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Labour Day Poem

“Labour Day, well what is that?” She softly `asked the teacher.
His chest puffed out, without a doubt, he spoke just like a preacher.

Australia, the sunburned land beneath the Southern Cross.
There was a time, almost a crime, we all slaved for the Boss.

Six days a week, twelve hours a day, in Eighteen Fifty-Five (1855)
“We work to live not live to work, they struggled to survive.

One man, one life, well what’s it worth? It all seemed quiet unfair.
For all to work, so few may live their dreams without a care.

United they all took stand, and marched before the nation,
Demands for life balanced and fair, no matter rank or station.

Eight hours for sleep, Eight hours for play, leaves eight more for the Boss.”
“They fought and won, the Aussie way, without the fear of loss.

So this weekend we celebrate the lives of those unknown,
A beer, a game, a BBQ, a party might be thrown.

The things she learned, she won’t forget, both language and decorum,
School life we love, thank God above for Australia and Inforum.

Teacher Robert Fechner