I like to write of platypi, for then I guarantee
that words of many syllabi make up my shiralee.
I like to watch them bend and twist and then turn back on you.
I guess I’m just a masochist…I love the switcheroo.

I’ve camped beside a billabong that’s haunted by a ghost,
an eerie spectral wobbegong…and lumps of buttered toast!
I’ve chased a big red kangaroo way out there in the bush
upon the slopes of Kathmandu and in the Hindu Kush.

I’ve climbed up all those ghostly gums beyond the back o’ Bourke,
replete with dangling sugarplums and fancy needlework.
I’ve rafted all the rivers too, just like the Castlereagh,
all bubbling like a beef ragout on Scottish Hogmanay.

I’ve seen it all, from north to south, from Perth to Syderney,
from Darwin’s bustling blabbermouth to Melbourne’s kiderney.
I’ve gone to watch the sun go down at tranquil Uluru,
and worn a paisley eiderdown while eating cheese fondue.

I’ve climbed the mighty Kimberleys and walked across Lake Eyre…
with great degrees of expertise and holey underwear.
I’ve swum the Murray and the Finke, the Darling and Paroo,
with Engelbertie Humperdink toot-tootling his kazoo.

I’ve trekked the Simpson in a drought and wrestled crocodiles,
I’ve lived on grubs and sauerkraut in canvas domiciles.
I’ve humped the bluey there and back, from Broome to Kakadu,
collecting bits of bric-a-brac to feed my cockatoo.

I’ve dug for opals, panned for gold, shorn sheep in many sheds,
I’ve been a Playboy centrefold and swum with hammerheads.
I’ve skied the Kosciusko slopes, I’ve been a jackaroo,
and eaten mouldy cantaloupes in downtown Humpty Doo

I’ve done it all, I’ve seen the lot, I’m Leichhardt, Burke and Wills,
and Lasseter in Camelot out picking daffodils.
There’s nothing in Australia that I have left to do…
for there has been a failure of words that rhyme with “oo”!

[David Campbell]

“But Dad, Uncle Ken left us his horse in his will. We can’t let it die or something.”

Die — now there was an option worth considering. How would he go about getting rid of this unwanted mouth to feed? The family lived on ten acres. There was a paddock out back of their house, big enough to accommodate the beast. Once his daughter got something into her head she would wrestle with all the options. But he was adamant — the horse must go.

“We’re not going on a long-winded analytical excursion here,” he said, with a stubbornness his daughter knew only too well was like liquidising hardened cement.
Kate cried heavily into her pillow that night. She had immediately fallen in love with Lightning. She didn’t care that he was twenty-six years old and had lost his flash.

How could her father be so mean?

One day Kate’s father took the horse deep into the woods and let him loose. He raced home only to find Lightning standing on the front porch with his daughter gently stroking his mane.

Another time he gave the horse to the vicar. At two in the morning the front door of the house was kicked in. The horse had run back home to Kate.

That was Lightning’s last straw. The following morning the father sold the horse to Packington’s Dog Food Company for a hundred dollars.

That night the family ate through dinner in stony silence. His daughter’s head hung down almost touching the bowl of stew in front of her. She wasn’t eating.

Her mother toyed with the green peas, carrots, and bits of meat smothered in rich brown gravy.

After finishing his stew the father wiped his plate clean with a piece of bread and butter. He washed this down with a large gulp of red wine. When he had considered that the silence had gone on long enough he commented on the meal.

“That was the best stew I’ve eaten in years, dear,” he said to his wife, while wiping his lips with a napkin. “You’ve excelled yourself this time.”

“Oh, I didn’t cook the meal. Your daughter did the cooking. She wanted to surprise you.”

“Well what a surprise,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll have to cook stew more often.”

The girl raised her head smiling wryly.

“We’ll have it more often all right. I bought a hundred dollars worth.” The girl rose. Going to the pantry she opened the door revealing the cans of Yum-chow from Packington’s Dog Food Company.

“Good-god girl!” he said, grasping his throat in horror, “you’ve fed me dog food.”

“No Dad, not dog food,” she said mischievously, “that’s canned Lightning.”