ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

The Performance

© David Campbell, 04/08/16

I organised a bang-up show,
performances for all,
and forked out quite a lot of dough
to hire the local hall.

The people came from near and far,
with walk-ups by the score,
all sure that they would be the star
and hear the cries for “More!”

But, blow me down, it all turned bad,
for nothing went to plan…
the audience went raving mad
the moment it began!

The first bloke grabbed the microphone,
but someone shouted “Look!”
Then gave out with a mighty groan:
“He’s carrying a book!”

All hell broke loose, they went berserk,
they started smashing chairs
and shouting out: “You stupid berk,
let’s chuck him down the stairs!”

Old Bulldust Bert was so upset
he nearly had a stroke…
he went as red as he could get,
his voice a feeble croak.

And Whipcrack Wal turned sickly grey,
his nose began to bleed:
“I never thought I’d see the day
when someone tried to read!”

The next to break was Naughty Nance,
who screamed: “The world will end
if crimes like this should get a chance
to anger and offend!”

“It’s blasphemy,” went up the cry,
“it simply makes no sense!
This reading lark will only fly
at piddling small events!”

“It’s Armageddon if we let
this numpty strut his stuff!
It’s something that we’ll all regret…
he won’t be good enough!”

They promptly dragged him from the stage
and stuck him in the stocks,
then, venting their almighty rage,
they pelted him with rocks.

And when he was a total wreck,
a battered, bloody mess,
they hung a sign around his neck
to add to his distress.

“Beware this wretch, and take good heed
of fates that can befall
those sinners who might choose to read
their verse in our great hall!”

And then they went inside once more
to hear the tried and true,
the status quo they’d come here for…
what “proper” poets do.

No wonder it's a dying art
with bush poets all older
and some don't quite recall the lines
and get it wrong - I told ya.
Whilst those who maybe might have had a go
now sit there quiet,
not game to venture forth and try,
for seems that folks won't buy it.
Old Bulldust Bert the bullying bloke
and Whipcrack Wal his toady
backed up by narky Naughty Nance
and aged groupy and roady
were heard to cast aspersions,
called the young blokes poems crap.
He left and found the big time
earning motza, doing rap .

Fabulous, David and Maureen! Of course I can't resist ...

They told me I had to remember my lines
with no reading of verse from a book.
So I swotted and sweated for hours and you
can't imagine the brain cells it took!

Then I got up on stage - but amnesia set in
though I struggled to maintain the flow.
With my metaphors mixed, what a muddle I made
blindly hoping that folks wouldn't know.

I began with a tale of how Clancy was "rooned"
if he didn't make Doreen his bride,
while the colt from Regret had been waltzing along
with Matilda, where Ben Hall had died.

Andy's gone with his cattle on Mulga Bill's bike
to recover the boy who was lost.
Then they had a bush christening on the Barcoo
and old Harry Dale picked up the cost.

Well, the further I went the behinder I got
and endured more than one puzzled look
till I came to the sorry conclusion that I
should have read it all straight from the book!

Great stuff and oh so true. I'm going for the tongue-in-cheek. Not perfect metre but written for performance...

Poet’s Lament

Poet 1: You have to get this right. Just start that line again.
Poet 2: I wish I could but thick fog is swirling through my brain.
Poet 1: You know the real problem is you’re too old for this.
Poet 2: Shut up! Just hold this up. Bugger, now I need to p***.

Poet 1: You must be joking! It’s not that hard. Just twenty lines of text.
Poet 2: Okay, okay. I’m trying to think about what comes next.
Poet 1: You’re up to where the sheila’s washing her hair.
Poet 2: Is that before or after her bra is eaten by the bear?

Poet 1: No, she’s still dressed, but the action’s about to start.
Poet 2: Thank God for that. I thought I skipped the juicy part!
Poet 1: You knew this damn poem when you told it to the cat.
Poet 2: Yeah, but when the judges came out that was the end of that!

Poet 1: Let’s start from the beginning. Do you know the first line?
Poet 2: Ahh … You look delightful today. That outfit suits you fine.
Poet 1: Do you think so? Thanks. I made it myself.
Poet 2: You’re smarter than me. I buy my clothes from a shelf.

Poet 1: That’s enough! Back to this. What’s the first word?
Poet 2: Ahh.., is it ‘magpie’? No ‘dove’. No…, but it’s about a bird!
Poet 1: Not a bird, a sheila, in the bush for a tryst.
Poet 2: Oh yeah, that’s right, and there’s a really wicked twist.

Poet 1: Is there? On what line? Have you changed the plot?
Poet 2: Not really, it’s just that your poem didn’t hit the spot.
Poet 1: Didn’t hit the spot! That’s it! You can practise all alone.
Poet 2: But you can’t leave me here with these judges – on my own!

