When father died and we wailed and cried, our grief was deep and sore;

And strange to say from that sad day the snake was seen no more.

The wise old men explained to us: ‘It was his tribal brother,

And that is why it done a guy’ – but some looked hard at mother.

She seemed to have a secret smile, her eyes were smug and wary,

She looked as innocent as the cat that ate the pet canary.

We never knew, but anyhow (to end this tragic rhyme)

I think we all had snake for tea one day about that time.

White Man, Dark Man

1. WHITE MAN

Abo man, we

To you have brought

Our social science,

And you we have taught

Our white democracy.

1. DARK MAN

White man, who

Would teach us and tame,

We had socialism

Long before you came,

And democracy too.

1. WHITE MAN

Poor blackfellow,

All you ever had

Was ancestor Biami,

Except the big bad

Bunyip and his bellow!

1. DARK MAN

White fellow, true

You had more for pride:

You had Jesus Christ,

But Him you crucified,

And still do.

The Protectors

While many despise and would exploit us

There are good white men will help us,

But not the appointed and paid officials,

Not the feudal police Protectors,

The protectors who do not protect.

The police of the little far inland towns,

The Protectors of Aborigines

Who move us about at will like cattle

At the request of graziers and their wives:

We feel like owned animals of the Sergeant,

The protector who does not protect.

Is there rape of dark girl by white man or men?

There is no question even of inquiry;

There is no remedy, there is no appeal.

Whom can we appeal to but the Protector

Who feels only contempt for the blacks?

The feeling is mutual, Sergeant!

He sees dark children left without schooling,

Women working from dawn to dark, trapped and unhappy;

He jokes with the rest about storekeepers robbing the blacks,

He is content with all this,

The little local overlord with all power over us,

The protector who does not protect.

Intolerance

White the white glug contemptuously

Says ‘nigger’, it is plain to me

He is of lower grade than we.

When the dark stockman, used to hate,

Is note accepted as a mate,

Democracy is empty prate.

When we hear from the white élite

‘We won't have abos in our street,’

Their Christianity's a cheat.

When blacks are banned, as we know well,

From city café and hotel,

The stink of Little Rock we smell.

Dark children coming home in tears,

Hurt and bewildered by their jeers –

I think Christ weeps with you, my dears.

People who say, by bias driven,

That colour must not be forgiven,

Would snub the Carpenter in heaven.

Bwalla the Hunter

In the hard famine time, in the long drought

Bwalla the hunter on walkabout,

Lubra and children following slow,

All proper hungry long time now.