In prison cell I sadly sit, A dammed crestfallen chappie, And own to you I feel a bit– A little bit—unhappy. It really ain’t the place nor time To reel off rhyming diction; But yet we’ll write a final rhyme While waiting crucifixion. No matter what end they decide Quick-lime? or boiling oil? sir We’ll … Continue reading Butchered to make a Dutchman’s Holiday, by Harry ‘Breaker’ Morant