TONY’S CRYPT.

In Sydney’s Rookwood Cemetery about nineteen eighty-one
resurfacing the road along it’s east side had begun.
The roadway was concrete but the cold slowed down the set
So you couldn’t cut the lines that made expansion joints just yet.

The concrete trucks were on time and the boxing was all done.
In their gumboots with their screed-boards they laid concrete by the ton
and their helicopters smoothed it just enough for tyre grip,
but by three o’clock the morning shift had gone home for a kip.

The afternoon shift blokes were on a damn good lurk.
The one who worked the diamond saw could not begin his work –
until the concrete dried enough you couldn’t make the cuts.
So he killed time by wandering through the cemetery huts.

Tony read the words on headstones, he tried to open up a crypt
and one door swung back open so in the gap he slipped.
The walls were lined with boxes, with a bottom empty shelf.
It was big enough to sleep on when he tried it for himself.

A sleeping bag would do it, and a pillow for his head
with a loud alarm clock ticking, helped him from his concrete bed.
When his wife brought in his curry tea she banged on his crypt door.
It was dark out on the roadway with his great big diamond saw

as Tony cut expansion slits in concrete now quite strong.
The morning shift would tidy up and move the road along
but every night the cemetery had Tony as a guest.
That concrete shelf in concrete box became his place of rest.

© John Basham

THE BASTARD MINI-STROKE!

When two ambos came one Sunday, they said to me “Old mate, you’re crook,”
and they whizzed me off to the hospital without a second look.
The hospital poked holes in me, they blood-sucked me nearly dry,
I had a Cat-scan and some kidney tests, some ultrasounds, an M.R.I.

The nurses all looked after me, their food was not half-bad,
but they’d wake me up, “Are you asleep?.” My answers got some mad –
“Well I bloody was, and still would be, if your damn machine didn’t beep,
take my blood pressure if you must, go away and let me sleep!”

Tony, Baden, Les and Limping Jim came to see me, wish me well,
I didn’t seem too good or flash at all, wasn’t very hard to tell.
A backless blue hospital gown, I looked pretty down in class,
But if they did up all the ties in back, then they wouldn’t see my arse.

Lying there and being pulled and pricked, nurses taking lots of blood,
Interrupted sleep, and weird times they pick to bring around my food.
The staff are good, won’t tell me much, their machines all buzz and ding,
Help from my brothers, my wife, my friends, will help me beat this thing.

It’s not real good if you have a stroke, for you don’t know what to do,
They won’t let me drive, and I have to rest, and swallow their pills too.
Still the other choice is not too good, and a few weeks off to rest,
Made me realise the friends I have make still being here the best.

© JB 2024

KEL’S TABLETS

TUNE: My Bonny

She was off for an overnight visit, he’d stayed back, their house-pet to mind.
His wife counted out several tablets, each one looked a different kind.
His kidneys, his heart and his headaches were managed by taking those pills
so each night at tea-time he took them, and didn’t feel bad from his ills.

One white one, two greens and a striped one, and a capsule which seemed kind of brown
conditioned to swallow some tablets, with orange juice helping them down.
The day went quite fast as he worked hard, their animals watered and fed,
with tea in the microwave heating he thought what his missus had said.

“I’ve put out your pills on the bench, dear, and don’t forget, please feed the dog.”
A hard day of working had tired him, his brain could have been in a fog
as he reached for the glass and the o.j. and the pills in their neat little group
and tossed the pills down very smartly, followed by pea-and-ham soup,

two slices of toast and some ice-cream, a coffee, TV Channel Five
for the score from the cricket at Brisbane, when his stomach went into a dive.
A military full-scale deployment was booming somewhere near his hips
but an hour or two later felt better, this time it was just battleships.

The night dragged along with explosions, eruptions and sounds quite unknown.
When his wife got back home the next arvo the poor bloke was still on his phone just trying to get an appointment – “Hell yeah, I’m really quite crook…”
She said “Did you feed dog his tablets? They’re gone, when I just had a look…

But I notice you’ve not had your heart pills, I just can’t go away any more –
you’ve bloody-well taken his worm pills, don’t you dare drag your arse on my floor….”
© JOHN BASHAM
Sgt. MARTY READ’S R.B.T SITE

[The Saga of Frawley Road]                                     Tune: Bluetail Fly

In Frawley Road the traffic flow was stopped and nobody could go –
ahead the reason for some fright, it’s Marty Read at the booze-bus site.
Take a deep breath and blow in here, we’ll see if you’ve been on the beer
and if you have you’re gonna lose, we’ll teach you not to drive and booze.

If any driver had drunk beer there was good reason for their fear –
the cones pushed cars into one lane and some would not come out again.
Take a deep breath and blow in this, we’ll see if you’ve been on the piss,
and if you do exceed .05 we’ll take away your right to drive.

Though Marty is a pleasant chap, if you’ve a traveller in your lap
you’ll wish that you had taken heed of flashing lights and Marty Read.
Take a deep breath and steady blow, I’ll check the reading then we’ll know
if you can go without a fuss, or I’ll take your keys and you’re in the Bus.

A ruthless person such as he can warm and sometimes fuzzy be
but not what drivers want to find on a back-street road if they’re half blind.
Take a deep breath, it won’t take long to find out if you’re right or wrong.
If you blow under, you’ll be right; if not, no keys, you walk tonight.

Ten minutes later, nothing there, the site was gone into thin air,
to strike again where he may choose – if you’re .05 then he’s bad news.
Take a deep breath, we need to know if you are over, or free to go –
give up the booze, keep down the speed, and do not mess with Marty Read.

CRACKER NIGHT

TUNE: Clementine

In the fifties and the sixties every kid loved Cracker Night.
Many colours, different noises, lots of sounds, a lovely sight.
So for weeks kids piled up branches, garden clippings, bits of wood –
if it burnt then it was added and their bonfire looked pretty good.

