Year of the Dog

Well, we blundered and blustered our way through 2011 and have just come out the other end hoping for no more shaky ground, radioactive vegetables or products spelt with 'K' to signify Kardashian entrapment.

Most of all, in Australia, we hoofed it on home on the back of another K: A red cloud kelpie named Koko who's not only become super hero of the north west of WA, but a symbol of all things Aussie and quintessentially huggable.

So, for a final wrap of the year that was, I offer with much spit and dribble and the best take on Julia Gillard's strine I can possibly muster, a 2011 foray into the year's insanity, as heard across Australia on ABC Local Radio's national New Year's Eve broadcast with Scott Lamond.

YEAR OF THE DOG

Shower leaks, roof leaks and WikiLeaks. Yup. Everything leaks!




From the 24 News Desk, Southbank, Melbourne...

 

 Making headlines...


International news of the year was that Lindsay Lohan, Lady Gaga and Sarah Murdoch all managed to make doofuses of themselves, to a greater or lesser degree. Of the three, I would invariably choose to be Sarah, as I am neither fond of dressing in wagyu beef nor donning my fingernails with the phrase 'f**k u' in order to be witty. I'm sure in some world, LiLo thought she was...And, like Sarah, one day at some function large or small, I am bound to be the one standing in front of a bunch of people embarrassing myself despite my best intentions. Indeed, this is the stuff of poetry and I applaud anyone who does it with flair and grace.

None of this made headlines in north West WA though, except that, by the end of it, there was an awful lot of mopping up to do!

Happy 2011 all! Thanks to the gang at ABC North West and the Pilbara Echo for all your support and may there be more embarrassments, sillinesses and stuff ups for everyone next year so I might continue to find fodder for this happy foolishness!


EverythingLeaks


A beer and a cheer for a Happy New Year!
were the words that were slowly spoke
by the guy near the log with his gumboots and frog,
yes, a flustered and feral young bloke.

His hair was crusty, clothing musty
his eyes drooped with sandbags hung
with stoic aplomb sinking on and on
like the folds of old cow dung.

This Andrew Collins nibbled stale stollen,
pondered on life here.
Taking time out from his soggy plight
to reflect on a whopper of a year.

Lindsay Lohan lost the plot and
finally had to go dry.
But it couldn’t compare to Marble Bar,
which ran out of beer, oh my!

Melbourne Cup ran hot to trot
with silks and ladies in hats,
but Pannawonica’s rodeo iconica
starred a wild OLD chap.

At seventy six, Jack had the tricks
to ride ‘em hard and mighty.
With his big, wide brim, he rode like sin
and the crowds went wild, alrighty.

Lady Gaga dressed in meat from her head
to her teetering toes.
But she’d nothing on those trucks which run
into beasts wand’ring out on the roads.

Sarah Murdoch looked like a right chook
reading the wrong model’s name.
But at Pilbara Girl, we were all in a whirl
when Synarrah Murphy’s came.

And Canberra scored a “strine PM”
with Kevin and Tony piffed,
but Karratha got a regional cabernet
and you should have copped a whiff.

Of plans for Pilbara Cities,
like London, Paris and Roma
or at least a new gate or at any rate
a brand new garden gnome.

And Julia showed us her fancy hair
which never ever seemed to relax,
but we pricked up our ears and jiggled our rears
when she fiddled with the mining tax.

And with Julia red as a blister,

you’d think HER the colour hog,
but WE had the red dirt festival
and in Dampier, the star - Red Dog!

NZ had the Bledisloe
which went pretty fast yo bro’.
But the Newman guys they took the prize
for the Cup that was pretty bloody slow.

And twiddling thumbs for decades
since Joan in ’75,
Hedland, cool, got its hospital,
so now if we’re sick, we’ll thrive.

Just in time for our summer clime
and the rain La Niña was bringing
and it poured and it drowned and it sloshed all around
‘til Carnarvon was hardly singing.

And he thought about the weather,
the craziest thing of all,
with forty degrees and irukandjis,
oh boy, they have a gall.

