August 2nd, Whim Creek
Whim Creek Lament
Hell I hate this rotten place
The flamin' Morgue's not in the race
There is no work -- there is no play
We sit around like dills all day.
To walk in to the empty bar
Really makes me feel quite queer
And makes me fully understand
Slim Dusty's "Pub with no beer"
But we're unlike the hotel in his song
With it's "toe bars -- tackle and gear"
For we've plenty of grog -- and even some dogs
But no "swaggie" or "drover" appear
For often when the roads are wet
We don't see a soul for days
'Cos heavy rain and flooded creeks
Close our Northern Highways.
Of course there's always the "smartie"
Who thinks he knows more than most
So against advice -- off he goes
"I'll get through" is his boast.
But all that those no-hopers do
Is to make things even worse
And to the hard-worked Main Road Workers
They really are a curse.
So when you're having a nice cold beer
Even though the entertainment be weak
Please spare a thought when the roads are closed
For the staff at the Pub at Whim Creek
© N.J. Plant
One
Year By Bicycle