When it got dark they lit their bonfire, rockets whooshing, some just whiz,
little Tom Thumbs, strung together, dozens of them all went fizz.
Jones’s dog then found the Tom Thumbs, and got a mouthful of them all,
didn’t seem to notice cracking, racing round having a ball.

Then a parent grabbed the dog and pulled the Tom Thumb string away,
shut the dog in someone’s dunny then went back to watch the play.
Some kid threw a Penny Bunger, one that had a real loud boom
and it landed near the dunny used as Jones dog’s prison room.

Lots of houses had a back lane so the dunny truck could drive,
empty dunnies out in the weather, made from A/C to survive.
So the walls were fairly thin and light, just there to block the view.
When that bunger scared the Jones dog it shoved it’s whole body through,

and did a runner up the back lane, there was no-one looking on.
When the Joneses saw the holey wall they knew their hairy dog was gone.
Late the next day, from the Ranger, Joneses got a friendly call –
“Yer can come and pick yer dog up, when yer fix my dunny wall…”

© JOHN BASHAM 22

THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM

Two good mates were always trying to score points off one another,
whatever kind of tricks that they could play,
from making silly midnight phone-calls or putting soap-suds in the fountain –
rarely painful, always funny was their way.

But the one they both remember was so absolutely clever,
took a lot of work but really won the prize.
Gone to visit, took his Missus, so his house was cold and empty
and when they got back he didn’t believe his eyes.

He had a longish concrete driveway with his shed down at the bottom
and as he drove in his tired eyesight saw
that some rotten mongrel bastard had graffitied all the front wall,
so he sat there in his car and really swore.

He guessed exactly who had done it. In the dark he couldn’t fix it,

so he went inside and got straight on his phone,
and rang his mate and shouted “Yer a dirty rotten mongrel,
yer can repaint all my workshop on yer own”.

He heard a “click”, and boiling, said “The rotten bugger hung up,
I’ll bloody ring him back and try again”.
But every time he tried it all he got was “beeps” and silence.
Indigestion came, and really gave him pain.

In the morning when he got up he went straight down to his workshop.
The closer in he got, the more he saw.
His mate had really done a number with graffiti and rude drawings.
He’d been fooled, and so let out a mighty roar.

All the local packing houses that stacked cartons onto pallets
used a thin-film plastic sheet to wrap their stack.
It was plain his mate had helpers, ‘cos they’d used some rolls of clear sheet
and they’d wrapped his workshop up from front to back.

They’d gone down and bought some spray-cans, in half a dozen different colours,
then they’d let imagination have free rein.
If they’d thought it then they’d sprayed it, but from where he’d parked his wagon
it looked really bad – his mate had won again!

©JOHN BASHAM 22

BINGO ADDICTS

On Thursday nights the local hall resounds to language strange
and looking in the tension can be felt as faces change.
There’s pensioners in pink and gray with faces drawn and thin
with knife sharp ears and pencils poised, all hoping for a win.

Since six o’clock they’ve gathered there, they even have a round
of cards to sharpen minds and ears, to tune up for the sound
the caller makes, and when he says, “Now check your tickets thanks,
an orange one for seven five” there’s tension in the ranks.

“A fat and skinny, eighty one, and knickers, fourty four,
blind five oh fifty, two black ducks.” Their nerves are showing raw.
“The Ron Barassi, thirty one, and unkissed seventeen,
an eight alone and nearly there.”  A smile is rarely seen.

“Six and four is sixty four, click click and dirty knees,
the legs eleven, life’s begun, unlucky, pair of threes,
now you can vote, my age last year, three nine and blind two oh”
but interrupting from the ranks, a voice is heard   “BINGO”.

The chorus swells, dissatisfied, the race had just begun.
“I needed seven”, “only three”, “I only wanted one”.
The ticket checker verifies the winner in the hall.
Anticipation’s on the rise   “Eyes down”   another call.

THE BLANKET SNATCHER

CHORUS   King size and Queen size, twin and in between size,
it’s hard to get a good night’s sleep.

Our house is nice and quiet, if the neighbour’s dogs don’t riot,
but there’s problems when we go to bed at night.
The mattress isn’t lumpy, and my old man isn’t grumpy
but the blanket snatch goes on, and there’s a fight.

I am seven stone and five feet, with a body trim and petite,
but my husband’s six feet one and fourteen stone.
The trouble’s not on my side, I just start out on the high side
then I roll down on to him and there’s a moan.

He makes a great big hole in the mattress and I roll in
‘cos I’m smaller and keep slipping down the dent,
till I rest against his shoulder then I suddenly feel colder
and I wonder where the hell the blankets went.

It annoys me he won’t wake up, even with a damn good shake up,
he just rolls away and takes the blankets too.
In twin beds I sleep fine, unless he goes to sleep in mine,
then I pitch and toss and freeze the whole night through.

A CHRISTMAS STORY

Do you know the reason why a little Fairy sits
upon the top of every Xmas tree?
It seems that Father Xmas wasn’t feeling all that hot
and getting out of bed could only see

ten feet out the window ‘cos the rain was pelting down.
He thought a nice hot shower would be good,
and dived into the bathroom, but he very quickly found
that his Elf forgot to cut the firewood.

He only got cold water from the hot tap, so he thought
perhaps a cup of coffee might be neater,
but his Elf had not bought coffee, and there wasn’t any milk
and he hadn’t any kindling for the heater.

So Santa Claus was snaky as he walked out in the snow
to harness up his reindeer for the day,
as his Goblin took a sickie, and the Elf was rostered off.
Then he found a broken runner on his sleigh.

