OUTBACK JACK
Poke the smoking embers while I watch the billy boil,
As the bushflies buzz an anthem round my head.
I've tramped the dusty miles through the Spinifex and scrub
And will tramp yet fifty more before my bed.
I trudged the mulga trail, kicking red and dusty clay,
About five years' past, I vaguely recollect.
Gone bush, for what that's worth, camping out the swaggie's way
While I'm looking for old Harold's lost prospect.
Heading North by East while munching on roast snake,
The crows keep telling me to go back home.
I spear one of their mates to have for tucker on my break.
They all flap off to leave me well alone.
Travelling dried-out creeks begging for the next Big Wet,
Waterbottles clink-clank empty by my side.
Just Witchety grubs to satisfy my desert-driven thirst,
I dream that I would find some camel ride.
Wading endless sandhills under bronze Australian sun
Is no way for any bloke to carry on.
That Lasseters old reef stays a legend to this day,
If I don't quit this search I'll soon be gone.
So, poke the smoking embers on another campsite fire,
And make another dose of billy tea.
Redgum smoke adds flavour to my dreamtime mug of brew,
While birds and insects sing their lives to me.
© Kim Randell 2007
FAR KINNELL
There is a place that's mentioned quite a lot,
A place where one might have a quiet spell,
Its name evokes no memories that I know,
The place I tell you now is Far Kinnell.
I know where someone once did lose his way
Upon the path that he had set himself,
He stumbled, fell and bruised his mortal bones,
Then realised where he was, "Ah, Far Kinnell!"
It's mentioned in wide circles constantly,
This place whereat I've never been to tell.
One day, no doubt, the chance will come my way
And I will cry with joy, "Oh, Far Kinnell!"
© Kim Randell 2007
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