Hello, here's a poem I wrote based on a Henry Lawson poem and it's called, Freedom on the Wallaby.

Far from any city,
Residents in this small town may feel hard.
Everyone has to be hard out here, or else they'd die.
Eyes on these people may look red,
Don't see this as anger,
One too many people have been homeless out in this town,
Most of the time it's from fire or flood.

Once every summer a fire comes to life,
No one ever forgets, not even the earth itself.

The worst may look over,
He who sees that it's alright is blind,
Everyone's crops and grazing grounds are gone.

With a little help from the Gov (that's if he ever bothers) everything will be Jake,
And a few rain storms, blood, sweat, and tears,
Little by little, everything will be alright and, well who knows,
Love may even sprout.
Anyone will tell you life's not fair,
But if you do the right things, it will be fair.
You know, you city slicker, you're not bad at all at this sort of life, for a beginner.


And here's the real one that was first published on this day in 1891.

Australia's a big country
An' Freedom's humping bluey,
An' Freedom's on the wallaby
Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey?
She's just begun to boomerang,
She'll knock the tyrants silly,
She's goin' to light another fire
And boil another billy.

Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While loafers thrived beside 'em,
But food to eat and clothes to wear,
Their native land
In spite of their devotion,
An' so they came, or if they stole,
Were sent across the ocean.

Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare
O' Royalty's regalia,
She left the loafers where they were,
An' came to Australia.
But now across the mighty main The chains have come ter bind her-
She little thought to see again
The wrongs she left behind her.

Our parents toil'd to make a home-
Hard grubbin' 'twas an' clearin'-
They wasn't crowded much with lords
When they was pioneering.
But now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old greed must crook 'is dirty hand
And come ter take it from us.

So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in the rebel chorus.
We'll make the tyrants feel the sting
O' those that they would throttle;
They needn't say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!

It's different, I know, but it's close enough.