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Author Name: PremiumDr Fogg 5 Comments
Date Added: August 31, 2012 03:08:08 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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Type: Rhyming
Category: Humor Add To Favorites | Text Only
 
The Dingoes Howled

 

The Dingoes Howled.

 

Please adopt an Australian accent:

 

Me and my mate curly,

Set out from Alice Springs.

We got our tucker sorted.

Water and some things.

 

We had a crate of Fosters.

Best lager in the world.

Curly had a compass

and an Aussie flag, unfurled.

 

Old curly had a map you see.

From eighteen forty-two.

It blew into our camp one day.

All wrinkled, smeared with poo.

 

"Hey Cobber” look what I got.

It blew right out the dunny.

Some geyser wiped his arse on it.

I reckon that aint funny.

 

Now, I got a dickie tummy.

But I looked at it real hard.

"Curly! it’s a treasure map.”

"A trip seems on the cards.”

 

Between the little brown bits,

we could see a cross in blood.

It showed old diggers gold mine.

By a billabong near some mud.

 

So that’s why we went walkabout.

My self and Curly too.

In search of Diggers gold we went.

With a map all smeared with poo.

 

Straight through Pine Bluff we wandered.

And came upon Jay creek.

"Lets pitch camp” old curly said.

I’m feeling pretty weak.

 

So we set up camp as the dingoes howled.

And the sun died down at last.

We’d done ten miles in all that heat

So we flaked out pretty fast.  

 

The moon came up like a dinner plate.

And lit the mountain peeks.

I slept just like a baby.

The best I’d had in weeks.

 

When I woke up the smell was good.

Old Curley had the pan on.

He’d cooked us bacon and some eggs.

Which pretty soon had gone.

 

Now, the sun got up, as we packed up camp.

And set for the mountainside.

McKinley’s range was the name.

And they reached up to the skies.

 

I staggered to a halt.

Sweat pouring out of me.

"Curley lets have a beer mate.”

Is what I said to he.

 

He looked at me all sheepish.

"Er Cobber I have to say.”

"I’ve drunk the bloody lot chum,

I’ve been drinking it all day.”

 

Now for an Aussie to steal one tinny.

Belonging to his mate.

Is worse than stealing his shiela.

But this shite stole the  crate!

 

We fought all day, in a terrible way.

Then Curly lay and bled.

And the dingoes howled, throughout the night.

Cos I’de Killed old Curly dead.

 

I buried that toe rag Curly.

By a lake so smooth and clear.

With a headstone which read, ”I’m glad you’re dead,

for stealing all the beer.”

 

So the sun got hotter and hotter.

As I tried to stagger through.

With my food and a bed, an empty keg.

And the map which was smeared in poo.  

 

Through serpentine gorge’,

and then Goss bluff, the tucker nearly gone.

The water dry and the sun up high

It looked like I was done.

 

But I gritted me teeth,

and carried on, as best as I could go.

I cursed old Curly, and I cursed his mom.

I hated the bugger so

 

I lost track of time, it was so bloody hot.

I fell to the ground and cried.

My tongue was dry, I wanted to die.

And my skin was all wrinkled and fried.

 

As I lay on my back in boiling hot sand.

The vultures around me flew.

But I thought of the gold and continued to hold,

the map which was smothered in poo.

 

As the sun went down it got cooler.

I looked around to see.

A giant kangaroo with a didgeridoo

Who was sat there staring at me.

 

He held his fists like a boxer.

Which roos are prone to do.

So I challenged the bugger to fight me.

We did one round, then two.

 

He had a left hook like a hammer.

But wasn’t so good with his right.

I dodged a jab, which wasn’t too bad.

Then I put him out for the night.

 

My mouth as dry, as a parrot’s rear end.

My shoulders starting to slouch.

Then I had an idea and without any fear.

Jumped into the kangaroo’s pouch.

 

Inside were a couple of Joeys.

They looked pretty startled at me.

I said move up, cos I’m wanting to sup.

So they did and I had milk for tea.

 

The milk sure was’nt  Fosters.

But I drank like a dingo flea.

And after a while I felt better.

So I stuck my head out to see.

 

And there was  the lake called Ding- Dang- Do.

Staring back at me.

And I ran and bathed in its water.

As big as any sea.

 

And the dingoes howled.

As I sang aloud, In the lake as big as the sea.

Then a thought struck home that chilled me bones.

And I just said ”bugger me.”

 

As I had bathed on the rocky shore,

I realised suddenly.

That the bloody map with its smeared on crap

Had washed off  com-ple-tely.

 

The dingoes howled, as I cursed and growled.

With my map washed clean as new.

And I prayed to the Lord without accord,

For that paper smeared with poo.
 
 
 
~

 

 

Author's Notes:
I wrote this poem in September 2007, it was the first poem I had ever written I was 59.
In the previous June my nephew got married and my daughter and I travelled to Dublin for the occasion, we had a week there and my nephew and his partner took us to a small country pub, it was packed but we got seats and were made welcome (despite the troubles) by all the locals. During the evening we heard a loud tapping noise and total silence descended, all eyes went to this huge bearded man in the corner. I can best descibe him as looking like Bluto in the Popeye cartoons. He softly begn to recite a poem without any book, completely from memory. You could hear a pin drop. The poem was "The cremation of Sam McGee." I was captivated, the only poem I had ever learnt was Wordsworths Daffodils and I had not been inspired by that one bit. But this was pure magic, humorous and yet beautiful. On returning to England I looked it up on the net and found it was written by Robert Service, born in England but who later became Canadian. I read many of his poems and determined to have a go myself. I wrote The Dingoes Howled. I was so pleasantly surprised at my first effort that I searched for somewhere to show it off and found a poetry site where it was an instant hit. So I was off and in the last 5 years havent stopped. Poetry just seemed to pour out of me. I had wasted 59 years, such a tragedy, had they taught that at school I may well have started earlier.
 
Here is the first stanza :
 
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.  
                                                  Robert Service.
 
The poem is huge, the rhyme spot on and the rhymes within rhyme are superb. If you havent read this man I highly recommend you do so.     Bill Harborne.
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Comments:
Comment By: FreeLeonard Wilson on September 3, 2012 01:03:55 AM Report
No time is ever wasted, Bill...All those years were getting you ready for delivering the newest expression of your full life...len
Comment By: FreeLeonard Wilson on September 2, 2012 04:05:13 PM Report
This is the ding-dangest-dingo dramatic diatrade I have ever experienced....SO very original...By the way, Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred, and tie me kangaroo down, if you please!...:o)...yer pal, len
Comment By: FreeLinda Jo on September 2, 2012 03:44:58 PM Report
what a yarn here!!  oh for a Foster's now...love the Aussie talk.    and what entertainment!!  we've seen it all here, folks!!   I am kinda curious, like David, what inspires this piece???
Comment By: FreeFirestone Feinberg on August 31, 2012 11:26:06 AM Report
A saga!  I especially liked the part about getting into the pouch!  And I learned a lot of new Aussie words -- had to look 'em up.  Now I know you have spent time Down Under: isn't that where the Brits once sent criminals?  Not that I'm implying...  Love to know what inspired this delightful and silly opus.   --David
Comment By: FreeAlistair Muir on August 31, 2012 05:25:47 AM Report
You are a genius -- I ache with laughing!!



Alistair





 


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