He rounded up the reindeer and he put their harness on.
No one told him two of them were lame.
When he loaded all the presents, pulled a muscle in his back
and the rain was horizontal as it came.

The weather was appalling all that day around the world,
and in every sooty chimney a bird nest.
He dropped his nice new thermos, so his mood was very black
and he couldn’t wait to get home for a rest.

Finally he finished and he let the reindeer go
and went inside his house, to find the floor
was soaked because the tiles had leaked and rain had got inside.
Then he heard a knock upon the door.

A little Fairy stood there, in her hand she had a list.
She said, “The truck has brought you eighty two
of the Xmas trees you ordered, but they’re now a day too late.
Father Xmas, what do you suggest I do?”

COFFREAK

When you wake up in the morning with your tongue a shade of brown
and your head feels very blurry as the floor is moving round,
it might not be the Fosters that last night you guzzled down
you could have the dreaded cravings of a coffreak.

When the time has come for smoko and you’re nearly wide awake
and you think about the time clock which you nearly didn’t make,
when you’ve gotta have that cuppa or it seems the nerves will break
you are in the early stages of a coffreak.

If you’re snaky with the tea girl just because she doesn’t think,
she keeps yapping with her girlfriend while you’re too afraid to blink
and you growl, “Forget the method, it’s the coffee that I drink”,
you are hooked upon the habit   you’re a coffreak.

As your head begins to tighten in the early afternoon
then it goes around full circle and becomes a tight balloon,
the beginnings of a headache means you need your coffee soon
admit it, you’re a craver and a coffreak.

On getting home you quickly have another cup or two,
and after tea another one will help you make it through,
but the coffee jar is empty, then there’s just one thing to do –
accept the fact and suffer, fellow coffreak.

CROOK BACKS

Many thing are painful, like a splinter or the gout,
or ingrown nails or sinusoid attack,
but of all the human troubles I can really do without
is what is known as “putting out my back.”

A twisted ankle’s awkward, and a plastered thumb is bad
and makes it hard to button up my shirt,
but my spine supports my body, so a crook back gets me mad
as any kind of movement makes it hurt.

If my neck is out, then driving is a painful thing to try,
and checking other traffic is a curse.
When the lower back is hurting, it can cause a painful cry,
as any action only makes it worse.

Changing my position, from my feet into a chair
I can hear and feel my backbone going creak.
All the nerves protest at movement, and the muscles take a share.
Every day it’s out feels like a week.

There’s pain each time I hurt it, but that’s not the only one,
the delay to get it fixed’s another factor.
It might even work out cheaper if I subsidise my son
to train, then he can be my Chiropractor.

DOUBLE TROUBLE

Some people cannot focus very well
when early morning starts are rough as hell.
Five o’clock’s a pretty rotten hour,
staggered out of bed to face the shower.

House was still asleep, so just in case
left the light off, not to wake the place.
Groped across the passage carpet floor,
froze my feet on tiles, shut the door.

Shaved and had a shower, half asleep.
Light off, then I back to bedroom creep.
Getting dressed in darkness, think of spray
deodorant protection for the day.

Groping up on shelf, found pressure can,
dosed the armpits with nice smell of man.
Buttoning up shirt, found something wrong –
different kind of smell does not belong.

To hell with others, turned on light to find
an answer to what flashed across my mind –
my deodorant, her hairspray looked like twins,
damn the makers, both were same-size tins.

EDUCATION

“Our daughter’s nearly fourteen, and I think she’s still intact,”
I suggested to my wife the other week.
“So you better have a talk with her and tell her any fact
of life she needs to know.” Wife didn’t speak.

I waited for her answer, and she finally got out
“I already have, about twelve months ago,
and got terribly embarrassed when she came right back at me
and told me several things I didn’t know….”

EGGS

When chooks roamed round the farmyard and lots of eggs were lost,
egg farmers thought of methods which might help reduce their cost.
One hit on the bright idea, with storage costs so high,
he’d store the eggs inside his house, safe and warm and dry.

His missus wasn’t very keen to keep them in the house
and shut her thoughts inside her, but she thought he was a louse.
Visitors made comment on the eggs stacked ceiling high,
and when they left she yelled at him, “You kiss your eggs goodbye.

I hate them in the lounge room, so you’ll have to build a shed.”
Tempers started boiling and some nasty words were said.
She grabbed an egg and threw it, and it splattered on the floor
so he let fly with several, but she ducked and threw some more.

He scored a lovely full toss, so she countered with a spin
and grabbed a thirty six rack as she yelled, “You’ll never win.”
She feinted with a left hook, so he ducked away to right,
but she knew where he’d move to, and she threw with all her might.

He didn’t see the sofa, so he took a nasty fall.
Three dozen made a splatter over him and half the wall.
The argument kept raging till they’d wasted all their eggs.
As tempers cooled they realised they’d have to clean the dregs.

A hot day had been forecast, and the smell would be severe
so she said “You clean this room up, or I won’t be living here.”
It seemed a simple idea, as he got the garden hose
‘cos anything was better than bad eggs upon the nose.

The racks went out the window, then he hosed the walls and floor
and he heard a snaky comment as she shut the lounge room door.
“All of this is your fault that the eggs got chucked about.
The place is saturated, how’s the water getting out?”

By then he’d had a gutful, and he gave an angry roar,
so got a brace and bit, and bored some holes right through the floor.
They patched up on their quarrel, but for weeks they both used pegs
to shut the awful smell out from that argument with eggs.

HIGHWAY HORROR

One hot night last November, or it might have been December
I was pushing pretty quickly down the road
with the diesel pushing power, and I  only had an hour
until I could switch her off and go unload.

I was driving a transporter, and mate, yer really oughta
just seen the stuff I had up on the top.
Two common Holden hacks, and two Valiant fastbacks,
and three Falcons down, I wasn’t gonna stop.

