I drenched my sorrows neat,
on the veranda in this stifling heat,
while the rest of ‘Stralia’s dying, trying to fight bushfires, floods, and other catastrophes —
I sat there flipping pages in cookbooks, sweet,
where I dreamt of all the delicious morsels I’d eat,
the pages torn, and I’d sworn I would complete,
One of those meals - with ingredients I simply couldn’t keep;
anchovies, patté, and fish eggs are no such treats,
but dream, I do of the alter-me in the 1950’s fulfilling society’s beat...