And Muddle, fuddle, sitting in his puddle,
sun beating down on his brow,
with his umbrella up and his dacks in the mud
Andrew’s brain was frazzled now.

And finding some shade he flicked on the radio

and listened to the news of the day,

with Julian Assange and his radical plan

for dobbing in pollies, but hey,

Andrew thought, well, funny that,
as the rain brewed again in our zone,

forget WikiLeaks, here it’s EverythingLeaks…

and with his year mopped up, went home.

© Elise Batchelor December 31st 2010

Go Pies! Go Saints! Goji berries!

For two weeks in a row now, I've forgotten to watch the AFL Grand Final. It's not that I mind the Australian Football League's determination to plaster itself like, well, plaster, all over the papers for the eight months leading up to the ultimate blokes-with-balls challenge. It's not that brawn, drop kicks and drug scandals offend me. It's not even that I think the teams at the top this year represented the phoenix-risen-dregs of the past forty. No, none of these potentially key issues led me to ignore the Grand Final at all.

Fact of the matter was that the fridge was empty. What better time to do the weekly shopping when NO ONE ELSE IN THE COUNTRY is.

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?
     and
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.

Rob Oakeshott.

Two words actually or, given Rob Oakeshott's history making speech in his final decision to decide the undecided Australian Priministerial Pozzie recently, more like two trillion words. Words to the power of infinity. In fact, if the symbol for infinity (other than being baggsed by the ABC already) had one true meaning, it would be Rob Oakeshott. Indeed, when, on election day, he had the final vote which decided our Julia as top jobber, and he blabbed on for a decade to secure his place in the arse end of history forever, many young women remained blessed by the fact Rob Oakeshott is not THEIR father and won't be MC at their 18th, 21st, wedding or church fete. I think Rob Oakeshott is possibly handsome.

But that's not relevant, is it?

And so, to two poems, representing two weeks of footy finals in which Collingwood (the Pies) and St Kilda (the Saints) got sweaty, moped a bit then played again, got sweaty and ... finished.

Who won?

Dunno. I was languishing in the exotic food aisle of Woolies, pondering the internal and spiritual benefits of the Goji berry. Not often I get to ponder the Goji berry in silence.

It’s Just Not Cricket

The week is quite unique in Oz,

the world turned upside down.

The Saturday is holy, makes

some buzz and others frown.

But do take note that in this sacred

time, if you don’t care,

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,

unless you wish to risk your blasphemy

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;

it has the mob befuddled

and put away your string bikini

‘til the furore dies,

until the party heads have slept

and dreamt of Saints and Pies.

And only then, go mention slips

and ducks and runs and wickets.

For lordy be, in grand final week,

such talk is just not cricket.

© Elise Batchelor September 2010

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).
All disarray
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,
comebacks, retorts
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

Pin the Tail on the Shonky Donkey

In my final (Wembley Primary) school year, the most exquisite girl in our class had an impossibly large birthday party. I remember this vividly, for I was not invited.

There's nothing like being invited to a rocking good party. In Australia, we're totally lucky because every few years (or few months, depending on one's keenness for pin the tail on the political donkey) we're all invited to two parties. At LEAST two parties. Of course, we have a slight problem here in that they're invariably on the same day, at the same time. But our job is to elect one to attend.

For example, a little while back Julia Gillard's party was sort of or not really ok. Tony Abbott's party was not that gay either. No one really liked either and most of us ultimately went to one so we could prove we didn't go to the other.

And the third half was busy scamming illicit tickets for a boat ride out of the country.


Pin the Tail on the Donkey

He invited everyone to come to his great party.
Every kid in every class, he thought he was a smartie.
Problem was that she did too, she asked them all to come.
She’d pin the tail on donkeys and they’d have just loads of fun.

He said it would NOT BE HOT! No hotter than last week,
But he’d give them sunscreen and nice party hats with peaks.
She said they would play indoors on her WHIZZ BANG COMPUTERS!
Plenty fun for everyone, even distant commuters.

He soon heard his plan was flawed because some thought him dud.
She soon heard he might have scored because she was not Rudd.
On the day they sat in wait in fancy schmancy clothes.
His mum asked, ‘How many Tony?’ He replied, ‘God knows.’

