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The wife ‘n I were taken out
by me’ bosses on a Christmas ‘do’,
to a restaurant I can’t afford,
uptown in some swank avenue,
where a waiter dressed up to kill,
in a black formal suit with a tie,
pulled out the chair for me bottom,
and placed a napkin over me fly.

A ‘jar’ o’ wine chilled on our table
to drink to enlighten’ the mood,
and the waiter was fussin’ about,
by offerin’ strange lookin’ food
on a tray with one hand behind him,
then he handed us all a menu,
but everythin’ I tried to read,
was in language I never knew.

So one of the bosses tried helpin’,
“What would you like to choose?”
And it’s better to be safe than sorry,
I said, “I’ll have the same as youse.”
But then with a want for the asking,
I turned to the waiter and said,
“What in the heck have I ordered?
And tell me in ‘stralian instead”.

The waiter gave a little bow,
as I unexpectedly clung,
“Sir - your order is chosen wisely,
a medium rare bullocks tongue”.
It took a few moments to hit me,
then it did with a terrible clout,
“Bullocks tongue! Raw bullocks tongue!
Don’t bother bringing that out.”

“I’m gunna be changin’ me order.
I ain’t eatin’ the same as that mob,
‘cause I just haven’t the stomach,
for eatin’ somethin’ out of a cows gob.
So mate yer’ write down this order,
It’ll cook in a minute or two.
… fancy eatin’ somethin’ from a cow’s gob -
a boiled egg mate will have to do”.

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