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The Creek

Edward S. Sorenson

There ain’t no place I’d rather be
    Than on this ‘ere old creek,
That seems asleep, an’ yet to me
    It’s talkin’ all the week.

It’s timber-lined—I wouldn’t grub
    Out one o’ those old friends,
Nor would I cut the bit of scrub
    That fills the narrow bends.

For cheery birds of song I meet
    In every shaded bower,
An’ day an’ night the air is sweet
    With scent of fruit an’ flower.

There’s that old oak, I know its moan,
    When winds are blowin’ hard;
An’ Creaky Limbs that lap an’ groan
    Behind the saplin’ yard.

The big red gum is good to see,
    Where magpies greet the day,
An’ kookaburras laugh at me
    An’ keep the snakes away.

The peppermint that casts a shade
    Just where the firewood’s thrown,
A happy haunt in green and Jade,
    That’s Willy Wagtail’s own.

At every point some charm I know
    Among the creekside trees,
The while I watch the waters flow.
    An’ hear the hum of bees.

An’ though my shack is far away
    Where only wild things speak,
There ain’t no place I’d rather stay
    Than on this ‘ere old creek.

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