Poetry

[Bobby Mac]

MY SATNAV
by Unknown Bush Poet

I have a little Satnav
It sits there in my car
A Satnav is a driver’s friend
It tells you where you are
I have a little Satnav
I’ve had it all my life
It’s better than the normal ones
My Satnav is my wife

It gives me full instructions
Especially how to drive
“It’s sixty klicks an hour”, it says
“You’re doing sixty five”
It tells me when to stop and start
And when to use the brake
And tells me that it’s never ever
Safe to overtake
It tells me when a light is red
And when it goes to green
It seems to know instinctively
Just when to intervene
It lists the vehicles just in front
And all those to the rear
And taking this into account
It specifies my gear.

I’m sure no other driver
Has so helpful a device
For when we leave and lock the car
It still gives its advice
It fills me up with counselling
Each journey’s pretty fraught
So why don’t I exchange it
And get a quieter sort?
Ah well, you see, it cleans the house,
Makes sure I’m properly fed,
It washes all my shirts and things
And – keeps me warm in bed!
Despite all these advantages
And my tendency to scoff,
I do wish that once in a while
I could turn the bugger off!

 

[Bobby Mac]

Roadside Pizza​

By Tom McIlveen​

Have you ever been so hungry you could eat a Shetland pony,
and regurgitate his saddle for dessert?
I was driving down the highway with an old familiar crony,
when the road had changed from bitumen to dirt.

He was whining, whinging, moaning, and then constantly complaining
that we should have stopped to eat an hour ago!
With my empty stomach growling and my patience slowly waning,
I could feel an ulcer forming down below.

We were ninety K’s from Forster, stuck behind an Eighteen Wheeler,
when I noticed what appeared to be a sign.
It had claimed to be the only stop this side of Bulladelah,
and invited us to…‘Come inside and dine!’

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, but unable to resist it,
I consented and decided to abide.
It was dingy, dark and gloomy and we’d very nearly missed it,
as we climbed the stairs to take a peek inside.

There were cups and saucers scattered on an old bedraggled table,
and a plate of something putrid on the floor.
I was thinking that the Shetland could have used it as his stable,
with a lick of paint and half a bale of straw.

From behind a faded curtain we could hear the piercing voices
of the owner and his rowdy next of kin.
We were studying the menu with its unfamiliar choices,
when he opened up the door to let us in.

He suggested that we try his Roadside Pizza with a serving
of potatoes baked in fresh goanna oil,
and because I’d found his kitchen sanitation most unnerving–
I’d insisted mine be wrapped in silver foil!

As I watched him roll the pizza dough, I felt my stomach churning
at the thought of where his grimy hands had been.
They were covered in abrasions, which undoubtedly were turning
into festered sores and fully blown gangrene.

There was cottonwool and bandaids on each lacerated finger
and another wrapped around his little toe.
I was praying that the scabs and cotton bandages would linger
long enough to keep from falling in the dough.

Trying not to sound facetious, I had asked about his patches
and was told he’d been assaulted by a roo.
He had woken up in hospital, with bruises, lumps and scratches,
and a doctor’s bill already overdue.

He’d been out collecting road-kill for his Labrador Retriever,
when he saw the kangaroo beside the road.
He had started to approach it with a butcher’s hook and cleaver,
when the roo had upped and started to explode.

It had woken from its slumber, throwing wicked kicks and punches,
which had landed with precise exactitude,
and the last thing he’d remembered, was the sound of thumping crunches,
which had left him broken, bleeding and subdued.

As I scoffed the tasty pizza down, I couldn’t help but wonder,
what had happened to the rabid kangaroo.
Had it ended up as cutlets in some culinary blunder,
or as pizza in a Roadside barbeque?

When I took a peek inside his grimy Kelvinator chiller,
I could see the decomposing last remains
of a dozen road-kill victims, he’d collected for his griller,
which were dripping fat and clogging up his drains.

There were sulphur crested cockatoos in dingy cardboard boxes…
with a pink galah, a bilby and a rat.
In amongst the crows and bandicoots and battered flying foxes–
was a platypus, a possum and a bat.

