Tuesday, October 29, 2013


Many times after we met
she would telephone for a chat.
And when we fell out as friends
she'd phone for me to take her back.

I took her back, like a fool,
every time the girl would ring.
Yes I was very much the jester,
but she'd make me out a king.

Now she is water under the bridge.
She's the train down the track.
She's the wind blown through the tunnel.
No flowing, steaming, blowing back.

Watch out for kangaroos
that bound into the road,
aborigines with boomerangs
and flying bugs that explode
there against your windscreen
as you journey in your jeep
through the Australian bush
while in the heat half-asleep.

Watch out for crocodiles
at the next waterhole.
The wombats and wallabies,
those crazies on a long-stroll
who might have packed guns
or have a dingo dog's bite,
like your wommy, wally, man
from whom, girl, you take flight !

A fear of death and being alone
made her want to cling and own,
and talk rather than listen and think.
With speech kept herself occupied
till she was completely tongue-tied,
or falling asleep was on the brink.
She'd gab, gab, gab, until I was whacked,
and she'd be absolutely gobsmacked
that I should go to sleep first.
Nursery-rhymes once sent me to Nod,
now it was a noisy girl's big gob.
Still, her snoring was much damn worse !

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