Dad's Journey

I NEVER growled and never fussed, but lived ' here calm an’ still.

For 70 years I lived here on the hill in Wombatville.

“Don’t live here like a snail,” said Dave, “within yer small shell curled.

“I’ll pay yer fare to Nauru Isle, an’ let yer see the world."

An’ so I got on board the ship an’ whirled off like a breeze.

But all I see upon the trip was dirt and ropes n’ grease; Sea-water, rocks, an’ sich-like things, sometimes a bird an’ hill.

Sez I to Dave, “All these ’ere things I see in Wombatville.”

We saw the Canterlever, that caused so much loud moot, An* saw a mess er phosphate kinder tumbling from a shoot; “If you spill some sugar from a spoon,” sez I to Dave, sez I, “Tis ’zactly the same principle,” as Dave could not deny.

We walked along the Topside an’ Dave said, “1 call this grand.”

“They’re nought,” sez I, “but great big hunks of rock an’ dirt an’ sand.”

We then came to the harbour, an’ it made Dave look perfound.

But I sez, “I don’t see nothin’ but some water sloshing round,”

We went to several villages--there’s nothin’ there to see.

But just er mess er houses an’ some folks like you an’ me; An’ last we see the wireless mast. Sez Dave, “How’s this for high?”

Sez I, “It’s jest like Wombatville—the same ol’ thing,” sez I.

Nauru

F.H.D,