His Story

“MY name?” (He was wizened and wrinkled and grey,
And poverty-painted and old;
His dirt-armoured head on his blanket he lay,
And this is the tale that he told:)

“Well, boss” (and he straightened his back bent with years,
And his tangled hair waved in the breeze,
The wind whistled in through the caves of his ears
And- the splits of his pants at the knees.

His bluey was coiled like a boarding-house duff,
And his billy-can stood at its side;
His jumper, worn through – the original stuff 
Was cobbled with moleskin and hide.)

"My name” (and he drew forth a whip from the swag, 
And shook out the knots from the strands
That yet were unplaited) “is Tommy the Lag” – 
Then carefully spat on his hands.

The yarn seemed to hang, so I threw him a plug,
And his eye brightened up in a trice; 
Beatitude played round the sundowner’s mug,
And his jaws went to work like a vice.

Tobacco juice trickled in drops from his chin 
And fell on the hair of his breast,
It seemed to transport him from damper and sin
To a land of ineffable rest.

I thought it quite likely he’d chew for a week,
As he plainly took time by the year;
When, listlessly hooking the plug from his cheek
And inserting the same in his ear,

I waited, expecting to hear from the "vag”.
Some old tale of our criminal scum;
But he just grunted out: ‘Yes, I’m Tommy the Lag –
Can you lend me a bob for a rum?”