(Written circa 1956 while under the influence of another vital spirit, which inhabited a four-shilling bottle of Seppelts Royal Purple Para.)
You, my beloved Henry, pisspot poet,
after whom pubs are named, whose haggard face
may one day be carved in a mountain; laconic
master, lord of the sketch, vessel of grace,
be with me now as I unsheathe my sabre
or rather, flex my fingers, eager digits,
staunch workers who persist in voting Labor,
and who, being small, proclaim the rights of midgets
to be giants–be with me now, I pray.
Tonight when I explore a loaded purse
as Leader of the Push you’ll show the way;
you’ll point, I’ll act. We’ll split the take and curse
the stinginess of those who walk abroad
with insufficient gold to swell our hoard.