“Whakatane West.”

The railway's an undoubted boon,
Though the station's at a distance,
And the road thereto is somewhat new
And the gravel's no asistance
To country folk, who steer their cars
Within the whitened gates,
To wait until a belching train
Arrives with varied freights;
Perhaps a truck of scented sheep
Yoked to a van of cheese;
A sprinkling of our Maori friends,
And dogs that harbour fleas.
But let us sing “Long Live the King”
And Manager of Rails—
He proved himself of “Sterling” worth
And listened to our tales.
We only made a protest mild
About our station's name,
For Kiwinui was a term
That might refer to “game.”
Henceforth let all remember this:
We, by the railway blest,
Must practise day and night to say,
“It's Whakatane West!”
A simple thing it is to be
By this idea obsess'd,
For Mr. Kipling has observed
That West is ever West.
And East and West will never meet
By any line extension;
So let us all be truly glad
At Railway condescension.

“East Ender.”