Memories

It is a bit of a shock to remember that I was born in the first half of the 20th century. Someone told me I was a living dinosaur, I guess they are right. It got me thinking about way back then and this spouted.

Hero.

It was in the 1950s

they shearers held a strike

complaining of some small thing

they said they didn't like.

It was the best wool season

we had seen for years

when the **@B@#** mongrels

downed their power shears.

Farmers were astounded

at what the men had done.

Sheep were penned already

brought in from the run.

No shearer would dare gainsay,

not break the union law,

wouldn't cross the picket line

regardless what they saw.

One brave lad from Queensland,

passing through the town,

didn't like what they'd done

and muttered with a frown,

"I'll take the buggers on,

I'll earn my pay and keep,

I ain't a gun shearer

but I can handle sheep."

His handsome bronze complexion

made our southern men seem pale,

our strapping football players

looked seedy, not so hale.

He stayed and finished the job,

dossed down in a pen,

ignored the union reps who called,

the threats from other men.

A farmer's daughter remembers

she met a man that year

who stood against a surly mob

and fought for what seemed fair.