Black Saturday
They say a touch of spring is in the air;
They say the wattle trees with bloom are gay;
They say each garden now begins to wear
(Not that I care)
A festal garb that waxes day by day
In loneliness. They tell, too, of blue skies
Aglow with hope . . . I laugh them all to scorn,
And gaze upon these things with listless eyes
That see nought but a vista most forlorn.
They say that bird songs come now with a rush
Of rarest melody; the ambient air
Thrills to the voice of blackbird and of thrush
(I answer ‘Tush!
Let ’em go sing their heads off. I don’t care.')
They say a kindly sun beams o’er the earth.
They say - Bah! Who pays heed to what they say?
Life is a sham; a mockery is mirth;
I’m making out my income tax today.