Tony’s mum said, ‘Ask Him then, I’m baking sausage rolls
and fairy bread -’ Tone interrupted, ‘Can’t have them Mum, no!’
‘Tony!’ his mum glared at him. ‘OK, Mum, just this once,
but fairy bread’s for sissy’s and I ain’t nobody’s dunce.

Meanwhile, out at Julia’s, her mum tried being enlightening,
saying, ‘dydd Sadwrn, gwlad, cors.’ My goodness, Welsh is frightening.
What happened to all the vowels? And when does it not rain?
Anyway, this is digression. What’d she say again?

Oh yes, that’s right, young Julia’s mum said, ‘It’s party day, my dear,
and, as you say, they’re all your friends! I’m sure they’ll all appear.’
So Tony had his fairy bread, despite his inclination
and Julia had done her hair and taken up her station

of standing at the front door, the gates of chance now open
as Tony cycled round his yard, his nerves of steel unbroken.
And soon they all arrived. The guests come out to play.
Some they went to Julia’s and some the other way.

Then some more to Julia’s, then a bunch to Tone’s,
‘til there were just five kids left and THEN kicked in the groans.
‘But Muuuum,’ whinged Julia out loud, ‘why didn’t they all come?
Near half of them are all next door at Tony’s place. Not fun!’

‘Oh stop your whinging little girl, your strine’s like blackboard nails.
Maybe there are others coming, drifting in like snails.’
And Tony, well, now he was sweating, seventy-something counted.
Sort of Mr Popular, his campaign fully mounted.

‘I guess you’re right,’ said Julia, to her mum as kids played,
‘my friends, they all have spoken but who knows what they did say.’
Tony scanned down to the fence upon which five friends sat,
right ‘tween his and Julia’s and he thought…bottom, drat.

The celebrations dwindled and all the kids they left,
quite bored with both the parties, the right one and the left
and waved out to that fivesome perched as if it didn’t matter,
still deciding which to choose, including BobKat Katter.

And there they perched for days and weeks, sore bums, ‘twas rather odd.
Jule’s she offered lemonade and Tony offered…God?
And finally, they all decided which party best fared,
by which time it was footy finals, so no one really cared…




© Elise Batchelor 2010

My Money's on MasterChef

So, it's time! And it's been a long time coming. The final chop for the final two MasterChef Australia contestants, Adam and Callum. And the biggest question of the day is not who will win, but who gives a stuff about the election debate between Jules and Tony on the other channel. I'm in WA too, which means that not only is the election debate set to come a poor sorry second (or 17th) in viewer ratings numbers, but that here, with our time difference with the eastern states, it's on at 5pm.

5pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon? A fine, sunny, 26 degree Pilbara day? Watching two dullards fight the fight for the battle of the boring?

I think I'll be in the kitchen, whipping myself into a frenzy of eggplant, pear and prosciutto pizza and preparing the champagne cocktails for the drawn out MasterChef spectacle about to ensue. And it will ensue and it will be drawn out and drip with drama and bleeding phalanges and dollops of Callum's oily, pubescent sweat.

And I will love it.

So, bring it on.

Adam, Callum and not Claire

My money's on Julia Gillard nipping off quick smart after her droll altercation with Mr Um...Ah...Abbott and finding herself a little tele of her own in which to indulge in the real main course of this evening's entertainment fare.

And she'll be, like, uh, GO MARION! MOVE FORWARD! 

So, to my poem of the moment. It's Julia, it's Tony, it's Matt Preston in a green and gold sparkly cravat, it's the vibe. It's the great debate, with cameos from the esteemed Laurie Oakes, Kevin Rudd and an auspiciously suspicious pair of budgie smugglers.

Wonder what they're like grilled?

He said, she said

KRudd, formerly
 www.twitter.com/KRuddPM
now www.twitter.com/KRuddMP

He said he liked Twitter

and speaking in Chinese.

She said she supported him

(like dogs support their fleas).

He said she was on his side.

