This day the Roman pigs have come to me
I feel the wind of fate has brought me ill.
They're thieves who strip all men of strength of will,
the slaves of sin of greed, they're known to be

For now, a storm has raged across the sea
My rights denied, they're coming set to kill
and add the stain of shame, my soul to chill
they whipped my back to break the heart that's free

the rich get rich, the poor get poorer, true
as finance funds the power structure quest
affluent with authority are blest
while making rules that benefit the few

with ignorant and selfish aims they screw
just anyone they can, from east to west
not caring half a damn who’s life's a jest
for others’ pain and care, they have no clue

(for Eric Christopher Crawford, R.I.P. my friend)

There is a breath to live; a breath to die.
Your last exhaled beneath a killing moon;
a drawn and gasped a hundred years too soon
as we invent a god to question why.

All dressed in paint and Sunday's best, you lie,
another victim to that cancer goon;
another saint amidst a bag pipe tune.
What reason is there, that I cannot cry?

the bushfire season blazes every year
as summer heat ignites the tinder frame
of old and dried out trees and shrub, to claim
Australia’s outback creatures’ greatest fear

it rages uncontrolled, to char and sear
and animals and people, kill and maim
with many homes at risk to smoke and flame
the nation comes to fight, from far and near