Give it Back

I've been glued to an island called an Eylandt, once apon a time settled by the invading Dutch east of
Arnhem Land of the Northern T. Now barbecued for Manganese as steel hardening propensity, the local Aborigines risk the takings on fizzy dizzaholic juice to dispense a new disease called westernization for not a cure is sure. I am not short on thought where this history lesson fell short, beg yours and theirs for this is not sport, or fair to be fair, more a rort. The listening agent comes plowing through the night whispering with a convoy of floating tanks to be laden with black mascarra for a grand old oriental lady whose secrets are known world wide, screaming for the trowel treatment, leaving a diesel wake in trailing tide, and a peaceful isle devoid of its innocence of what Mother Nature nursed, now industrialized into a floating hearse by means of a purse, the caretakers curse, that once was theirs is still but not controlled, owned and not managed, unpatrolled, not better but worse. These rights are wrong. Give them back what is theirs, because their frustrations become fears, seen in the old mans tears as another wine casket disappears. Be fair not rich and f**k that economistic itch, with side-effects that twitch the comprehension on ground level is at full pitch you b***h. Give these peoples a chance.