Poet 1: Maybe you should stick to singing? It’s easier to learn.
Poet 2: But bush poetry is my passion. For it I always yearn!
Poet 1: But you can’t remember the words. Not a damn thing!
Poet 2: Okay, okay, I get it. Can you teach me to sing?

© Rhonda M. Tallnash 2016

Thanks all...ripping yarns! And, to continue...

Old Bulldust Bert was next on stage,
his face a ruddy pink.
“A bloke wot’s readin’ from a page
could drive a man ter drink!”

“So now youse lot, let’s give a cheer,
an’ cut out all the crap,
The Man From Snowy River’s ’ere…
that’s one yer love ter clap!”

With that he leaned upon his cane
and gazed out into space,
reciting with complete disdain
for tone and sense and pace.

He droned and droned, then droned some more,
his voice like counting sheep,
for lots of folk began to snore
while drifting off to sleep.

But still old Bert went on his way,
oblivious to all,
determined this would be his day
to hold the crowd in thrall.

His brow was furrowed as he fought
to get the words just right,
for that is all, he’d once been taught,
you need when you recite.

The lines slid by as time stood still,
the saga ran its course,
until, upon a distant hill,
The Man reined in his horse.

At that, the snoozing crowd awoke
as silence filled the room,
and then a storm of cheering broke
to clear away the gloom.

And “Bravo Bert!” went up the shout,
for he had reached the end,
and that made him, without a doubt,
a hero and a friend.

© David Campbell 05/08/16

I used to have a golden rule. Whenever I'd perform,
I always worked from memory. It's what I called "good form".
I drove a car which had a dodgy radio back then,
And I recited all my lines again, again, again.

Now and then, of course, I'd write another tale in verse,
And so I'd have a whole new set of couplets to rehearse.
I didn't mind too much at first. I didn't groan or frown,
But over time this chore began to rather get me down.

It reached the point where I was scared to write another poem
Because, to bring some new things out, I had to really know 'em.
One day I asked a bloke who'd booked me, "Can I...read aloud?"
He said, "I don't care what you do - just entertain the crowd!"

Well, now that I was off the hook I read and read and read
While, freed from this great burden, how my writing fingers sped!
So now I say, "Rote learning? That's the job of the reciter!
I'll stick to what I love the best. I'm first - and last - a writer!"

I'm with you there, Stephen! And, once more...


Then Whipcrack Wal strode into view,
Akubra on his head.
“I’ll do some Lawson now for you,
and this will knock you dead!”

He took the microphone in hand,
and flexed a mighty arm.
“A tale of life upon the land…
The Fire at Ross’s Farm!”

He struck a quite dramatic pose,
commencing to orate,
then pirouetted on his toes
and started to gyrate.

He ducked and weaved, and shook his fist,
then strode to left and right
with gestures that could not be missed…
it really was a sight!

He growled and whispered, wept and roared
with histrionic flair,
and no-one in the hall was bored,
for all we did was stare.

But sadly, as we quickly found,
he couldn’t quite be heard,
for when he waved his arm around
we lost each second word!

The microphone just couldn’t cope
with his frenetic style,
so all we did was sit and hope
he’d finish in a while.

And when he did we gave a cheer,
for that is how it’s done,
despite the fact we couldn’t hear
the tale that he had spun.

But still and all, we let it go,
for he had caused no harm,
while we had seen a lively show:
The …… at ……. Farm!

© David Campbell 06/08/16

Well ...ger me th.. sounds like a bea.. night.

Indeed it was, Maureen, and just to round it off...

The next on stage was Naughty Nance,
a bird more bawd than bard,
who loved to sing, carouse, and dance,
and always partied hard.

She wrote her verses at the bar,
a pint-pot close at hand,
and twanged an out-of-tune guitar
in Murphy’s Washboard Band.

Now here she stood, encased in veils,
a stubbie held on high,
addressing all the local males
with this beguiling cry.

“Okay now, lads, I’m here to say
you ain’t seen nothin’ yet…
I’m gonna give a big display
that you will not forget!”

With that she twirled, and then began
to sing her latest song…
The Lady’s Got a Ripper Tan…
could anything go wrong?

Suffice to say that Nance’s act
was pretty soon cut short,
for all our senses were attacked,
which left us quite distraught.

She whipped those veils off one by one,
her voice a raucous screech,
and by the time her song was done
we’d lost the power of speech!

For Nance was starkers, proudly so,
but we fled out the door,
for, though well-tanned, you need to know
that Nance is eighty-four!

© David Campbell, 10/08/16

Oh, David - that's a trifecta you'd never get a price on!!! Talk about laughing out loud ... I did!

I just love this line ...

a bird more bawd than bard

Yep, I think we've all been "exposed" to a couple of "Naughty Nances" in our time!

Cheers
Shelley