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.
Arching an eye brow, with a twinkle of the eye,
He rummages for his ukulele,
Strums to the filing parade;
You, with the shaded glasses, what do you see?
What do you feel through the armour of your suit?
Is there any music from that din?
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.
How great you are! How great you are.”