She was riding on the road mate, and the Inter diesel V8
was revving just as high as she would go,
and as I topped the final crest, looking down I got the best
and widest view of Sydney down below.

So I took her pretty slowly, as the top deck gets all rolly
and we made it to the bottom without frights,
but I was lucky I could keep her on track round the final sweeper
as the genny blew, and we ran out of lights.

But a trucky’s never stuck with cars up on his truck,
two shakes flat and we were set up right
I just switched the Holden lights on, and the tail lights on a Falcon,
she was lit up just like Luna Park at night.

Truckies rarely need assistance and I saw up in the distance
the headlights of a little mini car.
As I watched, they started veering, he had trouble with his steering,
then they disappeared, he must have gone too far.

So I stopped her on the edge, and I walked out to the ledge
and I saw it ten feet down, the wheels still spinning.
Then the driver gave a shout, and he slowly clambered out.
As he climbed the side I saw he wasn’t grinning.

Mate, the words he used were strong, when I asked him what went wrong,
he was shaking and he couldn’t stand up right.
With a colour pale as death, he just took a long deep breath,
and he said, “I’ve had a bloody awful fright.

‘Cos I saw some headlights coming, and I heard this weird humming,
and I tell you mate, I swear it is no lie
the dreadful sight got to me and I knew it would go through me
if the bastard was as wide as it was high.

JACKY’S ACCIDENT

ghosts of the golden mile

Way up past Wanganella, where the plains are flat and wide,
where pigs and roos and tiger snakes in swampy reedbeds hide,
a wealthy station owner bought a new Toyota ute.
A turbo diesel, with the works, he reckoned it was beaut.

Then to his foreman, Jacky, he said, “You keep off yer mitts,
yer wrecked me other four wheel drive, yer broke it into bits.”
But Jacky, broken hearted, pleaded “Boss, I likeim car.
I look right after this here one, but why no front bull bar?”

The station owner checked this out, and saw what Jacky meant.
Without a bull bar on the front, his new toy would get bent.
“Jacky, take the four wheel drive and go back into town
and while the dealer fits the bar, you wait, just hang around.

I’ll ring him now to fit the thing, and you be careful, Jack.
One scratch, I’ll have yer bloody hide, so don’t you hurry back.
I reckon you’ll be back by six, and don’t you have a prang.”
At half past eight, a worried Boss, and then the phone bell rang.

His foreman, Jacky, said to him, “Hey, Boss, I got bad luck.
I had this little accident, and bendim yer new truck.
Real good I got the bull bar on before I hit this pig
and brokim guard and headlight in, but dent not very big.”

The Boss said, “Jesus, Jacky, can’t you do a damn thing right?
I hope the truck is driveable, I want it back tonight.”
Said Jacky, “Yep, no worries, Boss, I fixim up OK.
I dragim pig off of the road, and I be on my way.”

“Just toss the pig up in the back,” the Boss to Jacky said,
“we might as well have meat for dogs, you killim very dead.”
“OK Boss, I gettim in,” said Jacky, worried like,
“and throw in helmet, but can’t lift his great big motor bike.”

LOCAL KNOWLEDGE

Fishermen in general are peculiar in their mind.
There’s as many fish as ideas, and every one swears blind
the only way to catch the kind of fish they dream about
is such and such a lure or bait, there isn’t any doubt.

A Doctor, trout fanatic, had a block up Gibbo way
which bordered on a small creek where a well known giant lay.
He planned a fishing holiday, a week in Gibbo’s green,
and another on the Goulburn, and then one at Eucumbene.

He took three other fly men, and they waded for a week,
and tied and tried their flies along the deep holes in his creek.
The last day that they’d planned there, the giant trout took fly
and the Doctor got trout fever, so he waved his mates goodbye.

They went off to Goulburn, leaving Doctor to his fight
but the giant was too cunning, though he fished from dawn till
night.
The locals fished that river, and they pulled out lovely trout,
but although they told the Doctor how, he wouldn’t try it out.

A dedicated fisher, he had every kind of fly
and the very best equipment that his money then could buy.
For years he’d cast his flies out, and his technique polished neat
but the giant got his back up, and as well it had him beat.

Nothing which he tried would even make that monster rise
and the locals often told him that it wouldn’t work with flies.
The third week was no better, and it made the Doctor hate
when a local caught a big one, with a cheapo rod and bait.

Two days were remaining, when the Doc was faintly seen
way back in a paddock, kneeling down among the green.
What the Doc was doing caused the locals much surprise
he was catching their grasshoppers, as he’d given up on flies.

MATHIESON’S CHOOK

At “Bakkabugri” lives a bloke who’s haunted by a hen
which ghosts below his kitchen floor, and every now and then
when Fosters prompts his memory, he’s reminded of his pride,
the Battery Hen, who worshipped him, until the day it died.

It seems one day, out in his car, he saw this patch of white
beside the road, and thus began the reason for his fright.
A Battery Hen, with crippled feet, had fallen from a truck
but Providence, by name of Jim, restored that poor Chook’s luck.

In kinder hands, no Chook could be, and after being fed
it slept in comfort, safe and warm, in James’s tractor shed.
Now, animals were all Jim’s friends, and so he read a book
on physiology and worked to fix the feet of Chook.

With hero worship Chook was full, and followed Jim around.
It’s feet improved with help and time, so Chook was often found
in places where it was a pest, it didn’t understand,
so often it was chased outside, with helping foot and hand.

It took to living underneath the timber kitchen floor
but never learnt the reason for it’s hero’s angry roar.
It knew that Jim went down the steps and every time would greet
her hero loudly, but most times, from underneath Jim’s feet.

Beside the steps was space enough, and Chook would quickly zoom
but tangle with her Master’s feet, below those steps of doom.
Repeated tries to stop this act of Chook did Jim no good.
He solved the problem finally, he blocked the hole with wood.

