The Ultimate Luxury

            Anybody who has spent time in the bush can sympathise with this poem. Written purely for a laugh but has more than a grain of fact in it.  When I first started in the stock camp toilet paper was not part of the stores taken bush, so you make use of what you got newspaper if available, rocks and leaves. Grass was not much good; imagine having grass seeds left behind getting back on your horse and sitting on them for an hour or so. Hygiene in the camps was rudimentary to say the least; sure we washed our hands etc. before eating and after a walk over the flat, but the beef we ate was often beginning to turn. Curry powder was a favourite with camp cooks to disguise the taste of sour meat and the old stand-by Worcestershire Sauce was always in the tucker box.

  Gut aches were common place , in hindsight I reckon it was probably food poisoning, some water also caused upset stomachs. I was never able to handle the water at Cattle Creek a dam on Moola Bulla, within a few hours of drinking that water I’d be constantly bolting down the flat, it was at these times the ultimate luxury would have been a porcelain dunny. Although speaking to one bloke who spent some time in stock camps back in the 60’s he thought a tin of pears would have been the ultimate in luxury for him.

THE ULTIMATE IN LUXURY

I smoke my pipe, stoke the fire then I wander from the camp,

There’s dew about this morning and the ground is rather damp.

But I feel an urge upon me, as my belly gives a rumbling sound,

I shall have to wander out and bare my backside to the ground.

So I’ll take a shovel with me, so I can bury what I do,

After all no-one wants to know where you’ve been to pooh.

I’ll be squatting on my heels somewhere deep in the Aussie bush,

And I’m a little bit uncomfortable as I give me bowels a push.

There was times when I bruised me leg, so I was jacked up on a stone

That’s when I started thinking, gee; it would be nice to be at home.

Then with newspaper in hand, I’d be seated, reading all the news,

And quietly arguing with meself; about all those journalistic views.

Sitting there warm and comfortable, I may hum a quiet refrain,

Instead I’m here swotting flies, as I squat here and strain.

I tell yer it’s not real pleasant with your britches round your knees;

With a winter easterly blowing and yer what’s its, swinging in the breeze.

And I have no tissue paper that’s soft, strong and very tough,

We make use of things on hand; in the bush we’re pretty rough.

Now I know this tale is strange but just imagine if you were me;

Quietly going about your business while beneath a giant Carbeen tree.

You are nearly finished and you are about to wipe your bum;

A King Brown is slithering past, then your way decides to come.

When that happens you wouldn’t think it strange; and you wouldn’t think it very funny,

No mate, you’d reckon the ultimate in luxury;

was a bloody inside Porcelain dunny.

                                                      © Corin Linch

Neither snake in these photos is a King Brown although in the dark we thought the one in the top photo was  sadly he turned out to be a Rock Python the other photo is a Black headed Python.  Audio of this poem hopefully coming soon..