Sunday, October 3, 2010
Go Pies! Go Saints! Goji berries!
For anyone reading from outside our beanie clad nation, you might well have three questions as you read the following two poems:
1) What is a Rob Oakeshott?
2) What the hell does he have to do with a tie?
3) A tie??!
I know. How embarrassment. But yes, the first match was a tie (despite our Prime Minister begging it not to be, ok, like, PLEEEEASE no!) So, do we go to extra time? Do we hold on until someone fangs in one more point or one more goal to end the drought? No. No. Ohhhh no. We play again chaps, next week. Uh huh, that's right. And I have one word for ewes all.
But that's not relevant, is it?
there’s one thing not to mention.
Oh no, just don’t go there!
Just keep your trap well shut ok.
Just hold your breath all right,
being met with fright.
It’s like crazy sales on Boxing Day
being held on Christmas Eve.
Like flouting a bikini,
still in winter. How naïve.
Like dressing all in white
to dance around in mud.
Like singing ‘Happy birthday Julia!’
to Kevin Rudd.
Like wearing flannel floppy hats
when everyone’s in beanies.
Like raving about little stumps
to a mob of zealous greenies.
Like snoozing on the lawn
whilst magpies dart and swoop.
Like eating chook for takeaway
in God’s own chicken coop.
Like singing breezy summer tunes
instead of thumping songs
by blokes with voices deep and wearing
knee high socks, not thongs.
Like putting on your coloured zinc
in shades of green and gold
and being mocked, “It should be black
with red or white!’ you’re told.
Indeed, if I have stumped you,
this poem’s all a code,
a mighty ditty for the week,
a thumping bloody ode.
It’s all about the AFL
for better, worse, whatever.
It’s all about the mud and MCG
and Melbourne weather.
It’s all about the footy.
All else will cop retorts.
It’s all about the finals.
Big men. Wide screens. Tight shorts.
So get up off the lawn
and find some muddy puddles
and get that flannel of yer head;
In the Middle of the MCG
Rob Oakeshott he sat like that
in the middle of the MCG
and he called Bob Katter,
‘Do you really matter
in my iddy biddy gang of three?’
For the siren - it had told its tale
and the players all lay stuffed.
And they really wondered
if the scored had blundered
and they’d all been totally bluffed.
Well, old BobKat he tipped his hat
and his voice rang brittle like rust.
‘Carn the Pies!’
rang across the skies.
‘You other lot can eat my dust.’
The crowds they booed and hissed at him
(Well half of them, that is).
‘I’m goin’ back bush!’
And they gave him a push
to Queensland in a tizz.
And Rob Oakeshott sat smirking still
in the middle of the MCG,
caught up in the muddle,
teams now in a huddle,
he could not hide his glee.
Tony Windsor stood up next
and kept it short, if quaint.
‘My great Aunt Hilda
loves St Kilda,
so I vote for the Saints!’
And the crowds they booed and hissed again
(the other half this time).
on the field today
and the chaos was sublime.
The Pies they’d gathered in a mob,
their socks all sagged in sorrow.
The Saints meanwhile
were a strung out pile
with wedgies ‘til tomorrow.
And just when there was no hope left,
or so the punters reckoned,
that Rob Oakeshott
they’d near forgot
to the microphone was beckoned.
Well Rob Oakeshott raced to his spot
and gathered up his minions -
those trillion thoughts,
and his vast range of opinions.
He tapped upon the microphone.
100 000 eyes
now glared at Rob
thinkin’, who’s this knob?
as he started to surmise…
And he rattled on about the goal posts.
And he babbled on about the time.
And he praised and bemoaned
as the crowds they groaned
and yawned and slept and whined.
And seven days on down the track
there was no one left there, see,
‘xcept Rob Oakeshott
still hot to trot
in the middle of the MCG.
And soon the place filled up again
with Rob hardly contrite
and they carried him out
on a stretcher taut,
wrapped up quite white and tight.
So the rules were changed forever more
for fear of a tie, praise be!
‘Cause there’s nothing less hot
than a Rob Oakeshott
in the middle of the MCG.
© Elise Batchelor September 2010