What goes out comes back again,
like a boomerang and Rin Tin Tin.

Boomerang, a rangy tang tang,
down by the bone dry billabong,
the old drunk sadly sang.

The Old Man of the Forest,
sings a song of true blue.
Orangutan, oh, orangutan,
is there still a place for you?

Words that have left,
mouths in a rage,
tend to come back to haunt,
when we turn a new page.

But the world is our oyster,
and we reap what we sow.

When we plunder for profit,
the true cost begins to show.

Pendulums swing to and fro,
but boomerangs come back,
and bring us down truly low.

In a world of hurt a song was sung,
from those at their limit on the last rung.

What goes around, comes around,
so be careful what you want.
There are needs for survival,
the rest is only for naught.

Boomerang, oh boomerang,
don't come back on me.

For the universe is the limit,
as broad as an endless sea.

Aboriginal Boomerang

Image Courtesy

I started a silly poem about boomerang wordplay and it got serious.

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