Going walk-a-bouts...
With a Waltzing Matilda...
On my back...
Said Jack Sprat...
A Buck-a-Roo hat on my splat...
Wombat's...
Are as big as rats...
While Wobbegongs...
Are going to eat my stringy thongs.
Billabongs...
Are singing...
Nightly toadie chorus songs...
Bush-Tucker is for my supper...
Wonga-Wonga's...
Has just plonked...
A Didgeridoo...
In my homemade stew...
Drinking a casket of amber nectar...
I chunder like thunder...
In the land from down-under...
Playing...
My Wobble-Board to my Sheela...
Just to please her...
Said Bruce...
Sitting in a erect juicy spruce.
Rocks in my socks...
Are just like Jock's in frocks...
My Boomerang...
Has just done...
A Bow street runner and won't be coming back.
A Chuckawalla...
Has just run off with my fake lizard wallet...
Is just to much to pallet...
Far.........far away in the outback.
Mosquitoes...
Just love my ripe juicy tomatoes...
Crash diving like crazed Banzai pilots...
Walk-a-Bouts...
Are such fun...
Burning your peachy bum...
In the scorching hot Aussie sun.
Don't delay...
Or you will miss the days play...
Two rusty balls and a cricket bat...
And of course...
Your Buck-a-Roo hat Jack Sprat.
Copyright Hud 2005-2014, Writer/Poet/Philosopher, All rights reserved worldwide.
