A tribute to the convicts who built Australia’s colonial architecture

arrowed men

flogged to the bone,

in chains

in gangs

crafted stone.

England’s green

is lost and gone,

harsh light

stiff whips —

labour on.

Some set free

some laid to rest,

unmarked

unmourned

dispossessed.

See their works

and honour them,

the gifts of those

arrowed men.

Our garbage man comes once a week

To empty out our bin.

He takes away everything

That Mum and Dad put in.

I wonder if he looks inside

And smells our stinky cheese,

‘Cause all the food that has expired

Would travel on the breeze.

No wonder he speeds off each week,

He doesn’t hang around.

With so much putrid garbage,

His wheels don’t touch the ground.

Ho, ho! I’m covered in grot,

You can’t see if I’m me or not.

Ho, ho! So much grot,

Am I nice or am I not?

I went to build a house

So I started with the roof.

Tiles or thatch, I wondered,

Which is more fireproof?

Soon the roof was finished,

So I started on the walls.

I fitted all the windows,

Added two nice halls.

Next I build the floor,

‘Twas the smartest house in town,

Except for one small detail:

It was upside down.

A message in a bottle,

Washed up by the sea,

Written by a mermaid

Especially for me.

“I hope you’ll come and see me,”

That is what she wrote,

In beautiful handwriting

Upon her watery note.

“You’ll find me in the ocean,

“It’s really very clear:

“Latitude 15,

“And longitude just near.”

I once knew a girl called Betty,

Whose hair looked just like spaghetti.

She tied it in strands

With big rubber bands,

Then chopped it up for confetti.

My underpants are white and blue;

One day I dropped them in the loo.

I heard them gurgle down the pipe,

But couldn’t find them on my Skype.

How far, how far, will they travel?

I hope the stitches won’t unravel.

And if they’re in some spooky drain,

Will I ever see them again?

What if the sewer goes out to sea?

My underpants might reach Fiji!

Or has some big fish put them on?

I think my underpants have gone.

Who spilled the rainbow?

Who turned it upside down?

Now all the colours

Are messed up on the ground!

It must have been some silly bird

Not watching where it flew —

It brought the rainbow crashing down

In a shower of goo.

Irving McDrane can fly a plane;

He flies it up and down again.

He flies by night, he flies by day,

Upside down or up the right way.

He loops the loop and barrel rolls,

Through the air he twists and scrolls,

Across the sky with great panache …

Look out, Irving — you’re going to crash!

SPLAT!

Irving McDrane can’t fly a plane

Ever, ever, ever again.

Once we went to the seaside,

Now the seaside is coming to us.

Oceans rise around the world,

But few are making a fuss.

Old shores are disappearing

Beneath the rising tide.

Let’s stop the ice sheets melting,

Before there’s nowhere to hide.