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Poem

From Melbourne to Sydney is a bloody long drive,
and my ambition’s to get there alive,
that means I must stop and then drift off to sleep,
or I could end up in a bloody great heap.

The Newell is so busy and the headlights ahead,
keep coming and searing into me head,
so at Wagga I pulled into a curb on a street …
my head went down and up came me feet.

Me eyes started closing; me thoughts became blank …
just as the last of my mulling had sank,
there’s a tap on the window. I opened me eyes,
it’s a bloke who is jogging … I realize.

“What time is it mate?” and I answered quite dirty
after checking me watch, “It’s seven thirty.”
Then he jogged away, and when nearly asleep,
there’s one more tap and another damn ‘creep.’

And this buggers the same “What time is it mate?”
Before saying, “Nick off!” I said “Quarter to eight,”
so when he trotted off, in the sand there’s a line,  
I picked up some paper and I wrote a sign.

‘I don’t know what time it is’ … I wrote with a pen,
and stuck it on the window, but once again
there’s a tap on me window, and was I irate,
when this bugger grinned, “Its eight o’clock mate.”

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