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C J Dennis - The Martyred Democrat
Work rating: Low

                    (Begin breezily):
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room, where float the strains of Brahms,
While cultured caterpillars chew the leaves of potted palms -
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room, upon a summer`s day,
The democrats of Toorak met to pass an hour away.
They hearkened to a long address by Grabbit, M.L.C.,
While Senator O`Sweatem passed around the cakes and tea;
And all the brains and beauty of the suburb gathered there,
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room - Miss Fibwell in the chair.


                 (With increasing interest):
Ay, all the fair and brave were there - the fair in fetching hats;
The brave in pale mauve pantaloons and shiny boots, with spats.
But pride of all that gathering, a giant `mid the rest,
Was Mr Percy Puttipate, in fancy socks and vest.
Despite his bout of brain-fag, plainly showing in his eyes,
Contracted while inventing something new in nobby ties,
He braved the ills and draughts and chills, damp tablecloths and mats,
Of Lady Lusher`s drawing-room: this prince of Democrats.


                    (Resume the breeze):
Upon a silken ottoman sat Willie Dawdlerich,
Who spoke of democratic things to Mabel Bandersnitch.
And likewise there, on couch and chair, with keen, attentive ears,
Sat many sons and daughters of our sturdy pioneers;
Seed of our noble squatter-lords, those democrats of old,
Who held of this fair land of ours as much as each can hold;
Whose motto is, and ever was, despite the traitor`s gab:
"Australia for Australians - as much as each can grab."


                    (In cultured tones):
"Deah friends," began Miss Fibwell, "you - haw - understand ouah league
Is formed to stand against that band of schemers who intrigue -
That horrid band of Socialists who seek to wrest ouah raights,
And, with class legislation, straive to plague ouah days and naights.
They claim to be the workers of the land; but Ai maintain
That, tho` they stand for horny hands, we represent the bwain.
Are not bwain-workers toilers too, who labah without feah?"
(The fashioner of fancy ties: "Heah, heah!  Quaite raight!  Heah, heah!")


"They arrogate unto themselves the sacred name of Work.
But still, Ai ask, where is the task that we`ve been known to shirk?
We`re toilahs, ev`ry one of us, altho` they claim we`re not."
(The toiler on the ottoman: "Bai jove, I`ve heard thet rot!")
"Moahovah, friends, to serve theah ends, they`re straiving, maight and main,
To drag down to theah level folk who work with mind and bwain.
They claim we do not earn ouah share, but, Ai maintain we do!"
(The grafter in the fancy socks: "The`ah beastly rottahs, too!")


                   (With rising inflexion):
"Yes, friends, they`ll drag us down and down, compelling us to live
Just laike themselves - the selfish class, on what they choose to give.
Nay, moah, they`ll make us weah theah clothes - plain working - clothes, forsooth!
Blue dungarees in place of these." . . . "Mai Gahd!  Is this the trooth?"
                    (With fine dramatic force):
A gurgling groan; a sick`ning thud; a flash of fancy socks,
And Mr Percy Puttipate fell like a stricken ox.
Crashed down, through cakes and crockery, and lay, `mid plate and spoon,
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room one summer afternoon.


                    (With a rush of emotion):
A scream from Mabel Bandersnitch pierced thro` the ev`ning calm
(The cultured grubs, alone unmoved, still chewed the potted palm).
Strong men turned white with sudden fright; girls fell in faint and swoon
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room that fateful afternoon.
                    (With tears in the voice):
But Puttipate? ... Ah, what of him - that noble Democrat,
As he lay there with glassy stare, upon the Persian mat?
What recks he now for nobby ties, and what for fancy socks,
As he lies prone, with cake and cream smeared on his sunny locks?


                    (Mournfully):
Good Mr Grabbit took his head, O`Sweatem seized his feet;
They bore him to an ambulance that waited in the street.
Poor Mabel Bandersnitch sobbed loud on Dawdlerich`s vest;
A pall of woefell over all - Miss Fibwell and the rest.
A mournful gloom o`erspread the room, as shades of ev`ning fell,
And, one by one, they left the place till none was left to tell
The tale of that dire tragedy that wrecked the summer calm -
Except the apathetic grubs, who went on eating palm.


                    (Suggestive pause; then, with fresh interest):
There still be men - low common men - who sneer at Toorak`s ways,
And e`en upon poor Puttipate bestow but grudging praise.
But when you hear the vulgar sneer of some low Labor bore
                    (With fine dramatic intensity):
Point to that pallid patriot on Lady Lusher`s floor!
Point to that daring Democrat, that hero of Toorak,
Who lifeless lay, that fateful day, upon his noble back!
Point to that hero, stricken down for our great Party`s sake,
His sunny locks, his fiery socks o`er-smeared with cream and cake.


                    (In scathing tones):
Then lash with scorn the base poltoon who sullies his fair fame.
Who, moved by fear, attempts to smear the lustre of that name.
Great Puttipate! The Democrat! Who perished, all too soon,
In Lady Lusher`s drawing-room, one summer afternoon.


(Finish with a noble gesture, expressing intense scorn, bow gracefully, 
   and retire amidst great applause.)
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