Classic Poem

Its Bastille Day in Sydney.
The weird man in the moon falls to the
night basket. Stars roll out
another lottery and unemployment raises
dust over the land. Tout est perdu
fors lhonneur. Among thieves.
Running with images I whirl out the
rainbow. Spring flutters as the National
flag to salute the pilot whales
herding one more disastrous landing.
Waves roll head-to-head round
the plate of The Great South Land.
Which way to Wynyard, calls
the currawong. Helicopters line up like
magi over Bankstown. When you
look up, that old full moon makes you
feel like a cowpoke, dont it?