Far flung from the Old World to the Oldest, they went
from shipmates to mateship in one generation,
small poppy mighty whities to Aborigines sent
by mad King George on ships to Botany Bay, then
ravished and ravaged their way to convict heaven,
trustees let loose upon the land marked their ascent.
O my god, there's nothing like self-veneration,
elders scratched heads from the boomerang element
and skedaddled to Uluru with their Dream Time
canvas rolled up and safely stowed in a roo's pouch;
but then the culls began, the Dream was found, a new crime
was had: dabbling in ancient Ind'gen art fakes -- ouch!
I've had golden dreams stolen, so I can relate
to the black feeling that comes from a stolen fate.
