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.

Non-descript.

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?

Yo-de-le-hihi,

What do you feel through the armour of your suit?

Yo-de-le-hihi,

Is there any music from that din?

Yo-de-le-hihi;

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.

Lord.

How great you are! How great you are.”