A piece of four by two beside the back steps closed the gap
and each time Jim walked down the steps, he’d shut Chook in the trap.
It soon became a game to Chook, to beat her hero out
but Chook was thick, and didn’t learn, so brought her death about.

As water wears away a stone, Chook wore her welcome down.
Instead of saying “G’day, Chook,” Jim often wore a frown.
Many months of conflict passed, yet Chook still worshipped Jim,
but he got tired of using wood to block that Chook from him.

Chook’s number came up one warm night, with Fosters in the air
as Jim ducked out the back a tick, he’d had a goodly share.
The wooden floor gave Chook the clue, it headed for the gap
as Jim, by reflex action, grabbed the wood and closed the trap.

The impact point, for wood and Chook, was right on poor Chook’s head,
then James, remorseful, realised his faithful Chook was dead.
He buried Chook by moonlight glow to keep the world away.
But now, upon some moonlit nights, Chook’s ghost comes back, they say

and haunts below the kitchen floor her hero walks upon
to spoil the Fosters Jim now takes, because his Chook is gone.

MATHIESON’S GOAT

Out at Bakkabugri, where the ghost of Jim’s Chook roams
a brown goat is the pride of James’s flock.
There’s geese and chooks and peacocks and his well known rugless Horse
but Sambo is the sharpest on his block.

He’s rusty brown in colour, with some bits of black and white
and a personality that’s loved by all,
but Sambo Goat’s got habits which he’s copied from his Boss
which led to his eventual downfall.

James, on odd occasions, gives his medicine a nudge
but also fancies Stones, and top shelf Port.
When  Sambo was a youngster, Jim was knocking back a few
and fed his goat a generous sized snort.

Sambo soon developed quite a liking for this stuff
with a dash of Stones to sharpen up the brew,
then he noticed the Log Cabin Jim was rolling for a smoke,
and Sambo thought he’d try a rolly too.

He nipped the half smoked rolly when Jim wasn’t looking out
and spat the hot tip out upon the ground.
If there’s barbeques at Jim’s place, Sambo helps with cleaning up,
and he’s never left a single butt around.

Sambo’s craving got him into trouble not long back,
that’s why now he’s anchored for a spell.
Jim had a Suzuki, and he’d left the rag top off
and Sambo smelled this promising food smell.

It took him several tries until he jumped up in the back
then he knew his nose had made another score,
so he squeezed between the front seats and worked this food source out
but spilled the chock full ashtray on the floor.

Then he ate a meal of rollys, and he didn’t miss a butt,
and the signs of his enjoyment were quite plain.
James was less than happy when he found what Sambo’d done,
and promptly grounded Sambo, on the chain.

MATHIESON’S RUG

It cost me fifty dollars to be nice to my horse.
With twenty twenty hindsight, I should have known, of course,
the rotten little mongrel was really riding me
‘cos the rug I bought to warm him, he tore off on a tree.

It cost ten bucks to stitch it, to make the damn thing last
and as soon as it was on him, the demon cantered past
with the belly strap he’d kicked off just dragging on the ground.
It was all a clay brown colour, where he’d plainly rolled around.

I pulled it off and scrubbed it, and waterproofed it too,
then I took a photo of it, ‘cos it almost looked brand new.
I’d put in these star droppers, and a new electric fence
to stop the wrecker getting out, and teach him plain horse sense.

He stretched his neck across it, but he couldn’t beat the wire
so I gave him points for courage, as he really was a trier.
That smart horse was more cunning than I gave him credit for,
as every time he reached across, he tore his rug some more.

He must have caught one shoulder of the rug upon a post,
then I reckon that he figured out just how to rip it most.
It cost me thirty dollars, to get it stitched again,
but I swore he wouldn’t beat me, and I went out in the rain

to put that stitched up rug on, to keep him warm at night.
He tore it, in ten minutes, so I figured as the fight
had cost me ninety dollars, he could get down on his knees
and beg to get his rug back, or rugless, bloody freeze.

MICHAELANGELO

In the hills past Geelong, where the Catholics are strong
the local Church Priest had a worry.
The cause of his frown was his Church looking down
it needed a paint in a hurry.
A paint donor was needed, and here he succeeded.
His parishioner, Michael, he thought of.
A house painter by trade, and a deal could be made
for Mike was adaptable, sort of.

Then the Priest said to Mike, “Tis the Father would like
to see our Church painted, my son.
For the love of our Saint, would you donate the paint
and the labour to get the job done?”
Though his temper was hot, Mike was put on the spot.
He said, “Father, I’ll fix it up right.”
Now, he knew in his shed was some paint, nearly dead
he could use, some old water based white.

But he hadn’t enough of this out dated stuff
so diluted it down, three to one,
and mixed in his thoughts, “I’ll miss Wide World of Sports”
as he hurried to get the job done.
But he made the paint last, as he brushed it on fast,
then he finished and drove to his shed,
with his mind far away from his non-paying day.
It was raining when Mike went to bed.

Off to Mass at first light, painter Mike got a fright
when he saw how the rain hurt his painting.
It was streaky or blotched, it was quite badly botched,
and Michael felt very like fainting.
He had wasted a day, half his paint washed away
and he knew that the Priest would be snaky.
So he shouted out loud to the low hanging cloud
in a voice that was savage but shaky

“Oh, God, what’ll I do?”  Then a thundercloud grew
and the lightning flashed down with a roar.
From above, Michael heard a strong voice give the word
“Michael, re paint, thin no more.”

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

I was walking down the footpath, and as I got out my keys
I saw a fat Gestapo, looking very ill-at-ease.
He was writing out a ticket, and I sprung him in the act,
so he glared and kept on writing, which to me showed little tact.

