Oh Great, Immortal and Non-existent God
Please protect me from your followers
For they disturb my broken sleep with odd
thoughts and fill the world with bellowers
Demanding I accept their null and senseless words.
Threatening me with an eternity of agony and pain
Because my refusal causes anger to believing herds.
I wish, Oh, Great Non-existence, you were real
And could control these loud disturbers of the peace
These hypocritical hypnotising Evangelists who feel
Their sermons contain the only and the whole release
From the evil habits they warn us against yet all practice
In private while publicly condemning me for saying ‘NO!’
Is their faith so weak my quiet opposition will suffice
To make their pack of lies appear to be just mumbo jumbo!
Eyes moisten with no reason
I lived a life
and failed to see it pass
leaving cold memories
of heated thighs
The clutching arms and lips
Always once more
a purpose until
Tears falling with reason
With apologies to Banjo who, I am sure, would be as horrified as I.
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just “on spec”, addressed as follows, “Clancy, of The Overflow”.
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
“Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.”
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving “down the Cooper” where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
But the Overflow has now dried and the cattle all have died!
The country now is less than super, since townsfolk stole the bloody Cooper.
And in place of lowing cattle, he hears the bosses prattle.
‘No shearing now or droving.’ He breathes the feotid air
Of Centrelink and hears the Clerk. ‘It’s you’re fault you’re out of work!’
And the counter staff with no heart say, “Now welcome to New Start!’