She said that as well,

right up until smoko

and although she’d never spill,

she said that she wouldn’t.

Then she went and did.

Then when Laurie Oakes piped up she

Current PM, Julia Gillard,
Captain of the Red Team

went and shut her lid.

He said that he wouldn’t                                                 

shy away from questions.

She said, ‘I am speechless

I have nothing more to mention.’

He said, ‘Back to Tony,

the matter of the day?’

She said, ‘Least I’ve shared too little;

what about him, hey?

‘He said that he wouldn’t.

Then he went and stripped -

swam out with his budgie smugglers

Laurie Oakes, ball breaking,
boss busting journo.

in the tidal rip.’

She said, ‘He got carried,

carried right away,

or maybe, well, he should have done

to stop that flesh display.’

Laurie said, ‘I’m Laurie Oakes

and this is all deflection,

then said, ‘Tell us, what of Tony

in this dull election?’

She said her election

would make sure Abbot loses,

for he said, she likes flirting with him.

She can take his bruises.

But Abbott said she’s sneaky

with blood upon her knife and

she thinks he’s a sexy thing,

Vote 1 Marion Grasby from MasterChef!

a truth that Tony likes.

She said, ‘We should both debate

The issues here at hand.’

Tone said, ‘Yep, too right we should.’

She said, ‘What’s the plan?’

He said, ‘Well, a nailbiter.’

She said, ‘Sunday night?

I’m still voting for Marion

for MasterChef, all right?!’

He said, ‘You don’t cook!’

She said, ‘Helps digestion.’

He said, ‘What? A croquembuche?

MasterChef's

MattCravat

You fancy that Matt Preston!’

She said, ‘Hah! Ridiculous.'

He said, ‘Let’s move on.’

She said, ‘Let’s move FORWARD.

I think you got it wrong.’

She said, ‘My hair’s better.’

He said, ‘Mine’s more fluffy’.

She said, ‘I’m Altona bred

and you’ve become quite stuffy.’

He said, ‘My voice resonates.

It’s...ah...sort of...more refined.

She said, ‘Mine’s the people’s voice,

it’s Kath, it’s Kim, it’strine.

He said, ‘You’re a heathen.’

She said, ‘Thank the Lord.

You’re a bible basher

Before dirty Julia, there was dirty Tony,
who did the deed on not so fabulous
Malcolm. tsk tsk.

but your scriptures haven’t scored.’

He said, ‘I believe in stuff.’

She said, ‘Tell me what?’

He said, ‘Better stuff than you.’

She said, ‘Bloody rot.’

He said, ‘Why should I tell you,

you’re not the real PM?’

She said, uh, try deja vu,

you’re Malcolm Turnbull, then?

He, he blushed a little,

to match Ms Gillard’s hair.

She thought she’d one up on him

and gave her bestest glare.

He said, ‘It’s irrelevant,

you’re Welsh, what can I say?’

She said, ‘You’re a Londoner,

you drongo.’ Ah…touché.

He said, ‘Oh, you’re right.’

She said, ‘Yes I am.’

And off they sailed in a sinking boat

from dear Van Diemen’s Land.

Tony and the budgie smugglers.
A little underdone.

He said, ‘We are sailing.’

‘She said, ‘Far away’.

He said, ‘Will they miss us?’

She said…’Can’t quite say.’

He said, ‘This boat’s sinking.’

She said, ‘Better row.’

He said, ‘Glad I bought my Speedos.’

She said, ‘Bright red? No!’

And as they were drowning

all was left to see:

two small dots of crimson

sinking in the sea.

She said, ‘I am sorry.

Appears we’re off to Heaven.’

He just smirked, his parting words,

‘Looks like we’re back to Kevin.’

Elise Batchelor July 2010

Mini MasterChef

Adam, Callum and not Claire

Photo: Pilbara Poet in MasterChef apron courtesy Leonie Palmer

Crying over spilt satay

Despite the profundity of our Australian leadership spill a couple of weeks back, I dare say a hearty chunk of the population is still more perterbed by the elimination of Marion in MasterChef this week. Unlike KRudd, Marion possessed an array of qualities befitting the post of supreme being in her field: Articulate and without spin, loved by all in the house and, ultimately, cookin' with gas, all the way home. Marion was the best in fact. Probably even, if you took away the nerves and pressures of assumption, the best at satay sauce.

