An oft-told tale
Two friends and I journey north to be
Visiting that ill-fated, deep-notched tree
Writ large and oft in Australia’s psyche
To Coopers Creek, that desperate site
Where history tells of a nasty plight
Just hours betwixt glory and lethal blight.
One hundred and sixty years now passed
Since King, Burke and Wills returned at last
Those three men stumbled upon our creek
And drank, then cried, laughing as exhaustion, deep
Nightmares swirl, relive trials beyond out yonder
While brown men come, peer down and ponder.
These ghostly men are here again, such shame without no grace
Blaspheme against our protocols; there’s surely none in place,
Instead they stumble in and breach our long-held ancient lore
These pale-skin ones, to Paakantyi, are so red and raw
Their frames dishevelled, burnt, and obviously hungry
No pride, or learning evident, for living in this country.
There’s lignum at the waterhole, milkvetch under trees
Kangaroo and Echidna roam and birds fly on the breeze
There’s lots to eat, our parents taught, we and this land are one
So why have these pale-skins failed to eat and feed their tums
We tried to speak, even offered food, the big one starts to shout
He throws fire from his shiny stick, and madly runs about!
It’s odd how new pale ones come, as the others did but scoot
The early mob just sat around, since the fig tree first set fruit
That fruit him finished long ago, but now they’re acting funny
They yell and argue between themselves, and lie out when it’s sunny
They’ve carved our tree, the sacred one and like the kookaburra
They flap and yell, I think they tell us leave our Call-yu-murra.
But why depart, the season’s ripe, oh those silly, ghostly men
So we took our leave, then watched them go and circled back agin,
The next mob came as the sun got hot, just three walk in and flop
Beside our shaded waterhole, they drink and laugh, then drop
Asleep they’re all just lying still, like pale skins seen before
Protocols not understood, just come and trash our lore.
These skinny men, with sunburnt skin, are smelly too, we state
These sleeping souls, their ragged looks, we wonder what’s their fate.
Did they know that just this morn, the others packed and left
But not before they’d notched our tree and buried their big chest
Unknown gear, supplies dug deep thinking we’d never be alert
To the mine-like pile of fresh-dug dirt, proprietorial rights we’ll assert.
But to conclude it must be said we mates ne’r made it past
Packsaddle pub, where the weather Gods sent down a mighty blast
First dust that wiped out everything, then floods that closed the roads
We had no choice but divorce our plans and find out new abodes
First Broken Hill, then Peterborough, the Flinders came to view
That Dig Tree remains forlorn, unseen, a future trip to brew!
