Classic Poem

By the rock that's like a pillow
 And the homes of business fleas
Came the bottle merchant Billo
 With his old horse, Socrates.
Down the steep hill to the ferry
 Billo picked his zigzag way;
And I thought his face seemed very
 Thoughtful—for a Saturday.

On the kerb his cartwheel grated
 And the bottles grated too,
While he slewed his load and waited
 When my presence hove in view.
And methought I heard him mutter
 Friendly words of blasphemy,
And he spat into the gutter—
 And I spat in sympathy.

Maybe, out amongst the wattles,
 At a villa spick and span,
Where he went for empty bottles,
 He had met a wowser man,
Or a woman with a mission;
 Or a long speech made last night
By a puppy politician
 Had raked Billo up orlright.

But the strength he gave me of it,
 With an elbow on the shaft;
And I listened, to my profit,
 While the Harbour water laughed.
Billo blinked at three-legged Brunno—
 Dog that everybody knew—
And he opened out with “Dunno
 What the world is comin' to.

“Wot them wowser blokes is givin'
 Us is more than I can tell.
We don't wanter go ter Heaven,
  We don't wanter go ter Hell!
I'm a fool, an' you are clever;
 Both is mugs, an' get on fine;
Bottles full is your endeavour,
 Empty bottles is my line.

“I ain't one as turns me nose up
 At each blessed thing I sees;
When I dies and turns me toes up
 I jest want a little ease;
I jest only wanter getter
 Where I'll have a beer, an' kiss,
In a world a little better
 An' a little worse than this.

“What the Union crowd is doin'
 I am damned if I can say;
We don't wanter go ter ruin,
 We don't want a quid a day;
We just want a bit er clobber,
 An' when things ain't goin' right
We can always find a cobber
 Who will buck us up to fight.

“This old strike will be forgotten,
 Like a hundred strikes before,
And the War be dead an' rotten
 When we have another war;
And you'll see the landsharks swimmin'
 On the outskirts of the fray,
While weak men an' lyin' wimmin
 Muck things up the same old way.

“For the sum of all this scrappin'
 When yer use yer comminsense,
Is that nothing that can happen
 Never makes no difference.
So I give it to you, knowin'
 You and I was always mates.
There's the punt! I must be goin'.
 Well, so long! Geddup, Socrates!”

Then I dreamed a space, and started;
 For it seemed another day,
And we just had met an' parted,
 Casual, on the Tarpeian Way.
Gown and wreath and mail and helmet
 (Over Time victorious)—
Just two ancient Romans well-met,
 Billo and Lawsonius.