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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408783" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Boss's Boots</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’<br>The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;<br>They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,<br>But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware. <br>The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!<br>And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out ;<br>And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots—<br>But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do—<br>And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;<br>And though he changed his pants at times—some worn-out and some neat—<br>No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,<br>And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;<br>And tigers might have heard the boss ere any harm was done—<br>For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,<br>And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.<br>He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,<br>And never dreamed of Boss’s boots—much less of Bogan Bill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,<br>Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,<br>And keep away from handicaps—for so your sugar scoots—<br>And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:<br>‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere—<br>‘He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,<br>‘He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat ;<br>He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;<br>He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,<br>He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He thought that he’d be fined all right—he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’<br>The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;<br>And Bogan swore amenfully—beneath his breath he swore—<br>And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,<br>The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;<br>He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,<br>He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,<br>He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:<br>The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,<br>And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt—<br>You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt—<br>For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),<br>And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout<br>And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;<br>He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot—<br>‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,<br>And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.<br>They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,<br>But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rouser has no soul to lose—it’s blarst the rouseabout!<br>And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,<br>And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,—<br>But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408783" data-title="The Boss's Boots de Henry Lawson" data-description="The Shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’
The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;
They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,
But when the Boss is looking on, they like to ..."></div>
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