The BoneyardA Poem by David Lewis PagetOn
the thirteenth day of the seventh month Big
Max came into town, He
came with a clutch of plans, he said, We’d
be ‘mad to turn him down!’ He
walked right into the council And
he huddled up with the mayor, The
mayor could only see dollar signs As
he sat him down in his chair! We’re
just a common old country town, There’s
not much happens here, The
town grew up around farmers, Pioneers
of yesteryear! There’s
shops and government offices, A
bank and a couple of pubs, And
the highlight of the weekend whirl Is
a night at the social clubs! We
also have two cemeteries, The
‘Old’ one and the ‘New’, There’s
not been a burial in the Old Since
1852, It
sits right there, at the edge of town, All
weeds and overgrown, A
bit of an eyesore, tell the truth, While
the New is nicely mown! The
news went round like a forest fire, Big
Max had bought the Old, He
wanted to build a Burger joint And
a Pizza Bar all told, And
then the parking, fifty cars Should
take up all the ground, Where
the bones of our pioneers had lain, The
founders of the town! The
moans and mutterings grew apace, The
mayor was brought to book, How
dare he sell off the hallowed ground? This
Max might be a crook! The
council went in a huddle And
approved the mayor’s plan, They
quoted some ancient ordinance While
the people shouted: ‘Scam!’ But
then the heavy equipment came The
dozers, trucks and rigs, With
men they hired from the city To
compound his dirty tricks, While
Max looked on, a complacent smile Was
fixed on his ugly face, ‘Just
wait ‘til you’re tasting the burgers!’ He’d
reply, when they’d shout: ‘Disgrace!’ As
fast as the headstones tumbled, they Were
laid around the edge, ‘They’ll
come in handy for fencing, We
won’t need to grow a hedge.’ But
then the coffins began to rise And
they spilled their cache of bones, The
dozers piled them in heaps, as if They
were shunting piles of stones. That
night, a wind in the eucalypts Swirled
round that hallowed site, It
moaned with a grim and haunted sound And
it howled to the dawning light, While
Max, they threw him out of the pub And
told him he’d have to roam, With
the souls of the dead uncovered there As
his men took off, went home. The
lightning flashed as he walked the streets And
the thunder chilled his spine, The
rain came down in a stream not seen Since
the winter of ’59, He
sought relief by a dozer, sheltered Under
a locked up truck, Then
heard a sigh, as a ghost went by And
a hundred more rose up! He
tried to run, but the ground, undone Was
a series of pits and holes, He
ended up to his waist in one, And
turned, and prayed for his soul. The
last of the standing headstones there Then
toppled, and pinned him down, When
the sun rose up in the morning One
of the council found him, drowned! The
‘Old’ has become a pretty park In
the shade of the eucalypts, The
headstones laid, flat to the ground In
a lawn that is kept well clipped, The
pioneers have been laid to rest Once
more in their holy ground, And
we’re more than blessed, though I must confess, There
isn’t a burger in town! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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Added on May 27, 2012Last Updated on May 27, 2012 Tags: council, mayor, bones, headstones Author
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