My discerning duodenum had begun to groan and grumble
when I realised what ‘Roadside’ had implied.
I could feel my last resolve begin to shrivel up and crumble,
as my stomach started turning like a tide.

When I noticed bandaids missing from his mutilated finger,
my despair had turned to misery and woe.
They had seemingly disbanded and refused to stick and linger
long enough to keep from falling in the dough.

I began to puke and palpitate, disgorging what I’d swallowed,
in a tidal surge of pre-digested spew.
There were feathers, claws and gristle and some whiskers closely followed
by a bandaid soaked in ruminated goo.

As I stumbled to the toilets I could hear the frantic moaning
of my old familiar crony on the floor.
He was praying to the porcelain, that God would be condoning
him–for lingering behind the toilet door.

When you’re ninety K’s from Forster, stuck behind an Eighteen Wheeler,
and you notice what appears to be a sign;
don’t believe that it’s the only stop this side of Bulladelah…
and don’t ever stop to–‘Go inside and dine!’

 

[Tazzieman]

I've moved in medical circles for 40 years but have never seen the word "duodenum" used in a poem.
The rest of the story seems plausible.

Your wife may have a copy of Mrs Beeton's famous Victorian household guide tome.
Quote this response at your own peril

"Mrs Beeton wrote a book
Teaching housewives how to cook
Judging by the food I've eaten
My wife's cooking can't be beaten"

 

[rovie]

MY SATNAV
by Unknown Bush Poet

I have a little Satnav
It sits there in my car
A Satnav is a driver’s friend
It tells you where you are
I have a little Satnav
I’ve had it all my life
It’s better than the normal ones
My Satnav is my wife

It gives me full instructions
Especially how to drive
“It’s sixty klicks an hour”, it says
“You’re doing sixty five”
It tells me when to stop and start
And when to use the brake
And tells me that it’s never ever
Safe to overtake
It tells me when a light is red
And when it goes to green
It seems to know instinctively
Just when to intervene
It lists the vehicles just in front
And all those to the rear
And taking this into account
It specifies my gear.

I’m sure no other driver
Has so helpful a device
For when we leave and lock the car
It still gives its advice
It fills me up with counselling
Each journey’s pretty fraught
So why don’t I exchange it
And get a quieter sort?
Ah well, you see, it cleans the house,
Makes sure I’m properly fed,
It washes all my shirts and things
And – keeps me warm in bed!
Despite all these advantages
And my tendency to scoff,
I do wish that once in a while
I could turn the bugger off!

Yes, I can understand that very well. I use a comparable model.

 

[Bobby Mac]

A Land Rover Lament.....by Sleepy

'Twas Solihull in Eng-a-land that started the landy craze;
They based it on the good ol’ jeep that served in darker days;
They dressed her up in ex war paint, a splash of cockpit green;
They connected ploughs and welders to their shiny new machine;
And as they drove it out the door, with air of lordly pride,
A grinning English farmer said, `Can I take it for a drive?'

`See, here, young man,' said Solihull, `from Worcester to the sea,
From Stoke-on-Trent to Exeter, there's none can drive like she.
She’s good all round at everything, as soon you all will know,
Although with all that gear on board – She is a little SLOw

Her seats were trimmed in elephant hide.
She's made of alloy mixed with steel,
There’s even a little ring to pull for driving all four wheels,
He had a sit, held the wheel, but before he drove from sight.
A little man called Lucas yelled – “Please don’t drive at night!”

From Solihull in Eng-a-land, he drove his eighty-inch
He drove across a swollen creek, then up a steepish pinch.
He drove her down slippery hill – ‘ been raining all the day
A smile had stretched across his face as wide as Plymouth Bay.
He found a track, with lots of trees, so steep he nearly laughed
Bounced his way on up the road then – CRACK – he broke a shaft.

So think about that farmer when you’re feeling blue
Or when the door wont open ‘cos you’ve blown your ECU
That rusty project vehicle that’s sitting in the yard.
Or the pile of money spent that’s making life so hard
Don’t think of driving to a cliff and giving her a shove
Your Land Rovers will always be a labour of love!

 

[Tazzieman]

The vegans won't like the elephant hide reference!