Oh some have killed in angry love
And some have killed in hate,
And some have killed in foreign lands
To serve the business state.
The hangman's hands are abstract hands
Though sudden death they bring—
"The hangman keeps our country pure,"
Says Harry Fat the king.

Young love will kick the chairs about
And like a rush fire burn,
Desiring what it cannot have,
A true love in return.
Who knows what rage and darkness fall
When lovers' thoughts grow cold?
"Whoever kills must pay the price,"
Says Harry Fat the old.

With violent hands a young man tried
To mend the shape of life.
This one used a shotgun
And that one used a knife.
And who can see our issues plain
That vex our groaning dust?
"The law is greater than the man,"
Says Harry Fat the just.

Te Whiu was too young to vote,
The prison records show.
Some thought he was too young to hang;
Legality said No.
Who knows what fear the raupo hides
Or where the wild duck flies?
"A trapdoor and a rope is best,"
Says Harry Fat the wise.

Though many a time he rolled his coat
And on the bare boards lay,
He lies in heavy concrete now
Until the Reckoning Day.
In linen sheet or granite aisle
Sleep Ministers of State.
"We cannot help the idle poor,"
Says Harry Fat the great.

Mercy stirred like a summer wind
The wigs an polished boots
And the long Jehovah faces
Above their Sunday suits.
The jury was uncertain;
The judge debated long.
"Let justice take her natural course,"
Said Harry Fat the strong.

The butcher boy and the baker boy
Were whistling in the street
When the hangman bound Te Whiu's eyes
And strapped his hands and feet,
Who stole to buy a bicycle
And killed in panic blood.
"The parson won his soul at length,"
Said Harry Fat the good.

Oh some will kill in rage and fear
And some will kill in hate.
And some will kill in foreign lands
To serve the master State.
Justice walks heavy in the land,
She bears a rope and shroud.
"We will not change our policy,"
Says Harry Fat the proud.

Something the non-kiwi reader will not pick up (and which some of the internet commentary on this poem misses) is the reference to the character Harry. Harry is the eponymous hero of a cycle of poems by Denis Glover `Sings Harry' set to music by Douglas Lilburn. I rather like the setting (i like Lilburn generally in fact) tho' Jack Speirs described the Glover settings as `an attempt to create a New Zealand folk music from nonexistent sources' or words to that effect. My guess (and it's only a guess) is that Baxter (an angry young man when he wrote this) probably thought of Glover as a soft-centred old piss artist who should be kicked out of the way to make room for him, John K Oxter, and others like him. Glover's Harry figure is a happy-go-lucky creature, clearly intended to be an iconic kiwi (a forerunner of Fred Dagg perhaps) and Baxter is not only taking the piss out of Glover but making the point that the ordinary Kiwi is no harry-go-lucky creature but a callous bugger who would hang Te Whiu without a second thought. Glover was a piss-artist, it's true, but he was also a decent poet, and not a rapist, as James K has recently been outed to be.

I met Lilburn once. Shy, gentle creature. He lived in Ascot terrace, (in Wellington) next door to Janet Paul (who had been Glover's lover). She sent me to see him once (this was long after he had set the Sings Harry cycle and Glover was long dead) : ``Introduce yourself to him as a young composer''. All i can remember him saying to me was quoting Bach's advice on writing music: ``Write to the Glory of God; anything written for any other reason is a hellish racket''. I must track down the original German one day. Bridie Lonie said he was in love with Janet. That could be true in some sense, but the modern narrative has been commandeered by the Queer lobby, for whom he was a hero, without a heterosexual bone in his ... well, body. See Jack Body (ha!) on this. But he may be right of course.

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