"Fifty men unemployed" the headline read,
but papers lied,
didn't say what's said.
Didn't say what's said; (Alf Dawson knows
what's red and read)
"The mill will close."
"The mill will close," Devil take you bums,
six months won't freeze
a sawman's beams.
A sawman's beams—the vagrant's pack,
Alf Dawson's dreams
of a native track.
Of a native track, where chimp-tailed fronds
finger-curl and fleck
green women's hands.
Green women's hands, the soothing brush
of leaf-tickled love,
Alf Dawson's bush.
"Alf Dawson's bush is alive," they said,
but the young men lied,
Alf's bush was dead.