Possess me? No, I cannot give

1. The love that others know,

For I am wedded to a cause:

1. The rest I must forgo.

You claim me as your very own,

1. My body, soul and mind;

My love is my own people first,

1. And after that, mankind.

The social part, the personal

1. I have renounced of old;

Mine is dedicated to life,

1. No man's to have and hold.

Old white intolerance hems me round,

1. Insult and scorn assail;

I must be free, I must be strong

1. To fight and not to fail.

For there are ancient wrongs to right,

1. Men's malice to endure;

A long road and a lonely road,

1. But oh, the goal is sure.

Colour Bar

When vile men jeer because my skin is brown,

This I live down.

But when a taunted child comes home in tears,

Fierce anger sears.

The colour bar! It shows the meaner mind

Of moron kind.

Men are but medieval yet, as long

As lives this wrong.

Could he but see, the colour-baiting clod

Is blaming God

Who made us all, and all His children He

Loves equally.

As long as brothers banned from brotherhood

You still exclude,

The Christianity you hold so high

Is but a lie,

Justice a cant of hypocrites, content

With precedent.

Tribal Justice

Gone the gay laughter of the old happy days,

And all because of Boola and his arrogant ways,

Who broke the good camp code that each tribe obeys.

Leader in the skill games with boomerang and spear,

Ever ready with a scowl, ready with a jeer,

Boola loved to dominate, loved to domineer.

For Boola the masterful scorned the old and wise

With his truculent questions and truculent replies;

Even the wise headman he dared to criticise.

He took married lubras and there was nothing said,

For he was quick to give a blow, he was held in dread.

They feared the wife-stealer so they beat the wives instead.

When the great drought continued they knew what caused the ill:

Some wizard of a far tribe working his evil will,

And they must send a death-band to seek him out and kill.

They called a men's council, but he did not obey.

‘Old men all yabba-yabba.’ For Boola every day

Was scornful of the elders, and went his own way.

Out at the council talk-place the conference began

To settle who was guilty and make the vengeance plan.

‘It could be that Boola,’ growled Darg the witch-man.

Then quick eyes met other eyes, and each knew

The thinking of his neighbour, and the silence grew.

‘The fellow plenty bad,’ agreed an old pinnaroo.

The grey headman spoke to them: ‘Gather close about,

We will hold the spirit rites, we will find out.

Let Darg do his magic to see who made the drought.’

They pressed close to watch it, absorbed by the spell

Of the witch-doctor's magic, but now they knew well

How dark omens would be read and what the signs would tell.