“Merry Christmas,

Salamaua!”

“Queensland calling, Salamaua!”

Little city on the isthmus; Someone on the Maranoa Wishes you A Merry Christmas, Pass the rhyme—it might be better — At this festive, kindly season Cavilling about one letter Would seem neither rhyme nor reason.

Village pig is off the menu, Gone, they tell me, out of fashion; Have you yet forgotten when you Starved or “kai’d” an iron ration?

“Something nothing” was a fiver, Neither here nor there were twenty, When the 6 a.m. reviver Often was champagne in plenty.

What was mangrove swamp in those days Now, I hear, flaunts fruit and flowers; Rumour says you gather nosegays Under orange-blossom showers; That you grow sweet, scented wattles Where was formerly stagnation Since you’ve filled the swamp with bottles Emptied by our generation.

When the Kila hills are blushing As tho’ stirred by wanton fancies, And your little town is flushing ’Neath the sunset’s ardent glances, When like some dark ocean flowing O’er the sky Night’s tide comes creep ing, Think of those who did the sowing Of the harvest you are reaping.

Hostile natives, hunger, fever, Death, they faced and left behind them; Nature ne’er was known to leave her Gifts where coward souls could find them; Honour them, you folk who’re sitting At your ease as Christmas passes; Pledge them in a manner fitting, Turning down some empty glasses.

Morobe.

Queenland, 15/10/1933.