A Wigwam for a Goose’s Bridle
He hated sitting idle
So he went out to the shed to make a “wigwam for a goose’s bridle”
Just before he left to “see a man about a dog”.
Things were moving “as slow as a wet week”
So to speak.
To fill in time he’d been working in the shed
“Digging spare post holes”.
Dinner was never this or that
It was; “a run around the table and a kick at the cat”.
The alternative was just as nutritious, in my opinion
Which was; “Cows tit and onion”.
If you asked, “Where’s Mum?”
He’d look at you as if you were dumb
And answer; “How am I to know?
I’m not her shadow!”.
If he was feeling more generous, you’d get a grin
With the answer; “She’s in her skin,
When she jumps out you can jump in.”
If he was crook, then the remedy he always had handy
Was a shot of port-wine and brandy.
Then “sweat it out over a live corpse”
Was the obvious next step, of course.
He had an eagle eye, there wasn’t much he’d miss
And he reckoned he was “strong enough to hold a bull out to piss”.
“I’m as fit as a mallee bull”, he’d often declare
With a proud look and confident air.
What went through his mind at times was hard to tell,
But if he wanted you for some reason he’d just stand and yell.
The sounds of “Moiiirrraaa…. Moiiirrraaa!!!!” would bellow out
Expecting Moira to immediately answer his shout.
And if you questioned why you had been given a certain chore
You’d need to be careful, or you’d been given even more.
Then he’d stare at you with that look that sort of threatened your health,
And say; “There’s no use having a dog and barking yourself!”
Saying goodbye always took some time
And quite often it would end with a riddle or a rhyme.
“See you in the soup, we’ll have a pea together”,
Were the parting words he used forever.
If he called on the phone and there was no answer
The message he’d leave was a little fancier.
He’d sing; “It’s only me from over the sea, said Barnacle Bill the sailor”.
He was far from your typical voice-mailer.
When he didn’t get my sense of humour,
Or my childish sense of fun,
He’d look at me with a dead-pan face and say;
“You’re a bloody scream, son”.
His warnings about misbehaviour were never meek.
He’d threaten; “You’ll be pickin’ my boot laces out of your bum for a week.”
Or, of that ilk;
“I’ll kick your bum so hard your nose will bleed butter milk”.
Everything, everyone, had to work hard and do their bit.
If not, they were a “turner”, and simply “turned good food to shit!”.
Nothing would save a “turner”, neither man nor beast.
You never wanted to be labelled a “turner”, to say the least.
When you sat down to a mighty feast and started tucking into it,
He’d make this generous offer; “give yer two bob for yer shit.”
An offer most of us didn’t need!
Other times he’d declare; “a good shit is as good as the feed!”
Then he’d tell you with that smiling glint in his eye
“If you don’t shit, you die!”
These are the quirky John Buller-isms that gently echo in my ears,
Still fresh after all these years.
01/10/2021
Copyright Craig Buller 2021. All rights reserved.