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© Claude Morris
He was barely awake, when he made a mistake,
While tying the top of his load,
When something gave way - a prop or a stay -
And he fell from his cart, to the road.
This man in the gutter - old eucalypt cutter,
Who lived in the bush on his own,
Found the bush-town hotel, met his needs pretty well,
Where he drank with his troubles, alone.
The Matron was called, and she stood there appalled,
Not knowing at once where to start,
But the alcohol smell, that she understood well,
Pin pointed the man with the cart.
The Matron took hold with her big heart of gold,
And a pair of most capable hands,
And the patient ‘came to’, with but little ado,
And heeded the Matron’s commands.
To the patient’s dismay, he was soon under way,
Enroute to a hospital bed,
Rather sick and concussed, and a little non-plussed,
And a sizeable lump on his head.
A hospital bed was an object of dread,
So far as the patient could tell, -
And the Matron, Good Lord, heavy-handed and broad,
Handled a scrubbing brush, well.
At last he was finished, his headache diminished,
A feeling of peace he enjoyed;
The drink had him down when he landed in town,
And all good intentions destroyed.
The Matron passed by, and catching his eye,
“Shall I bring you a bottle ?" said she,
And he scratched in his fob for a couple of ‘bob’,
“O.K. make it two - you and me”.
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