Patterson's Banjo

[keats]

PATTERSON’S BANJO ©Neil McArthur 2010

Some people live their lives to help the poor, or aid the ill,
While others just exist to be a no good, useless dill;
Like the kid who lived nearby the Pub where I used to go
Who sat on his verandah playing his rotten, damn Banjo!

The year was 1880, in a little town near Orange
(And don’t think that I’m short a rhyme; my name is Albert Quarange)
Our town was pretty peaceful, not a gold-rush to be seen
We’d drink and fight, and fight and drink (then drink more in between)

Now, this kid was a nuisance, tone-deaf and not too smart
I’d often swerve to hit him, driving home my horse and cart;
But I’d only ever hit a dog, and that just egged him on
He sat and wrote a bloody banjo-pickin’ ‘Dead Dog’ song!

My mates, they never worried, they just let this young brat go
But me, I truly hated that nerve-wrenching damned Banjo;
There’s times in life a man must do just what a man must do
Like killing the mongrel sitting, playing a Banjo twelve-bar Blues.

But I would not overdo it, I’m not a merciless louse,
(So I only took one gun along, when I ventured to his house)
He sat there playing his new song, some ‘Waltzin’-bloody-Matilda’
So I stood there right in front of him and said “I’m here to kill ya!

“I come from Snowy River,” I lied, “where the men are tough as can be
And my mate from the Overflow, Clancy, will bury your body for me!
I shaved a man from Ironbark once; tried cutting his throat” I said
“And I christened your neighbor McGuinness with a bottle, over the head!

“And I’ll do you too, ya little pest!” I stated to his face
“So get on ya Mulga Bill’s bicycle and nick off out of this place;
And take that bloody Banjo too, right out to Kiley’s Run
Or me and my old mate Saltbush Bill will put you to the gun!

“So get out of town and don’t come back, or you’ll find out how Gilbert died!”
This kid scribbled down everything that I said, “What was that last one?” he cried
“Just get out of town while you’ve still got time or I’ll throw you out, and you know it!
You can’t play the Banjo or write bloody song and God strike me, you ain’t no Poet!!”

Well, that brat still sat there, scribbling out notes, oblivious to my bragging
So I grabbed young Patterson by the throat until he started gagging;
Then I threw him into the rose bush, raised his Banjo in the air
Then brought it down, a sickening crunch, and smashed it on his chair

The kid was scared and pale, as white as a snow covered Phantom
So I picked my faithful shotgun up and started blasting at random;
He grabbed his notes and ran the run of a rat from a sinking ship
Then bolted up the road , those notes clenched tightly in his grip

I went back and told the blokes in the bar, they tap-danced around the floor
Cheering the news that they wouldn’t have to suffer that Banjo no more;
“He had no talent,” I said to them, “and nothing between the ears.
Banjo Patterson, we’ll hear of no more - he’s got no original ideas!”

[Neville Briggs]

That's a good bush yarn Neil.

Do you know where Banjo Paterson is buried ?


Neville

[keats]

In the ground?

[Maureen K Clifford]

See how clever us bush poets are Neville - who would ever have thought of that

Now Neil that was a great yarn - although NOT HAPPY about running down the dog Mate.

Neville the answer to you question is

Paterson died of a heart attack in Sydney on 5 February 1941 aged 76. Paterson's grave, along with that of his wife, is in the Northern Suburbs Memorial Gardens and Crematorium, Sydney.

Cheers

Maureen

[Neville Briggs]

I left myself open for that one

That's right Maureen, a sort of a anticlimax for a man who is regarded as a maker of the bush legends.

[Heather]

You're a bit scary Keats!

Heather

[r.magnay]

..Nah Heather, like most Mexicans he's just full of it....

[Glenny Palmer]

Patterson.............oooh scratch scratch.....funny az though....scratch.....

[Bob Pacey]

I don't think it was that Paterson Glenny so Patterson is ok. sometimes it is ok to put Patterson and other times it is not ok to write Patterson. if it is not the Paterson that all us poets know.


Ok


Bob