Aussie Poem

Aussie Poem

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams.

He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank
And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.
"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam

The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.
At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away
He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
But nor was he prepared for what he was about to see.

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.
And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"

The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

Very good, sums up the Aussie sense of humour nicely :2tsup::2tsup::2tsup:.

Terrific:2tsup::2tsup::2tsup:

Bloody beaudy mate.... :U

Those Kiwis must be laughin:D

G'day Phil. Very good - is it your work?

I sent it on to a very good friend in Qld (ex Kiwi) and he thought it so good he has passed it on to a number of friends and business colleagues O/s.

The cheque is NOT in the mail!:D

Regards

Ian

Text of a letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and Dad. (For
Those of you not in the know, Eromanga is a small town, west of
Quilpie in the far south west of Queensland )

Dear Mum & Dad,
I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil
that the Army is better than workin' on the station - tell them to get
in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a bit slow
in settling down at first, because ya don't hafta get outta bed until 6am.
But I like sleeping in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky is make
ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody horses to
get in, no calves to feed, no troughs to clean - nothin'!! Ya haz
gotta shower though, but its not so bad, coz there's lotsa hot water
and even a light to see what ya doing!
At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there's no kangaroo
steaks or goanna stew like wot Mum makes. You don't get fed again
until noon and by that time all the city boys are buggered because
we've been on
a 'route march' - geez its only just like walking to the windmill in
the bullock paddock!!
This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I
keep getting medals for shootin' - dunno why. The bullseye is as big
as a bloody dingo's #### and it don't move and it's not firing back at
ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into their
prize cows before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make yourself
comfortable and hit the target - it's a piece of !! You don't even
load your own cartridges, they comes in little boxes, and ya don't
have to steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!
Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real
careful coz they break easy - it's not like fighting with Doug and
Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once like we do at
home after the muster.
Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it looks like I'm the
best the platoon's got, and I've only been beaten by this one bloke
from the Engineers - he's 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick handles
across the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5 foot 7 and eight stone
wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off to the boozer.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys to get in quick
before word gets around how bloody good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Susan.