The Next Supper
Blimey times are tough lately,
and most of the stations too.
I haven't eaten for a week;
the squatters offerings is 'shoo'.
My wish is flour for some damper;
a small handful of leaves for tea.
They reckon we're all pests out here,
the blokes who walk the track like me.
What's that ahead? Is it a pub?
It is! Oh glory - glory be.
There will be a scrap or two,
for a hungry bloke like me.
I’m not allowed in the front door
to beg for food where they serve beer,
so I'll just sneak around the back,
to where the tradesmen enter here.
I ‘gives’ the door a gentle knock,
and then quietly I wait there.
A barmaid opens up the door,
then she gives me an icy stare.
"What do you want?" she say's to me,
in a tone extremely rude.
I says "Ma'am I ain't ate all week,
I wondered if you had some food".
"I've got nothing here to offer,
but let me tell you what I'll do,
I'll give to you this option,
would you eat day old stew?"
"Oh lady yes! Yes! Yes!" I drooled,
then my stomach churned in sorrow,
when coldly she said back to me …
“Good - then you come back tomorrow!”
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