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I Hope Yer Sheep Get Flyblown
So you're the mob got all the rain while we got hardly none; The clouds massed over your place and left us with the sun. Your bit of sky grew darker, while we just got the heat -
,
I hope yer sheep get flyblown,
I hope yer fleeces rot;
I hope the 'roos find all yer grass
and eat the bloody lot.
I hope yer cattle choke on weed
and then all get the shits;
I hope that when it rains again
yer roads all fall to bits.
I hope the burr-bush thrives and grows
and spreads across yer land;
I hope yer stock gets nicked when
all that rain dissolves yer brands.
I hope yer fences wash away
and all yer horses roam;
I hope a heap of nasty leaks
will moisturise yer home.
I hope that big green slimy frogs
will populate yer loo;
I hope they serenade you
'til yer ear-drums break in two.
I hope yer dogs all get webbed feet
and keep 'em for all time;
I hope a million bog-holes
will then turn yer place to slime.
I hope the creek beside yer yards
will shift 'em from their site;
I hope the hopes I hope for you
will keep you up all night.
On Sunday when the footy’s on I settle in my chair With an esky on the cabinet to counteract the glare A cushion put strategically to ease my aching back And a pizza on the bookshelf just in case I need a snack...
This is from an unpublished collection entitled "Unusual Birds of Many Lands" or something like that...
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