According to the cables, roofs are now painted in Spain to suit one's political opinions. If a bombing airman does not happen to like the colour of a roof, he drops a bomb on it.
I wonder what the world will be
In forty years, in fifty years?
Last night a sad dream came to me
To plague my soul. For it appears
As dreams will do, I built a home
Whose roof I stained a pretty brown.
When over it there happed to soar
An aeroplane that Russians bore
And blew the whole thing down.
I rallied and rebuilt my shack.
(I did not care for color schemes)
And stained the roof an ebon black
('Tis strange how things appear in dreams).
Then over it a Russian flew
And with a high-explosive shell
My home in smithereens he blew,
He hated that Italian hue
So I said "Very well."
And so, I built another hut
Whose roof I stained a ruby red;
And thought, "Now I have harbour," but
Another man flew over head
And rained his ruin on my home
And scattered death till I
Had no resource from out the sky
And not a place to roam.
Eventually, torn with fright,
I built me many rooves ---
Tartan, bright yellow, crimson bright ---
But fate met all my moves
Until, at last, in dull despair
A last resort I found ---
The ultimate resource of man ---
I hit upon a clever plan
And got me underground.
First published in The Herald, 26 May 1937;
and later in
The Queenslander, 17 June 1937.
Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
