He's done well, has Frank Streeter.
He come up through rough times.
No oranges when he were lad.
Just buckets of lemons, all them
backyard lemon trees left to run riot,
men of family out shooting Jerries,
women getting phossy-jaw at the munitions.
Life were bitter, then.
Left to fend for himself, he were.
And he's done it, hasn't he?
You'll meet his sort all over the world,
telling bloody Australians about proper bloody manuring.
There's nothing he doesn't know
about what cow's backside can do for vegies.
Here he is, in clean shirt,
hands scrubbed so hard
he could rob a bank with no gloves on.
Here he is, straw hat on top of bleachy grin,
holding hands with gloomy vicar
and giving out prizes for fat oranges
glowing like unexploded ordance
in the sacristy.