Hw25-8: The Sir Loin Stakes
Posted: Tue Aug 19, 2014 2:19 pm
#Interestingly (I'll put this at the top cos not everyone might make it to the end 
) I found it hard to keep strict metre without compromising on losing some clout that some of our very unique slang terms tend to have. There are some that are that sacred that there is just not to be any tooling with them whatsoever 
. There is a whole plethora of slang out there - some not to everyone's taste, but I like to think we do our slang "culture" a service by using them and getting them out there (and avoid using some of the gawd-awful cliched ones that are just flogged to death every time we talk slang -sorta stuff like the first line -it's your fault Barry McKenzie!). A worthy and challeging topic, Maureen. Goodonya! 
The Sir Loin Stakes
M. Pattie
“OFF!” like a young brides nightie or some prawns left in the sun,
they’re running in The Sir Loin Stakes, the big race has begun.
And Winkle takes the lead, his jockey’s keen as bloody mustard;
all prick and ribs, just like a drover’s dog (but not as trusted).
And Glutus: The Big Stallion, sure he’s got his share of backers,
but many quip - he’d be more quick without them big Jatz Crackers.
And on his back is Portly Pat: a big boy for a jockey.
As ugly as a deep sea mullet, and built like big Joe Hockey.
And in the pack there’s Slyly Angus, Quiff and Crumb Petite,
Elixir is on the rails, as Glutus finds his feet.
But Winkle’s out in front, and seems he’s got a head’o’steam.
The outer’s roaring, he’s the favourite- every punters dream.
Then further back than a python’s arsehole, as they round the rails,
there’s a Mare with flair, and cute blonde hair whose gaining on the males.
And as sure as sure there’s cold shit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . inside a dead cat –
She passes Glutus, sits on winkle, winks at Portly Pat!
The punters get their poop in plaits, no ticket could be written,
She’s coming hard, and leads the pack, that scanty mare Squidge Mitten.
Then Quiff and then Elixir, are followed at the turn
by Crumb Petite and Glutus (Slyly Angus needs to burn).
Then quicker than a one-armed trombone player with the crabs,
It’s Crumb Petite, Elixir, Quiff – the lead is up for grabs.
But Winkle’s shot, and Slyly Angus aint got what it takes,
So Crumb Petite’s the winner of the annual Sir Loin Stakes.
And trumped by Monday's Experts, all the punters are complaining;
"Don't piss all over my back, mate, and tell me that it's raining!"
Yes, coming first, was Crumb Petite, Elixir, third Quiff,
and Glute was pantsed as Squidgy danced and winkle, he was stiff.
) I found it hard to keep strict metre without compromising on losing some clout that some of our very unique slang terms tend to have. There are some that are that sacred that there is just not to be any tooling with them whatsoever . There is a whole plethora of slang out there - some not to everyone's taste, but I like to think we do our slang "culture" a service by using them and getting them out there (and avoid using some of the gawd-awful cliched ones that are just flogged to death every time we talk slang -sorta stuff like the first line -it's your fault Barry McKenzie!). A worthy and challeging topic, Maureen. Goodonya! The Sir Loin Stakes
M. Pattie
“OFF!” like a young brides nightie or some prawns left in the sun,
they’re running in The Sir Loin Stakes, the big race has begun.
And Winkle takes the lead, his jockey’s keen as bloody mustard;
all prick and ribs, just like a drover’s dog (but not as trusted).
And Glutus: The Big Stallion, sure he’s got his share of backers,
but many quip - he’d be more quick without them big Jatz Crackers.
And on his back is Portly Pat: a big boy for a jockey.
As ugly as a deep sea mullet, and built like big Joe Hockey.
And in the pack there’s Slyly Angus, Quiff and Crumb Petite,
Elixir is on the rails, as Glutus finds his feet.
But Winkle’s out in front, and seems he’s got a head’o’steam.
The outer’s roaring, he’s the favourite- every punters dream.
Then further back than a python’s arsehole, as they round the rails,
there’s a Mare with flair, and cute blonde hair whose gaining on the males.
And as sure as sure there’s cold shit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . inside a dead cat –
She passes Glutus, sits on winkle, winks at Portly Pat!
The punters get their poop in plaits, no ticket could be written,
She’s coming hard, and leads the pack, that scanty mare Squidge Mitten.
Then Quiff and then Elixir, are followed at the turn
by Crumb Petite and Glutus (Slyly Angus needs to burn).
Then quicker than a one-armed trombone player with the crabs,
It’s Crumb Petite, Elixir, Quiff – the lead is up for grabs.
But Winkle’s shot, and Slyly Angus aint got what it takes,
So Crumb Petite’s the winner of the annual Sir Loin Stakes.
And trumped by Monday's Experts, all the punters are complaining;
"Don't piss all over my back, mate, and tell me that it's raining!"
Yes, coming first, was Crumb Petite, Elixir, third Quiff,
and Glute was pantsed as Squidgy danced and winkle, he was stiff.
Joe Hockey as a jockey sets the mind a boggle. 
