Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JONES'S SELECTION, by G. H. GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JONES'S SELECTION, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: You hear a lot of new-chum talk
Last Line: The land don't get on yous.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ironbark; Gibson, George Herbert
Subject(s): Death; Environment; Punishment; Dead, The; Environmental Protection; Ecology; Conservation


You hear a lot of new-chum talk
Of goin' on the land,
An' raisin' record crops of wheat
On rocks and flamin' sand.

I 'ates exaggerated skite,
But if yer likes I can
Authenticate a case, in which
The land went on the man

Bill Jones 'e 'ad a mountain block
Up Kosciusko way;
He farmed it pretty nigh to death,
The neighbours used to say.

He scarified the surface with
His double-furrow ploughs,
An' ate its blinded heart right out
With sheep an' milkin' cows;

He filled its blamed intestines up
With agricultural pipes,
An' lime, and superphosphates—fit
To give the land the gripes.

Until at length the tortured soil,
Worn out with Jones's thrift,
Decided as the time was come
To up an' make a shift.

One day the mountain shook itself,
An' give a sort o' groan,
The neighbours was a lot more scared
Than they was game to own.

Their jaws was dropped upon their chests,
Their eyes was opened wide,
They saw the whole of Jones's farm
Upend itself, an' slide.

It slithered down the mountain spur,
Majestic-like an' slow,
An' landed in the river bed,
A thousand feet below.

Bill Jones was on the lower slopes
Of 'is long-sufferin' farm,
A-testin' some new-fangled plough
Which acted like a charm.

He'd just been screwin' up a nut
When somethin' seemed to crack,
An' fifty acres, more or less,
Come down on Jones's back.

'Twas sudden-like, a shake, a crack,
A slitherin' slide, an' Bill
Was buried fifty feet below
The soil he used to till.

One moment Bill was standin' up
A-ownin' all that land.
The next 'e's in eternity—
A spanner in 'is 'and!

They never dug up no remains
Nor scraps of William Jones—
The superphosphates ate the lot,
Hide, buttons, boots, and bones.

For this here land wot Jones abused
And harassed in the past
'Ad turned an' wiped 'im out, an' things
Got evened up at last.

From this untimely end o' Bill
It would perhaps appear
That goin' free-selectin' ain't
All skittles, no, nor beer.

So all you cocky city coves,
Wot's savin' up yer screws
To get upon the land, look out
The land don't get on yous.





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