I’m just a postmodern bush poet Roaming and roving rusty roads Writing, wordsmithing, amid yellow grass Fondling the various ******* of Mother Nature The hills and mountains, all her nooks and crannies Looking at peeled potato sheeps Dreaming about what great stews they would make Listening to a bit of AC/DC With no wuckin’ furries Getting eyed by work dogs With no sense of self-preservation Telling me I’m going to die all the same As those rotting roos lying in the dirt Sodomised by cars just like mine Their pink, esoteric entrails getting pecked out By the crows I call my friends