My presence on the footpath had this grey Gestapo thrown.
The offence which he was writing was “Left in a Loading Zone.”
I dunno why I did it, just annoyance I suppose
but I grabbed his bloody ticket and I held it near his nose,

and he watched me shred the pinky, then I let the pieces flutter.
Gestapo got quite dirty as they landed in the gutter.
His coolness all deserted, so he gave the roof a whack.
The bonnet was the closest, so I gave it quite a smack.

He must have been upset because he kicked the driver’s door,
so I retaliated on the tyre, with a roar.
He worked upon the panels, so each time I kicked a wheel.
His childhood was unhappy, so a booking made him feel

he’d scored a point on Mother, when he wrote a ticket pink.
If he ticked the little boxes, then he didn’t need to think.
A filthy look he gave me, and he yelled “It serves you right,
you’re the kind of person that I dream about at night.

Your panels are all dented, so go ahead and sue.”
He really changed expression, when I said, “The joke’s on you.
I wouldn’t want to be you when the owner makes it back,
and finds his Holden dented.  Mine’s a Falcon, three cars back.”

PUG-NOSED KELPIE

Arthur hardly ever washed his car, an early Holden wagon, dirty brown.
The inside matched the outside very well,
and both the right-hand windows were left down.
With the driver’s window open, air got in,
and Arthur’s kelpie learned to jump in too,
from habit, on the right-hand back, the dog
would line up on that window and jump through.

The dog had left his footprints on the seats
from several years of chasing cows about.
Their teamwork went quite well until the day
Arthur had to scrub his Holden out.
A wedding invitation meant a wash,
so Arthur used his dairy-hose and broom
and opened up the tailgate and the doors,
then hosed the seats and floor to make more room.

He used the dairy broom to scrub the paint,
then strong detergent got it looking new,
and Arthur got so wound up in his job,
he even cleaned the windows, both sides too.
He left them up to dry out, but his dog,
who claimed that Holden back seat as his space
lined up on the door and launched himself,
and that’s how come he’s got a pug-nosed face.

RED WOOLLEN CHOOKS

Port of Wahgunyah

The people next door make their own home-brew wine,
it costs half the price and it tastes very fine.
They kept it a secret, all cellared away
but things kind of changed when her Mum came to stay.

Mum hardly spoke English, and so they agreed
to tell of the still locked away was no need.
Her Mum was old-fashioned, and might not approve,
but as it turned out this was not a good move.

To save on expenses, they’d bought a few chooks
and sold all their eggs, so they weren’t there for looks.
A nice little side-line, just starting to pay
which ended one weekend when they were away.

They’d filled up the still and then left it to brew,
and nothing about it the old lady knew.
All she had to do was to give the chooks feed,
and watch television, or sunbake and read.

After they’d left, the brew bubbled away
and just what went wrong there, nobody can say,
but fermenting liquid escaped, it was plain,
and all of their brew flowed away down the drain.

Her Mother knew nothing of trouble below
as booze trickled down to the chook-yard quite slow.
It didn’t take long till the chooks tried it out
and soon there were drunken birds lying about.

Then came the time for the chooks to be fed.
When Mother looked in she thought they were all dead.
Back where she came from, food-wasting was sin
so she opened the chook-yard and let herself in.

The old lady did what she knew must be done.
It took her some time, but she plucked every one.
All were stark naked, and seemed to be dead,
they went in a garbage bag, into the shed.

Later that evening, the owners returned
and that’s when the news of their dead chooks they learned.
Husband went out to the shed for a look
and there on the floor was a hung-over chook.

He opened the bag and he took a look in,
as feather-less drunken chooks set up a din.
The bag was tipped up and they all tumbled out,
frozen and hungry and falling about.

Her Mum was embarrassed for such a mistake
and got an idea for amends she could make.
She knitted two days, and now each time she looks
out in the yard she sees red woollen chooks.

REPLACED

My son plays squash, at which he’s very good.
When I try, the squash ball hits the wood.

He’s also into golf, and plays quite well,
but me, that little ball gets mad as hell.

His racing bike is ten speed, ultra light.
At least I keep the rotten thing upright.

His motorbike he rides too hard and fast.
I say I’m second, he insists I’m last.

My morning shave is something of a punt
when I go to use my razor, and it’s blunt.

Cute young ladies ring, or call on him,
none did that to me, which makes me grim.

To mow the lawn takes me a lot of sweat,
he hasn’t learned to do it right, just yet.

He’s almost six feet tall, and seventeen.
His potential, and his chances, make me green.

It’s getting to a stage of steady loss
‘cos I think he lets me think I’m still the boss.

SANDFLY ATTACK

 I was fishing in a gutter in the mighty Norman River
In a little thirteen tinny with a fifteen on the back.
When the barra started biting I was really concentrating
Then it all went down the gurgler – bloody sandflies on attack.

In ten minutes I was eaten, then those white lumps got so itchy
that I flogged the outboard homewards, but it didn’t make me feel
any better.  Then I worked out that the barras and the sandflies
and the mozzies formed a union, and us fishos lost the deal.

They’re so tiny I can’t see them but their bites just drive me crazy
‘cos they leave me white and lumpy, then it turns to angry itch.
I can slop on Raid or Bushman and a dozen more repellem’s
but the nasty little buggers make me jump and scratch and twitch.

SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE

I’ve only got ten acres, fifty chooks and twenty sheep
and a little Fergy tractor on my farm.
Housing has developed, and it’s closing in my views.
I’m concerned in case my sheep are done more harm.

Not long ago I found that someone’s bloody family pet
had chased my mob of sheep, and one was dead.
It then ate half the carcass, and we didn’t catch it, but
it’s actions made my son and I see red.

