The City Girl

[Stephen Whiteside]

Shelley's response to my hiking poem - with its references to rescue and make-up - have posted this old poem of mine.


The City Girl

I love her to death. I do, really,
But sometimes I think it’s a pity
When I see her mad race
To throw stuff on her face.
She’s a girl that was raised in the city.

So I issued a challenge one morning.
“Hey, come for a walk in the bush!
Clear your poor head
With a mat for your bed,
And throw off the cool urban push!”

Well, would you believe it? She did it!
She heard me, and answered the call.
I cried, “You won’t suffer.
Sure, life will be rougher,
But really, you’ll just have a ball!”

I said, “Dad, now please don’t get angry.
This is the first time for her.
She’ll be slower than us,
So don’t make a fuss.
Don’t bolt like a train down the spur!”

The stuff that she’d packed raised an eye-brow;
So much of it fluffy or pink.
I saw poor dad fight
To hold his lips tight,
And I whispered, “She’s not what you think!”

I saw the smoke rise from his ear-holes
When her head-phones she grabbed from her bag.
“You’ll need your ears clear
For the bush sounds you’ll hear.
Leave ‘em, sis. Don’t be a dag!”

She said that she never drank water.
It had to be flavoured or fizzy.
She had three types of gloss.
She left dad at a loss.
He thought she was foolish and dizzy.

At midday we left Diamantina,
With plans we would spend the first night
At a spot that dad knew
Where the bush flies were few,
In the shadow of Feathertop’s might.

Well, she cracked a mean pace from the outset.
She attacked the horizon with zest.
Though the sun, it was strong,
She bowled right along.
No question that dad was impressed.

The tank at the camp-site was empty.
Our water supply, it was low,
But she didn’t stop.
She’d a bottle of pop
For us all, well, wouldn’t you know!

The next day, our goal was the river,
And a march down a very long spur,
But an hour on the track
Saw dad flat on his back,
And the rest of the day’s just a blur.

He had tripped by the hole of a wombat.
It was clear he had broken some bones.
His leg, it was bent,
And the air, it was rent
By the terrible sound of his groans.

In a flash, she had whipped out her mobile,
And dialled “Triple O” for the cops.
She explained where we were
(Gave the name of the spur),
And they said that they’d pull out all stops.

Well, we just had to wait for the chopper.
I suddenly saw she was boss.
With pain he was wracked.
His lips, they were cracked,
So she reached in her bag for some gloss.

And then came her touch of pure magic.
Her head-phones she also brought out
(Yes, she’d brought them along!),
So she played him a song,
And it lessened his agonised shout.

At last came the noise of the rotor.
Relief, at long last, was at hand;
A splint, some injections,
Some calm voice inflections;
The tune of a quite different band!

Dad now is fully recovered.
His fracture site’s fused, and won’t budge.
They are mates, she and he.
They have shared history,
And he’s not so quick now to judge!

© Stephen Whiteside 10.05.09

[Shelley Hansen]

Love it! Just proves what we always knew .... girls are tough!!

[Catherine Lee]

Me too Stephen - really enjoyed this, so thanks for the smile this morning!

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Shelley and Catherine. I'm glad you liked it.

[r.magnay]

I like it too Stephen....

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Ross.