I love to hear my country's moods
Translated into living song,
And walk with awe where multitudes
Of sweet Australian singers throng.
But late suspicion comes to me --
Not cannibal nor prowling Thug
Is half as dangerous as he,
The bard who bites your lug!
He comes in many shapes, his guise
Ascetic is or amorous;
His mood is sometimes old and wise,
And sometimes young and frivolous.
If you're a reverent denizen,
A simple, mute, admiring mug,
You feel a thrill ecstatic when
The poet bites your lug.
How oft the suave, beguiling voice
Has praised "that little thing" of mine!
How sweet the cadences: "How choice--
How musical the second line!"
But well I knew the tones of guile
Were but the operator's drug
To lull the sense to stupor while
The poet bit my lug.
Ear-marked are half Australia's sons
With teeth of poets blithe or dree,
And wise is he who reads and runs
To dodge the child of poesy.
"Beware this animal, it bites!"
Should be upon the forehead dug
Of that fine soul who rhymes and writes,
The bard who bites your lug.
First published in The Bulletin, 2 August 1906
