Flies
In the Australian summer
you’ll always have some mates,
they will ride upon your back
and then fly to your plates
at your picnic in the outdoors,
and there’ll never be a truce,
when you’re putting out the food,
and both hands are in use.
Bloody flies get in your eyes,
up your nose, between your toes;
eat your pasties, eat your pies,
those bloody rotten little flies!
When the lawns need mowing
and the mower will not start,
you pull the thing to pieces,
and when it’s all apart,
you need full concentration,
for nuts and bolts and springs;
with spanners in both hands
you can’t swat the flamin’ things.
And they don’t mind my sandwich
after eating horse manure,
and of course the barby meat
becomes their ideal lure.
When a fly goes down my throat
I near choke to get it clear,
and reckon that they cross the line
when swimming in my beer.
So to avagoodweekend
oh, its gunna be so hard,
amongst a mist of fly spray
and a coat of aeroguard.
Flies dying in their thousands,
become one big mistake;
their mates turn up from miles away
to join in at the wake.
Bloody flies get in your eyes,
up your nose, between your toes;
eat your pasties, eat your pies,
those bloody rotten little flies!
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