Oo's the pote laureate, yer want ter know?
Now, blime, coves, the joker makes me blush
By arskin sich a question. Yus, yus, yus!
They aint got any reverent feelins now,
Them blokes that torks about Horstralian potes
As if they was a mob of ewes an rams
Sent to the show. Taint right. Now, Bill an me --
Bill Shakespeare's often at our place these times --
Aint never found out oo's the greater pote,
Himself or me. I think e skites the best
In blood an thunder pieces, though, my oath,
My own Ned Kelly epic aint too stinkin.
But when it comes to little simple things
About a bloomin kid oose mother croaked,
Bill owns that e carnt touch me. Then me hodes
About Hortstalia's navy. Bill carnt show
Nothin to equal them, an owns e carnt.
"It's great," says e, "now blime if it aint,"
An slaps is thigh. Now what I want ter know,
When all the bloomin torkers ave their day,
What price the best Horstralian pote, cash down,
Before I enter for the bloomin at
Of gory tin? Lawson an Paterson,
Grant Hervey an the rest have wrote some stuff
That even Bill admires. Chris Marlowe dont.
But Chris goes always strong for Roderic Quinn,
And reckons Adams an Will Ogilvie
Ave points that rather andicap old Greene.
But what's the use of torkin, wot's the price?
There's the respect that weighs with Bill an me.
First published in The Bulletin, 4 June 1908
Note: This poem forms a part of the responses to The Bulletin's call for nominations for an Australian poet laureate. You can read another one here.