We kept the shotguns loaded, then one night we heard a noise,
and racing down the bottom fence we saw
with the sheep bunched in a corner, and some wool held in its mouth,
a mongrel livestock-killing Labrador.

My son ran up the side-fence, he was just a bit too slow
so the rotten dog had got a meal for free.
That’s the fourth one that we’ve buried now in just as many weeks.
Next day some joker yelled across to me –

“I think your son I spoke with, he was carrying a gun.
He says he’s gonna kill my Labrador.
He says it ate your sheep, well, I am gonna call the cops.”
All the people in the houses heard me roar –

“Whether yours or someone else’s, my four sheep are lying dead.
I’m a betting man, I tell you what I’ll do.
I suppose you own a shotgun?” “Yes.” “Then keep it loaded up,
one night perhaps the chance will come to you.

My sheep are pretty peaceful and they don’t do any harm,
but if they get out one night while you’re asleep
and attack your bloody dog, then you have got my full OK
to save your dog and shoot my bloody sheep.”

SICKIE

“I won’t be in to work today”, I said,
“the way I feel I might as well be dead,
I think I’ll spend the whole damn day in bed,
so you will have to get along without me.”

At half past nine I didn’t feel too bad,
and thought about the wog I thought I had.
The weather looked OK so I was glad
I’d rung to say they’d have to do without me.

A shower made me feel almost like new.
I gathered up my clubs to play a few,
but on the seventh hole while playing through,
I told my mate to go ahead without me.

My Boss was on the next green , and he saw.
From in the rough I plainly heard him roar
“Tomorrow morning don’t come in my door,
and you will have to get along without me.”

THE JOKER

This is the story of Louie, a feller who owned his own cab.
He was known as a practical joker, and as well had the gift of the gab.
One Saturday Lou did a wedding, with horseshoes and ribbons of white,
then he swept his cab clean of confetti, and went off to work for the night.

He found he’d forgotten the horseshoes, but he left them both hanging up there
‘cos he got a call out to the Airport that looked like a pretty good fare.
The bloke who got into his taxi had an accent as thick as a brick
and Lou thought, “I’ll bet that he’s Irish, and I reckon his name will be Mick.”

Mick wanted to go down to Frankston, and seemed like a nice kind of bloke
so Lou thought he might have a good shot at playing a practical joke.
He found out that Mick was from Ireland, and had been in the I.R.A.
so he said, “Out here in Australia, we do things a different way.

See on the mirror, them horseshoes? That’s what we call a front sight.
I use it to line up my target, and most times I get ’em dead right.”
Up ahead, a pedestrian crossing, with a little old lady half way
so Lou dropped his cab into second, took a sighter and powered away.

Mick didn’t utter a murmur, an I.R.A. man hard to thrill
as Lou raced toward her at ninety, and lined her right up in the grille.
But Lou wasn’t going to hit her, so swung very hard to the right,
then his cab made a terrible clunk sound, and Lou got a hell of a fright.

And he swore “I am certain I missed her,” and jammed the brakes hard to the floor
as Mick said “Your front sight needs fixing, but we got her I opened my door.”

TOMATO SOUP

U. S. Marines

Years ago, to fly Tasmania, facilities were somewhat crude.
The aeroplanes were small and noisy, there was only basic food.

Instead of inflight movies and stereo, tomato soup came in a cup,
and if the flight was rough, the bag was there, in case tomato soup came up.

Beating boredom was a game to Ken, so he worked a clever trick.
He poured tomato soup into the bag that’s meant for those who get air sick.

And then he put his face down near the bag, to make a noise like he would drown.
The Stewardess had heard that noise before, she went to Ken and then bent down.

“Can I help you, Sir, or take the bag?” she asked of Ken, who stopped to grin.
She was fooled, he knew, as he held the bag that the lukewarm soup was in.

Then she watched in shock and disbelief, as he said, “It’s not too hot,
better not waste good soup”, tipped the bag, and very loudly drank the lot.

Stewardesses are adaptable, she just reached down to the shelf,
knew she’d met her match, and disappeared, with a bag to use herself.

TOMMY’S ONIONS

Tommy gottim locked up, ‘e gettim drunk again.
Because ‘e fightim coppers, Tommy bin a bloody pain.
Into lock-up ‘e go, Tommy, two days ‘e bin get.
‘E gotta stay, say Magistrate.  ‘E ain’t done two days yet.

Mr. Boyd lock Tom up, ‘e done it quite a lot.
Now Tommy, ‘e bin lookim, see Miz Boyd’s garden plot.
She bin out ‘ere planting, all time grass and plants,
and Tommy, ‘e not stupid, ‘e reckon real good chance.

‘E call out, “Hey, Missus, you wantim garden done?
Tellim Mr Boyd, ol’ Tommy – Gardener Number One”.
Crafty one, dat Tommy, gettim outa lock-up quick
by planting garden veggie, real good kinda trick.

Mr Boyd say, “OK, if you plantim every row.
Do ‘im good job proper, lettim Tommy early go.
Dis ‘ere box ‘im onions, puttim like I showim how.
Finish up, you shove off, so we go plantim now”.

Mr Boyd show Tommy, makim ‘ole, ‘e puttim one
onion plant and pokim, an’ water, ‘e all done,
so Tommy plantim onions, real good sunny day.
Tommy fixim easy, and ‘im headache go away.

Mr Boyd ‘im come back, watchim Tommy, checkim job,
tellim Tommy, “Finish”, an’ ‘e givim coupla bob.
Tommy shoot through real quick, happy ‘e go free,
an’ Miz Boyd likim planting, she come look an’ see.

Two day, t’ree day sunny, ol’ plantim no look good.
Miz Boyd keepim water, do ‘im way she should.
She pullim up all green bit, checkim why not right,
findim bloody Tommy, ‘e bin eatim all bit white.

