The Helm of Ned Kelly

like a fist clutching bread just to hoard and withhold like the grain that they locked in the silo
we'll be eating soup of stone til what we grow is what we own,
but we won't steal from the land what's freely given
tear up the deeds to the land, throw the debts into the furnace,
debts to god to the banks and to the landlord

don your armor don your helm, which was forged from an old plows blade
train your horses round and aim your guns at Sydney
I was born from a seed that was swallowed by a mad woman
from the lips and the tongue of ceridwen
I had took just a taste that had splashed up from the black kettle
in the waves neither drowned nor aged a day

down their lying in the brush was one bloody tethered horse,
and one detective in the service of the crown
even theough we're just one pistol against an army of policemen
I insist that we are many and they are few

It was on Van Dieman's land where your father came in transport
chained like cattle to the deck of a ship
held hostage in a word, stolen from the shores of erin
south australia bound in bondage of the queen's men