In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone wrong, <br />When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song, <br />Where the poet’s heart is speaking to their hearts in every line, <br />Till the hardest curse and blubber at the thoughts of Auld Lang Syne; <br />Then a boozer lurches forward with an oath for all disguise— <br />Prayers and curses in his soul, and tears and liquor in his eyes— <br />Grasps the singer or reciter with a death-grip by the hand: <br />‘That’s the truth, bloke! Sling it at ’em! Oh! Gorbli’me, that was grand! <br />‘Don’t mind me; I’ve got ’em. You know! What’s yer name, bloke! Don’t yer see? <br />‘Who’s the bloke what wrote the po’try? Will yer write it down fer me?’ <br /> <br />And the backblocks’ bard goes through it, ever seeking as he goes <br />For the line of least resistance to the hearts of men he knows; <br />And he tracks their hearts in mateship, and he tracks them out alone— <br />Seeking for the power to sway them, till he finds it in his own, <br />Feels what they feel, loves what they love, learns to hate what they condemn, <br />Takes his pen in tears and triumph, and he writes it down for them.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/will-yer-write-it-down-for-me/
