The Spirit of Australia

My contribution to Australia Day January 24th

SPIRIT OF AUSTRALIA

It went droving with Clancy out there on the Overflow.

Out in the desert with Lasseter where white men seldom go.

It opened up the Kimberley with Quilty, Durack and the rest

The Spirit belonged to all and shone through with the best.

It's carried its swag in Queensland, its waltzed Matilda all over

It's been a fencer and a shearer; he's also been a drover.

It was there with Paddy Hannon when he discovered gold.

It was born 200 years ago, but isn't very old.

It's the Spirit of Australia what makes this country great.

It's in every town and city, in every Territory and State.

On the 25th of April they march on Anzac Day.

To remember comrades that fell along the way.

The Spirit stormed Gallipoli as Anzac's faced the Turk,

Many died, but the Spirit lives and grows from Albany to Burke.

On the fields of Flanders out in the dead man zone,

The Spirit did shine through even when it was alone.

Up there in New Guinea on the killer Kokoda Track

They fought the Japanese with some never coming back.

At Changi and on the Burma railway the Spirit withstood the test,

Suffering hardship and weakened it would not be laid to rest.

She was there as well, the back bone of this land

Facing drought and floods and fighting for her man.

Raising a family the hard way, no luxuries, no electric light.

Battling hard to make ends meet but never giving up the fight.

Together they can conquer anything standing side by side.

They represent this country chests puffed out with pride.

They've got the Spirit of Australia, what makes this country great,

You'll find it growing in every town and city, Territory and State

From the frozen Antarctic wasteland to the heat of Alice Springs,

The Spirit of Australia grows, and from the heart begins.

So come all young Australians don't let this Spirit die

Let’s build the greatest country in the world, under a southern sky

© Corin Linch 11/11/94-25/12/96.

Wandoo Reserve

WANDOO RESERVE

Just over the road from my place is a reserve called Wandoo,

Many people want to camp there as the district they pass on through.

It’s always chockers on long week-ends, some even stay for a week,

There is no ablution block, so facilities are rudimentary so to speak.

People occasionally ask me for assistance they must think I’m the RAC,

Some demand immediate help and some expect everything for free.

Others are very genuine, like older people needing help with a tyre,

Perhaps I may have a compressor or something else they may require.

But it’s the long term campers and picnickers, who really fascinate me,

Because it’s not the most hygienic place to sit and barbeque your tea.

For everywhere around this camp-site is where people drop their faeces,

There bum fodder is everywhere blowing round in dirty bits and pieces.

Why they don’t go along the firebreak with a shovel has got me at a loss,

Their lack of hygiene and bush etiquette really makes me cross.

I mean just dig a hole and bury your crap and bury the paper too?

It’s kind of similar to a flushing when using the bush as your loo.

But no most will just crap anywhere like the animals they are,

To take a shovel down the firebreak is taking things a step to far.

The scrub beside the road must also be an utterly terrifying place,

With no thought for cleanliness these people are a true disgrace.

I wonder do they wash their hands after their stroll amongst the turds,

And the flies swarm around their food stuffs like gigantic flocks of birds.

But still they come and camp and cook and then eat their tucker here,

Of the things that lie on the clearings edge they do not know or fear.

The fly upon your sandwich do you care where he might have been,

Perhaps ignorance is bliss if the surrounding shit you haven’t seen.

Meanwhile I’ll just be careful where I ride and my horses put their feet,

And I hope I dodge the spot where they bared their bums to secrete.

                                    © Corin Linch 28/12/14

The Office Johnny

The OFFICE JOHNNY

“Don’t look down at us mate, ‘cos we’re as good as you,

We’re the ones who make your wages, me an’ the rest of the crew.

Don’t think you’re better than us, ‘cos you sit in an office chair,

As for your position in the company, well none of us bloody care.

We’re the ones who choke in the dust, the ones who fight the flood,

We’re the ones to get our hands dirty; the ones who get covered in blood.

I’ve nothing against pencil pushers, especially if that’s what they do best,

Take a look at the blokes around ya; every one’s been put to the test.

And that smirk on your face tells me you think I’m being funny,

Just remember what I said sport; we earn your bloody money.

And when you shook me hand you couldn’t look me in the eye,

Does meeting to a manual labourer make you want to cry?

As for your handshake, I’ve met girls with a better grip than you,

Best watch your step mate, there’s fellas here who don’t mind a blue.

And if I might make a suggestion, take that sneer off your face,

The cattle yards our office; and you look outa place.

We might have to get our hands dirty; we might lose a bit of sweat,

Treat us with respect bloke or there’s no telling what you’ll get.

You look a little fragile bloke; we wouldn’t want you hurt;

So don’t look at us fellas as though we’re a grain of dirt.

Perhaps you’d best return to your office and the comfort you have there;

After all we don’t want you choking from the dust in the air.

No don’t look down at me mate ‘cos I might consider you unfit,

To shake the hand of a working man whose clothes are covered in shit.”

© Corin Linch 21/5/04 - Truck(Rewrite-24/1/07)

When you work on properties owned by big companies occasionally members of the office staff come visiting to see what goes on. Most of these blokes are okay but every now and again you get the bloke who just has that look on his face, many of you will know the look I’m talking about. These fellas forget it’s us blokes who are making the money that pays there wages this poem is for them, the wankers.

The Bloody Piker

The Bloody Piker   (Rewrite)

There's days you gotta throw the coachers, just to get a mob,

Tailing mickeys and tying up pikers, is just part of the job.

When you've thrown your coachers and the whips begin to crack,

You can muster ever onwards, never looking back.

And you’ll watch the lead most careful, so nothing gets away,

For there’s a big old piker bullock and you know he wants to stray.

His head is hidden in the mob; he’s just waiting for his chance,

If the opportunity arises, he’ll lead the ringers a merry dance.

The fellas on the wing, they keep running scrubbers in,

You've another five mile to go before the cutting out begins.

Well you know you're feeling tired and a break you'd like to take,

You been doing a perish for hours and your thirst you'd like to slake.

You see a young bloke roll a smoke and the piker breaks away,

"Useless blooming jackeroo!" but that's not all you're gunna say.

You race up there on the shoulder, that's when the fun begins,

Its times like this you're wishing, that maybe you had wings.

Like those bloody aerial musterers, up there in the sky,

It's on days like this that you wish that you'd learnt to fly.

But you're on a horse and, that bullock he aint going back,

So you’ll have to throw him before he gets off the beaten track.

Now you’re going to have to tie him up, once you get him down,

And you hope that he don't sulk once he’s on the ground.

'Cause it's the want of piker bullocks, to lay and sulk and die,

You've asked yourself so many times, `Why oh bloody why?'

Well you take away his freedom; take all he has to give,

Then you take him from his country and that takes his will to live.

And if you were religious, well I guess you'd hope and pray,

That this bloody piker bullock lives to fight another day.

© Corin Linch      9/05/97