Keith D Trestrail Poet Lyric

Notes About The Poem

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Groundhog Day

                           I
On the hill between Carlisle and Deep Creek
   follows a road to the Firth of the bay.
Where old friends old vices and old times seek
   and live again if only for today.
But first sit in my chair and look upon
islands in the Hauraki Gulf beyond.
                          
Drinkin’ in the gaze of Lord Ted and Ma
   like two shags on a rock gettin’ blinder,
and satisfied that of the twain you are
   the monkey and not the organ grinder!
These are the chronicles of you and me
but I wonder if you see what I see.
                          
Bootleg tapes and bottled bootleg thunder 
   play and flow with each bitter lightnin’ shot -
a potion to make you gag and chunder
   but when my Reds run dry that’s all I got!
In Bowden’s elixir of death I knew
I had no choice but drink the devil’s brew.
                    
Our battle of wits will not our souls save
   in our death vows and satirical wars.
I vowed I would dance a jig on his grave
   and he said “that’s okay, I’ll piss on yours”.
Some say he’s a crazy son-of-a-gun,
I say he’s just a fu*kin’ loose cannon.

Two old shadow-boxers swingin’ in hopes
   for a quick clever counterpunch to throw -
I dance and jab and you stagger the ropes
   while I duck and weave a cheap shot low blow!
Ding! Ding! And back to our corners we spar
like the two punch-drunk prizefighters we are.
                          
We bemoan the pass of time and season
  and relive again its lived realism -
we lament the new Age of Unreason 
  and sad loss of youthful idealism.
We ponder our own lost humanity -
the cricket, the ponies, and the rugby.
                          
Man of mythology, my cyclops friend,
   a drinker and a gambler on the punt -
a street poet and a house preacher when
   filled with the holy spirit of Sam Hunt.
When this travellin’ circus is in town
I am the ringmaster and you the clown.
                         
When a Craig boy tall ale tall tale is spun
   I’m always the sinner and you the saint -
now let’s do a Liquorland liquor run
   but let the history books show you ain’t!
We are bookends of self-contradiction
but sadly, dude, up your end is fiction.
                          
So roll a Drum from your tobacco pouch
   and light it in your window soapbox seat,
but remember cut barbs cut both ways…ouch!
   so crack a bottle for you and for Skeet!
Now rewind back Masterpieces for me
and play again “One More Cup of Coffee”.
                                                    
Suddenly one for the road turns to four
   then there’s the billy to boil till we part -
it’s late, I’m weary, I’m stood at the door
   sh*tfaced hopin’ my fu*kin’ car will start!
And back to the future I drive away
but it’s already tomorrow today.


              Written: May 1996

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