A Spring Poem

September's come, and it's the thing
To write of Spring
And Wattle Day;
But, brothers, it seems pretty clear,
Now Pussyfoot has landed here,
That Bottle Day
Should be the subject of this rhyme
To be in time --
Lest he should nobble Billy Hughes
And rob Australia of its booze.

But still, I think,
The Demon Drink
Is not the proper kind of topic
When one should rhyme
Of blossom-time
And all the bright kaleidoscopic
Sensations of a sweet Spring day;
So, anyway,
The liquor issue shall be flouted
And Pussyfoot completely outed.

Now, Spring
(Yes, I said "spring")
Is just the thing
To move a poet's soul to passion
And start a poet's teeth to gnashin'.
Because, these times,
The search for rhymes
Is profitless, and stale, and flat --
My hat!
You'd think 'twould be an easy feat
To write a triolet complete,
A ballade, or a madrigal --
You try!  That's all!

(Where was I?) . . . Spring!
Oh, yes, I'll sing
In accents sweet, and soft and low,
Of Hughes's spring from Bendigo,
Of prime spring lamg, spring styles, spring chickens,
I'll chortle like the very dickens
Of "that reviving herb whose tender green
Fledges the the river-lip on which we lean;"
I'll make a rhyme -- Just give me time!
 
Spring dust is rising in the street;
The clatter of the horses' feet;
The tinkle of the telephone;
The grumbling, rumbling undertone
Of trams and trains; the sudden shriek
Of motor-horns; the distant squeal
Of brakes -- all these are coaxing me
To write a rippling melody
Of Spring . . . .
Confound the thing!
Say, brothers, tell you what let's do
(It's just as fair for me as you) --
Since inspiration will not spring
I'll spring myself; yes, I'll take wing
Unto Toolangi's sylvan glade
(The only place where verse is made);
And there a verbal theme I'll find --
From trees and streams my song I'll borrow.
And write just when I feel inclined --
So long!  You'll hear from me tomorrow!