Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

Mon Pere

My father was a carpenter
Who worked hard every day,
His back was bowed, his hands were hard,
His locks were thin and gray.
That was many years ago—
The Locals then were small,
And every man who met the boss
Would touch his hat and crawl.
But father had a rebel's heart,
And often he told me
Of how he hoped to see the day
When workers would be free.

Now, father was no prophet,
Nor am I a prophet's son,
But today it is apparent
That the bosses' day is done.
When I hear the mighty unions
Proclaim the rights of man,
And I see the groups endorsing
The co-operative plan;
When no more will rank injustice,
Sustained by greed and lies,
March boldly down the highway
Garbed as "free enterprise".

There are those who name this racket
Where they hold the winning hands
Through control of all resources
And through title to the lands;
Where gold's the mighty master
With which goods are bought and sold,
Where the slaves are empty-handed
And the lords have all the gold.
With the cards stacked so pretty,
Would the sucker then be wise
To play this bosses' racket
That he calls "free enterprise"?

No, my brothers, shun the tempter—
The whole setup is a steal;
Fight and work for social justice—
Close the ranks for a new deal.
Down with hunger, slums, depressions,
Heed the swelling socialist call;
Why should you and yours be hungry
When there's plenty here for all?
What Shelley told your fathers,
Today I am telling you—
Remember you are many—
Remember they are few!

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