Old troubadors remain
Their songs the ages greet.
Some speak of tragic ills
Or loves so tender, sweet.
They go with horse of years
At pace not hurried so.
They play the fiddle’s tears
And hum what we don’t know.
The face is weathered, lined.
Some roads they did not take.
Til saw familiar signs
And lodged so warm, they’d bake.
And friends were made right quick
For whist or whittling glad.
Occasionally fell sick
But never dreadfully bad
Botany Bay. Australia confines.
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