razor gang against us, keen to slash and burn the past,
The homestead quietly murmuring, “time for Hawke, I think, at last.”
From the eighties and the nineties came a drunken ebullient soul
With a conscience often suspect but a mind as rich as gold,
But the homestead breathed a caution, be careful who you trust,
He may be an honest statesman, or a lecher fuelled by lust.
Alas! there’s no one left to cheer on Julia Gillard and Abbot,
Rudd has not been mentioned, he was never worth a lot,
The mantle of the leader comes adrift when through Turnbull
We see the rise of taxes and the big cats sleek and full.
A new century lies twisted in the hands of Donald Trump
Wise men whisper he’s as brainy as the proverbial black stump,
But the homestead now is weary and it’s time for it to go,
Just a shell to hear the knell that was forecast long ago.