But we'll probably forget her too. Shed a tear. Take a deep breath.

And drink in the amnesia.

Because life moves on to other dramas quicker than you can post a Facebook status or text 140 characters on @Twitter.

And so, to the topic of my poem. We have a new leader at our helm. She can't cook for shit but she's fierce and on fire - at least until the next elimination round when Ms Gillard faces the Australian public once and for all.

My tip? Marion from for PM!


Fair shake o' the sauce bottle

At lunch there was a murmur.
By afternoon some grunting.
By dinner the announcement
which had the punters punting.
The PM’s speech ensued that night
before we’d time to breathe.
A flood of news reports gushed in
we couldn’t quite believe.

Ask some who were watching on
the tele as Rudd spoke
whether they thought this was simply
just a poor timed joke.
After all, the nerve of it,
to cut in to, oh no!
Not just any viewing,
but on MasterChef! No go!

(Meanwhile, in Morocco,
quite insulated there
a quite bemused, a bit confused
Pete Garrett scratched his…hair.
Our Peter, he was whaling
or trying hard to stop
and had no clue about Australia’s
head up for the chop.)

The cauldrons they were burning -
someone had lit a match.
The Redhead type (I know, a pun,
let’s not labour it, Batch).
And whilst we all slept in our beds
our lives as safe as houses,
a dim thought might have sat there quiet
on what Gillard espouses.

By dawn, Rudd pulled the pin on it.
By brekky, new PM!
By lunch the great post mortem.
By dinner, Rudd? Who? What? When?
By evening social networking
was all about her hair.
Oh my Lord, get over it!
(But really, to be fair

if I say it once more now
and then no more forever,
Ms Gillard’s got a wicked stylist,
perfect coiffed endeavour.
He gets up early, 5am
and makes her breakfast too.
Handy when your partner is
a fine hairdresser, phew!)

That is it. My commentary.
And so, back to the soccer.
A woman’s in the top job now;
the stir has been a shocker.
But @Twitter told us yonks ago
and Facebook soon got bored.
With our attentions, oh so short,
we’re only briefly floored.

And then we all get hungry
for something else to #hash.
Another drama, more suspense
on which our teeth can gnash.
Our passions heat like microwaves,
then cool like jellied sweat,
but fair shake o' the sauce bottle,
hope history don’t forget.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010

Whale Tales

  Australia has a new Prime Minister.
Her name is Julia Gillard.
  She is a woman.
This is a first.
  She didn't like the direction things were going.
So she changed them.
  This is a great thing for some.
This is a fabulous thing for many women.
  This is also an upset which has divided the country and ripped a hole in some hearts.
And now it's a new day and we shall see...

These are all recent, stunning facts in the last 24 hours of Aussie politics. Two nights ago, the night the decision of a challenge to Kevin Rudd, now 'former' Prime Minister, we were glued to our tv, absorbing details by osmosis with the fervour of parched camels. But one of the funniest reports of the night was an interview between a prominent Australian journalist on a serious late night news program to our Environment Minister, Peter Garrett. You know 'Midnight Oil'? Well, that's Peter Garrett. In this interview, the presenter began hounding Peter Garrett on his allegiance to and opinions about this sudden political #spill (as @Twitterphiles would know it). And for the life of him, Peter Garrett was unable to come up with a response to satiate the desire of the presenter. Why? Because it was the first he'd heard of the troubles at the top. Yet the reporter kept at Mr Garrett. Every which way, every angle, up every orifice. Peter Garrett started getting tetchy. As you would. Kept trying to sway the conversation towards the point of the interview...

Whales.

