Classic Poem

I long for the city, but God knoweth best,
For there I fall short of a saint;
There are lovable characters out in the West
With humour heroic and quaint.
And, be it Up Country or be it Out Back,
When I shall have gone to my home,
I hope to be buried 'twixt river and track
Where my lovable characters roam.

There are lovable characters drag through the scrubs,
Where the Optimist ever prevails;
There are lovable characters hang round the pubs,
There are lovable jokers at Sales,
Where the Auctioneer's one of the lovable wags
(No doubt from his Order estranged)
And the beer is on tap, and the pigs in the bags
Of the purchasing cockies are changed!

There were lovable characters out in the West
Of fifty hot summers or more,
Who could not be proved, when it came to the test,
Too old to be sent to the War.
They were all forty-five and were orphans, they said,
With no one to keep them or keep;
And mostly in France, with the world's bravest dead,
Those lovable characters sleep.

I long for the streets, but the Lord knoweth best,
For there I am never a saint;
There are lovable characters out in the West,
With humour heroic and quaint;
And, be it Up Country or be it Out Back,
When I shall have gone to my home,
I trust to be buried by river or track
Where my lovable characters roam.