Blowfly Bert the Bowerbird

Get the barby firing, put on the ready meat have the odour wafting through houses in the street; someone half a mile away, puts his nose in the air, goes hell-bent on a bloodhound scent to get over there. He'd place a snag between some bread, then half the salads gone. He'd buzz around the esky, take a drink … then before too long his eyes would begin to wander, when a whispered voice was heard that Bert has got to be between - a blowfly and a bowerbird. Now that's why we call him Bert the blowfly. Whenever there is food about, Bert'll wander on inside; his mouth goes 'round your snags. His eyes go 'round your yard, his hands go 'round your treasures so you better stay on guard. His mower frame is Rover with a Briggs and Stratton motor. His cutting blades and base came off an old Victa. He disregards the pulling rope that on most mowers are for a battery key and starter motor, off an old Holden car. His old shack has roofing iron; different lengths and different form. Half the wall is weatherboard; the rest is timber that's rough sawn. Every door he hung is different; no width nor length the same. There's not two similar panes of glass; each window has a different frame. Everyone can see Bert coming when he's driving on the track. Looks like a rainbow on the road, colored red, white, blue and black. Coughs and spits and blows out smoke does this multi-cultural car built from over twenty wrecks, lying' round his yard. Now that's why we call him Bert the bowerbird. If you feel you want something removed, just put out the word, 'cause if your trailers all tied down, ready for the tip Bert will come and take a look saving you the trip. “I see yer pulling down yer shed … er, maybe yer need a hand to get rid of it; ah, I see yer ‘gotcha’ barby on … and boy am I hungry you can bet.” We call him blowfly Bert the bowerbird. On donated food and throw a way’s, Berts’ an expert. Rusty iron, mower parts, heading for land fill … what we can't find a use for - Bert he surely will.