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!