The March
In early, prehistoric days, before the reign of Man,
When neolithic Nature fashioned things upon a plan
That was large as it was rugged, and, in truth, a trifle crude,
There arose a dusky human who was positively rude.
Now, this was in the days when lived the monster kangaroo;
When the mammoth bunyip gambolled in the hills of Beetaloo;
They'd owned the land for centuries, and counted it their own;
For might was right, and such a thing as "law" was quite unknown.
But this dusky old reformer in the ages long ago,
One morning in the Eocene discovered how to "throw";
He studied well and practised hard until he'd learned the art;
Then, having planned his Great Campaign, went forth to make a start.
"See here," he said—and hurled a piece of tertiary rock,
That struck a Tory bunyip with a most unpleasant shock—
"See here, my name is Progress, and your methods are too slow;
This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!"
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