One time he came among us,

We the expresso folk,

Clad in his shroud of culture,

Pride, dignity his yoke.


He moved just like a self styled king,

Amongst his self style serfs,

Sounding his oxford Cambridge vowels,

And speaking toff nosed F’s.


His hairless face, stiff upper lip,

To us it seemed to say,

“How jolly good of me to come,

Thou I haven’t come to stay”.


A socialist is what I am,

I’ll have you all to know,

Just let me do my workers act,

Then I’ll be glad to go.


He sang the old “Lost Chord” to us,

Our hearts did bleed for his,

He couldn’t see the pitying eyes,

The expresso lights were dim.


Age sang and captured culture’s act,

To the tune of old ideas,

But through the cloak of mateship,

We glimpsed the snobbish fears.


Just as he sought to judge us,

Like a sausage by its skin,

We couldn’t quite accept his gall,

Nor his academic whim.


He fled before the bearded youths,

Could help him bridge the gap

That lies between progressive kids

And antiquated c***


So he doesn’t come among us now,

He things we are the push,

But we know he just can’t make the scene.

Like the “Bastard from the Bush”

Foco Club Newsletter Vol 2, No 8, 19 February 1969