You see, Peter Garrett was in Morocco, on the other side of the planet to the rumblings here in Oz. He had been in serious meetings about Australia's role in stopping whale slaughter by Japan. His phone had been off. And, my oh my, he had no Facebook or Twitter to truly keep him informed! He literally knew nothing of this usurping-in-progress and was baffled by the perseverence of the presenter. Finally, boldly, he got his message out. It was a heartfelt message on the whales. And it was an awful shame of the night that, love the whales as we do, no one cared.

This was the most fascinating interview I saw throughout the leadership challenge, spill and change which has occurred. The country's up in arms as the leaders are tussling over their leaders and one dude's out there actually doing shit! You go man!!

With the happy coincidence that my most recent poem was a celebration of the glorious whales which journey our waters, this poem is for Peter Garrett and for the whales.

Learning to Fly

A Whale of a Tale

I’ve gathered you together to stick it to ‘em good,

for now’s the speccy weather in this north west neighbourhood.

I mean, you lot are perfect - you’ve been around the traps.

You know how much it’s worth it, my keen aquatic chaps

and chaplets, oops, I’m sorry dear, Miss what’s your story Dory,

I know your brain’s a sieve, I fear, but don’t want your guts all gory.

I’m writing them a letter, how I fancy myself whole.

Not whole and fried for dinner from at fish markets sold.

So, got you on webcam tonight in this Carnarvon caf’.

We’ve all got to be literate, right, and not pen something naff.

And thus, the conference call began with links hither to thither

as Humpback Harry, no steak Dianne, refused at all to dither.

‘Moby, mate, in your opinion, what should we all write?’

Moby, blushed, red onion. Quite odd, for a whale so white.

‘Well, first I must say thanks for asking me to share.

Don’t fancy us in tanks our gizzards here and there.

So me, I would just tell them what beauty holds our song

that is, except for Dory when her singing drones along.

Dory raised an eyebrow then promptly…ah…forgot

and feeling less than highbrow asked Harry, ‘Harry, what…

whatever are we here for?’ And all went splosh and splish

and titter, chortle, wherefore, memory like goldfish.

‘Don’t you worry Dory, gal,’ spoke Harry Humpback whale

How about, my Nemo pal, this rambling you curtail.

‘I would say, you write to them some funny jokes, I think.

Show them you’re intelligent and only when...gutted, stink.

‘Ahem, well, thank you Nemo, my orange stripy clown.

Always count on you, you know to stop us feeling down.

‘Jonah, down there, yup, that’s you, old man of the sea,

any thoughts to share, please do?’

                ‘Get me out of here’s my plea!’

That’s all Jonah offered and probably expected

all that krill from being swallowed got his nouse infected.

Then up piped an aged Free Willy, the Second, and a talker,

‘I’d tell ‘em they are silly and sign it, “Super Orca!”’

Ok, our Harry sighed aloud, I’ve taken down ideas

and really, well, can’t be too proud. You’re heightening my fears.’

‘How about, now let me see, let’s start it just like this:

     Dear fellows sailing in the sea, please just give us a miss.

     We practise hard our breaching to make you like us more          

     We sing our songs, no screeching, and swim from deep to shore.

     We don’t hurt you, so don’t hurt us…

            Sound good so far?’ nods, ‘Fine’.

Please leave us be, don’t cause a fuss, we’re having a whale of a time’.

The gang on webcam groaned a lot, then simply laughed out loud.

Bad pun Harry! Lame, you twit, won’t stand out from the crowd.

But Harry took the letter and printed it with pride

and posted it, go getter, then swam right back outside

And off into the waters of the Indian, his home,

right up the coast, new daughters, then back down south to roam.

Well...

They got it! Harry’s missive, and read it patiently.

(It’s hard to be dismissive of a letter from the sea.)

And suddenly, the whaling ceased! Our Harry was astounded.

Forever whales then lived in peace and whaling ships were grounded.

So now our Harry Humpback, he’s got himself an agent,

selling joke books, quite a stack, his wit a strong reagent.

For if a whale of a bad, bad pun can change things in bad weather

then Harry, whale…he was the one, to Save the Whales! Forever.

© Elise Batchelor June 2010
Photo: © Rob Whitehead 2003, 'Learning to Fly', Augusta, Western Australia