By John Reddin
This land is harsh
This land is dry
This land can sometimes make you cry.
The winter comes
The winter goes
We only hear the sound of Crows
My son is six
He's seen no rain
We look up to the sky in vain
A cloud appears
Our hope is high
But still the land retains the dry
"The day will come"
My father said.
I hope it comes before I'm dead
A dust storm gathers
In the West
To crush our hope like all the rest
And where once stood
A noble steed
A grim reminder of no feed
The bank is looking
At It's books
They'll hang us out to dry on hooks
We live in hope
We live with strain
We live to see the sight of rain
Paul Keating, once,
With no regrets,
Said, "this is As good, as it gets"
This land is harsh
This land is dry
This land can sometimes make you cry.
