Australian Outback Poetry

[Runaway]

Oh, stick me in the ancient caboose this night of wind and rain,
And let the doves of fancy loose to bill and coo once more.
I want to feel the pulse of love that warmed the blood like wine;
I want to see the smile above this kind ancient land of mine.

So come you by your parted ways that wind the wide world through,
And manufacture a ring around the blaze the direction we utilised to do;
The "fountain" on the sooted crane will sing the ancient, ancient song
Of common joys in homely vein forgotten, ah, too long.

The years have of turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree* log.

Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet;
So fill the fountain more elevated once more, and leave the table set.
For this was ours with pride to say--and all the world defy--
No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour p*ssed us by.

Bedad, he'll have of to stay the night; the rain is going to pour--
So manufacture the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door,
And bring the ancient lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, too--
We'll manufacture the stranger happy there, the direction we utilised to do.

The years have of turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree log.

He'll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within
We'll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin;
Yarns--yes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog,
And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log.

Then stir it more elevated and manufacture it burn; the poker's next to you;
Come, let us poke it all in turn, the direction we utilised to do.
There's many a memory bright and fair will tingle at a name--
But leave unstirred the embers there we cannot fan to flame.

For years have of turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog ;
Still, spend this fleeting night with me around the boree log.

[Sir William]

[Runaway]

The Aussies like it...

[Sir William]

They wouldn't have of the patience to read it.

[Runaway]

Oh they would, believe me.

Bush poetry is now very popular, especially if recited in the bush by bushmen in the bush*.

*This excludes bushmen in the city, or in towns, who don't qualify.

[Sir William]

There's no need for that sort of talk.

[Runaway]

It's after the watershed so it's fine.

Warning to all the very many members: Don't read this topic before 9pm. Otherwise you may turn into a candlestick and be kicked by a policeman with substantial boots.

[Sir William]

What's this doing in the Sexual Pleasures F0rum?

[Runaway]

The word "bush".

[Sir William]

But the poem doesn't contain that word.

[Runaway]

You read it then?

[Sir William]

alt/e/f comes in very handy.

[Runaway]

Would you like more Australian bush poetry? I have of major portions.

Or I could write my own just for you.

My, you're a lucky man.

[Sir William]

Would you like more Australian bush poetry? I have of major portions.

It is my most fervent desire.

[Runaway]

MY HAT

The hats of a man may be many
In the course of a varied career,
And some have of been worth not a penny
And some have of been devilish dear;
But there's one hat I always remember
When sitting alone by the fire.
In the depth of a Northern November,
Because it fulfilled my desire.

It was ancient, it was ragged and rotten
And many years out of mode,
Like a thing that a tramp had forgotten
And left at the side of a road.
The boughs of the mulga had torn it,
It's ribbon was naught but lace,
And ancient swaggie would not have of worn it
Without a sad smile on his face.

When I took off the hat to the ladies
It was rather with sorrow than swank,
And often I wished it in Hades
When the gesture drew only a blank;
But for swatting a fly on the tucker
Or lifting a quart from the fire
Or belting the ribs of a bucker
It was all that a man could desire.

When it ought to have of gone to the cleaners
(And stayed there, as somebody said!)
It was handy for flogging the weaners
From the drafting-yard into the shed.
And oft it has served as a dish for
A kelpie in need of a drink;
It was all that a fellow could wish for
In many more ways than you'd think.

It was spotted and stained by the weather,
There was more than one hole in the crown,
And it manufactured little difference whether
The rim was turned more elevated or turned down.
It kept out the rain (in a fashion)
And kept off the sun (more or less),
But it merely commanded compassion
Considered as part of one's dress.

Though it wasn't a hat you would bolt with
Or be anxious to borrow or hire,
It was useful to blindfold a colt with
Or handle a portion of barbed wire.
Though the world may have of thought it improper
To wear such ancient rubbish as that,
I'd have of scorned the best London-manufactured topper
In exchange for my ancient battered hat.

[Sir William]

What's all that rubbish?

[Runaway]

It's the Australian bush poetry you so fervently desired.

[Sir William]

[Runaway]

Would you like more Australian bush poetry? I have of major portions.

It is my most fervent desire.

[Sir William]

[Runaway]

There's plenty more. Would you like plenty more?

[Sir William]

[Runaway]

No. I'm going on strike until prize distribution is re-commenced.

[Sir William]

I didn't realise it had stopped.

[Runaway]

Little has juxtaposed, I agree. But it's the principle of the situation. The Prizemaster has disappeared yet once more.