by Frank Halliwell
In the northwest foothills of the mount
That's known as Tamborine,
When the evening mists swirl up
In a surrealistic scene,
The landscape writhes beneath the moon
And black-lined, scudding clouds,
And in the swamps, the tea-trees
Wear their foggy, dripping shrouds.
When the purple shadows lengthen
On the flanks of Tamborine,
And the bleak wind wails in lonely gums,
Then races on unseen,,,
The somber ribbet of the frogs,
The music of the night,
And suddenly a hunting owl
Glides by in silent flight.
Amid the high-pitched cricket sounds..
The lowing of a cow..
A hint of sound just past that dam,
The frogs fall silent now..
And even the cicadas cease
As if in deadly fear...
The world stands still...
There's not a sound..
And then, a sobbing, strangled cry,
like someone sorely maimed..
The monster then, has struck again,
Another victim claimed.
It prowls around Maclean's bridge,
Verses dripping from it's jaws.
The locals live in terror
Of that huge voracious maw.
For years he's fed it bits of rhyme,
To whet it's appetite,
Then loosed it on a trusting world,
One dark and dreadful night.
The populace has vanished,
From this land of brave, bold men..
For Johnson's rhyming monster
Is upon the land again !!!
Dedicated to Don Johnson, of Nash road who must bear much of the responsibility for inflicting the monster on the world.