 

PIGEON PIE – The Saga of Ian Clarke

A pigeon pie’s uncommon, and to some it’s gourmet treat.
Ian’s efforts with the contents is a tale that’s hard to beat.
His friend had lots of pigeons, which he kept to breed and race,
and didn’t miss the six he sold, which moved to Ian’s place.

It took a week or so to get the pastry cooked by Mum,
so the birds were kept and fattened for their destiny to come.
It turned out those birds weren’t stupid, even though to race they’re bred –
they knew to be pie contents he would have to chop their head.

The wood-chop axe was sharpened, Ian thought he’d surely win,
but the first bird’s neck he tried to chop, that pigeon pulled right in.
He didn’t think that pigeon’s eyes could pick out tiny specks –
when they saw that axe descending pigeons all pulled in their necks…

With one hand to hold the pigeon and one hand to give the chop
the score was pigeons six-to-nil, so Ian called a stop.
Those pigeons went back in their box to give him time for thought –
be damned if he would do without those pigeons he had bought.

When a way to solve the problem came to him he gave a shout.
“I just can’t chop their scrawny necks unless I keep them out.
I need another hand to pull their heads to do this trick –
two nails in this chopping block will fix my troubles quick.

I’ll make the gap to fit their necks, but not to fit their head,
so when I pull, their neck will stretch – one chop and they’ll be dead”.
His Plan-B worked, so then he had to pluck them one by one.

The feathers, like the birds, were small, took hours to be done.
After several hours of effort Ian’s plan was going well,
pigeons cleaned and stuffed and baked in stove, in Mother’s pastry shell.
With his taste-buds fairly drooling Ian tried his pie and then
said “That’s really worth the effort, only next time I’ll buy ten…”.

© JOHN BASHAM 1984

SWAN BEER

In the far west of Southern Australia along the east-west railway pair
a crew of about thirty gangers lived and worked in the heat way out there.
To let the rail-tourists get past them they camped on a parallel line.
Old carriages served as their sleepers and kitchen and mess room to dine.

Supplies for their keep and their rail line, for concrete instead of old wood
towed out by the old “Tea and Sugar” on a flat-top with sleepers and food.
Late on one night their supply train dropped off their flat-top, but surprise –
no-one took notice till morning, when an odd sight appeared to their eyes.

Instead of just one load of sleepers of concrete, the daylight revealed
an additional carriage was shunted – quite different, ‘cos this one was sealed.
Both doors were closed and shut tightly, with wire and a crimped piece of lead.
The gangers yelled, “Get them doors open. No key? Use a hammer instead!”

In wonder those thirty blokes stood there; their tow-train was far away gone.
Packed tight without any spare space was hundreds of cartons of Swan!
With a big roar the gangers were on it; who owned it they just didn’t care,
and they guzzled that beer with a vengeance, the empties they tossed anywhere.

So after a day, or a few days, their drinking and fighting grew slow.
They’d made a big dent in the contents, with a hell of a lot still to go.
Old Tony, the brains of the outfit, came up with a damn fine idea.
“If we bury them cans, burn that cardboard, then no-one will know what’s been here”.

You couldn’t give shovels to gangers, they’d just as soon inhale a bug,
but a daisy-chain passed up the empties and tossed them in big holes they’d dug.
Some more holes took care of the live ones; the dirt was raked over real clean
just in time, for a fourby came calling, a painted-up Federal machine.

The Law says the Commonwealth Railway owns the land on both sides of the track.
Those coppers were Federal and they said they wanted their slabs of Swan back!
“No way”, said the gangers, “It’s not us, don’t blame us for stealing yer beer”.
So the coppers drove off in their fourby, “The problem is not ending here.”

The gangers moved spur lines a distance. The coppers said, “Gangers, tough luck.
Youse is all being locked up for pinching that Swan from a sealed railway truck.
So get in our big truck, yer bastards, you’re going to jail for a bit”.
The crew of those gangers was thirty, but twenty-two only would fit!

Feds couldn’t believe all the hassles because of a few slabs of Swan,
so they and their trucks found the highway to Adelaide, south-east and gone.
About twenty years in the future Tony met with an old bloke named Don,
a bloke he once worked with, a fettler, involved in those few days of Swan.

“Did you ever go back to that spur line, where we buried those tinnies of Swan?”
“I did, and I took my detector, but every damn trace of it’s gone.
My GPS told me the right place. I walked, and I dug, but no good.
Them cans was all steel, and they rusted, all gone like them sleepers of wood”.

© JOHN BASHAM

NEXT TIME I’LL ASK… [pub with no beer]

We were down at Port Lincoln when we saw on TV
a program on gangers way up in N.T.
and the story told how much those buggers were paid.
It was really good money each week that they made.

So me and my mate said “We’ve gotta go North”
and we chucked in our jobs and we both headed forth.
Hitched a ride Port Augusta, went to Commonwealth mob
and told the bloke there we had come for a job.

He said we were ok, looked like tough young galoots
and he fitted us up with some real good new boots,
a swag and a blanket to help us survive,
then told us to sod off and come back about five.

The Commonwealth Railways seemed real fine to us,
spent the day in some pub, but got back there no fuss.
The bloke told us “Just go and find Platform Three –
it leaves at six-thirty, so on it please be”.

Found the platform, the right train, got in the Guards Van
and the bloke in there told us to sleep while we can,
so we rolled out our swags and we dossed on the floor
never knowing that train headed west while we snore.

The following morning, we both take a look
at some bloody great desert on the way out to Cook!
The Indian Pacific was what we were on –
any chance of that Ghan rail had long ago gone.

We finished up working in a big railway crew
somewhere north of Eucla where the bloody wind blew,
and the money was lousy when compared to what
those bastards on TV near Alice Springs got….

© JOHN BASHAM 2019