Denis KevansCentury of the ChildIf you couldn't look into their eyes, as I do every day, You wouldn't write the things you write, or say the things you say, You wouldn't put these children down, and bruise their tender pride, And hustle little bits of kids on the paths of suicide. You wouldn't sit in plush arm-chairs, and skoll the whiskey down, And say the kids are on the drugs, they're playen' round the town, They cannot speak a word of sense, or anything that's new, Well, maybe they have learnt too well, for they have learnt from you. "Dole-bludger" is a word you use, you on your big, fat screw, You hit them with it like a lash, it pays dividends for you, You say they have no skills to work, but what about your tricks, In lying, cheating, falsifying, playing politics! The skills you learnt are like the skills upon the butcher's floor, Where carcases are marked and cut to the rattling pulley's roar, The tricks of smear and counter-smear, the greasy path to fame, And other tricks and skills you've learned, in winning - that's your game. The losers? Well, they're only young, they have no push or clout, We do not want to share the cake, so lock the buggers out, Let 'em swirl round on beach fronts, where monsters sell them smack, And when they're ghostly, white and dead, oh, yes, we'll have them back. What is it that's more precious in all the wide world round, The number on a bit of script, the gold that's in the ground, The metal cold in vaults grown old, the bullion in the bin, Or the children, with their wealth of dreams, and all the world to win. Life doesn't last forever, life's just a passing day, Just turn around, the years are gone, your time has blown away, Just knock the ashes from your pipe, they'll tumble in the breeze, As you will blow in dust at last, across the centuries. I often wonder do you think just whose these children are, Did they come here by rocket-ship from an unknown, distant star? Did they bubble up from ocean deeps, inside the boiling clay, Of any angry old volcano that was burping in the bay? Were they carried here, by magic spores, upon some heavenly wind, From a distant, dying planet where the pundits never sinned? Where they parcelled up in paradise, and, by an angel, drawn Down to a kindly cabbage patch, like sunbeams, to be born? Whose children are they anyway? Whose children are these ones? These dark and lovely daughters, these tall and handsome sons? Whose children are they anyway, be sure you're quick to own Flesh of your flesh and burning blood, bone of your brittle bone. Their eyes are clear, they have no fear, their look is straight and true, They're looking deep into your soul, they're looking straight at you, They're asking are you dinkum, or are your words blow-flies, And is your mask of friendliness, a mask of twisted lies? Your eyes are worn and worried, your eyes are half-afraid, To face the light that comes direct from eyes that you have made, But why transfer your bitterness to these, whose only claim Is the love and understanding of the land from whence they came. If you could look into their eyes, as I do everyday, You wouldn't write the things you write, or say the things you say, You wouldn't put these children down, and bruise their tender pride, And hustle little bits of kids on the paths of suicide.
Denis Kevans, 63 Valley Rd, Wentworth Falls NSW
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