The poet of the bush was quite confused.
This sensitive misguided rural bloke
Had writ, with no intention to provoke,
One night when sentimental sad and boozed,
A poem that was sure to be refused
An audience by all good country folk,
Who’d think him just another hopeless soak
Whose scribblings just couldn’t be excused.
He’d quite forgotten how he’d stumbled on it.
It wasn’t clever and it wasn’t funny.
It surely wouldn’t make him any money.
It wouldn’t buy the baby a new bonnet.
No droughts or floods and no exploding dunny.
No true blue bushie writes a bloody sonnet!