Arid outback country, home to
trotting horses and their
gentleman owners who
sport a variety of
finely tailored 3-piece suits; grey, black and blue.
To accompany waistcoats,
coarse facial hair,
well manicured
masculine moustaches
which flick or plunge about
their owner's features.

Days are spent, on the grind,
grinding for the viscous,
densely black, somewhat sweet
fuel of the world, oil.
Deep pits and somewhat feeble wooden
structures, which award
copious amounts of splinters,
abuse the incessant circular motion
of rigs ploughing the earth
sucking up the sticky liquid.
These motions, aided by hardy men,
award the oil-men their dirty prize

Now these days are in the past,
now my days are long.
I am long in the tooth.
Is it bad that i want
to surround myself with
suits stitched with oil-gold and
servants who say what i want to hear?
Who bring me what i want
when i want,
and on the whole live and die,
when i want.

It's not that i think i'm superior (a lie)
just past caring for a hard-working man's life.
I'll swim to my end in the lake of oil-notes
i accumulated in my oil-days.

M. W.