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Billabong ©

Tom Barker
Joondalup, Australia

Down by the billabong,
living in a tent,
Better than in Darwin,
no rent.

I lay out in the sunshine,
till my bum is red,
Only trouble is,
I can't lay back in bed.

The dingoes come a sniffing,
round my tent at night,
then I give a loud yell
and they run off in fright.

I wonder if they're hungry,
or suffer from a thirst,
And when near me yell
I wonder who flit first.

Sometimes in the moonlight,
a big red roo will hop.
Then with ears a twitching,
near my tent he'll stop.

A gusty breeze will rustle,
the leaves above my head,
The roo is gone like a shot,
so I go back to bed.

Next morning early,
as I trip down to the bog
I don't sit down just anywhere,
especially on some old log.

Should I just be sitting there
and an eye I clock.
I find I am a squatting on,
a big salt water croc.

The bush has its moments,
far from the maddening crowd.
No phones, knocks or bell rings,
and littering not allowed.

So when I go a wandering,
as the bug sometimes I get.
I go bush and pitch my tent,
and in the billabong get wet.

All this luvli' peace and quiet,
but once this has been read.
Every bugger will go bush
an' push me out me bed.

I was once in the Sahara,
but it is so dry and sandy.
one finds lots of things that sting
hard luck when no Doctor handy.

But give me the Ozzie bush,
where I can pitch me tent.
Then crawl into me sleeping bag
and I am content.


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