Early today, I chanced to spy
   A Labor friend of mine.
His brow was furrowed, and his eye
   Had lost its fervid shine.
With hand outspread and tremulous,
   He sat apart, alone;
And counted on his fingers thus
   In dreary monotone:-


"Of course, there's Mister Scullin and
   There's Mister Theodore.
Both Labor men who pleased me when
   They'd my support before.
But, of course, there's Mister Anstey
   And there's Mister Beasley, too;
They need my vote to keep afloat,
   So what's a man to do?"


He was a sturdy democrat,
   A sterling fellow he,
Who dully prated, as he sat,
   Of solidarity.
He seemed sunk down in dull despond,
   Most mystified of men,
Beaten, bamboozled, as he conned
   His lesson o'er again:-


"Of course, there's Mister Lyons, of
  Whom I often sang
In fervent praise; but, spare me days!
   Of course there's Mister Lang!
   Where can I turn?  What bridges burn?
By whom shall I be led?
   Of shall I cast the bonds at last,
And learn to use my head?"

"Den"
Herald, 3 March 1931, p8