Home Brew: Aussie Bush Poetry

One of the blokes from my old town is quite a well known bush poet. I included one of his poems, to give you lot a little chuckle. Check out the rest of his poems at the link above.
Enjoy!
SSG OZ

GIDGEE JACK'S LAST BEER
Ross Magnay, 2004 - Alice Springs NT
Jack, an old acoholic staion man moves to the city to work on the council, he starts making home brew, unsuccessfully!



Gidgee Jack was quite a drinking man, he had been all his life,
It cost him all his money, his station and his wife.
So Jack moved to the city, and commenced on council pay,
But what he earned in one whole week, he drank in just one day!

Now Jack was not a spirits man, he mostly fancied ale,
But the pace that he consumed it would turn Ernie Dingo pale!
A dozen pints at knock off time, twelve longnecks for the track,
Yes he was quite a drinking man, was our mate Gidgee Jack.

But mowing grass and raking leaves, would not support his thirst,
And Jack was suicidal, (or something even worse!)
Then an idea struck him, just like lightning from the blue,
“I’ll get myself a flamin’ kit, and make me own homebrew!”

So next day in his lunch break, Jack found a brewing shop,
“ I need a flamin’ home brew kit, the biggest one you got!”
“ I’ve saved a stack of longnecks, all cleaned and like brand new,”
“Just waitin’ home for me to fill, with this here flamin’ brew.”

That night Jack started brewing, with diligence and care,
With brewing kits and Coopers tins, scattered everywhere.
But it finally got together, and the brew began to work,
Jack sat down with a longneck, and a much contented smirk.

Then it came the time to bottle, and Jack could wait no more,
So with measuring things, and capping things and bottle tops galore,
He pored through the instructions, till he found the bit that said,
Six grams of brewing sugar, will ensure it holds it’s head.

But Jack was not a metric man, he never found the need,
To measure things too accurate, mostly “miles” or “tons of feed.”
And converting grams to ounces, (well he got on top of that.)
So he started priming bottles till he nearly filled his flat.

He filled them up and capped them off, the way the booklet said,
Then happy and contented, Jack stumbled off to bed.
He dreamed about the finished brew, and two weeks down the track,
When he would crack some longnecks, and knock a couple back.

A week had passed since bottling day, five days of mowing lawn,
And Jack thought “I feel buggered” as he stretched and gave a yawn.
I think I’ll have an hours camp, before I cook some tea,
I ‘spose a bloke is not as young, as what I used to be.

But as Jack drifted off to sleep, there came a frightening bang,
Like gelignite exploding, or a car just had a prang.
And then another followed, a bang and then a crack,
Jack thought “Well I’ll be buggered, it’s a terrorist attack!

Jack’s three o three was underneath the bed that he was in,
He hit the floor and grabbed the gun, and shoved the “maggy” in.
“I’ll show you bloody taliban, a thing or two.” he said,
as he fired two shots out through the door, taking cover by the bed.

But the firing it intensified, and then a rattling run,
Jack thought, “The bloody bastards, must have a gattling gun!”
And the bangs and loud explosions, shook the block of flats complete,
As a crowd began to gather, outside in the street.

Jack fired three shots blindly, they went through the Gyprock wall,
“Give up you Taliban bastards,” the crowd heard Gidgee call.
But Jack was out of ammo, and trapped behind his bed,
To contemplate his future, he well could wind up dead!

Gidgee Jack was not a coward, a tough old station man,
He kept down low behind his bed, to formulate a plan.
Though the firing still persisted, it was getting less and less,
And Jack could sense an ending to this terrorizing mess.

He thought, “patience is a virtue, I’ll sit and wait it out,”
“They must be low on ammo, I’ll wait till they run out.”
And then at last the firing stopped, and Jack rushed to the door,
And near reduced to tears, with his homebrew on the floor.

That really got Jack’s dander up, brought scarlet to his face,
“I never knew that terrorist, were such a lowly race.
Smash a fella’s beer supply, and then just wreck the joint,
And disappear without a trace, I just don’t see the point.

So spirit still unbroken, but a different view on life,
Jack rolled his swag, and packed a bag, swore off the grog for life.
He set himself to trampin’, back out amongst the bush,
Away from crazy terrorists, and the crazy city push.

© Ross Magnay - 2004Submitted to bushpoetry.com.au: Tuesday, 13 July 2004