A Flinders Street Ditty

Propped up by Young and Jackson

sits, this denizen of Flinders Street,

Watching the passing parade of commutes

in ray-banned glasses and protective business suits;

Protected from the elements and chance infection.

In shaggy beard and knotted hair

he shrugs off dust and itching from his thread-bare gear.


Arching an eye brow, with a twinkle of the eye,

He rummages for his ukulele,

And strums,

Strums to the filing parade;

“Yo-de-le-hihi, Yo-de-li-hi-e,

You, with the shaded glasses, what do you see?


What do you feel through the armour of your suit?


Is there any music from that din?


I, I see a burst of colours this September Morn,

The warmth embraces my bare arms,

Hear too foraging pigeons that fly

from that tall spire.


How great you are! How great you are.”