ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

Nothing Beats A Bath

Stephen Whiteside 20.12.2012

You can talk of hot showers until kingdom come,
Controlling the flow at the touch of a thumb,
But nothing beats a bath.

They cover your skin from your head to your toe
With a scalding and steaming and modified flow
That is warmer or cooler or stronger or weak
From a stainless steel rose with a well designed leak,
But nothing beats a bath.

You can rant, you can rave till the cows all come home,
Till they move out once more the next morning to roam;
Till the horses come home, till the sheep and goats, too,
But none can deny that my sentiment's true.
You can talk till you're black and you're blue in the face,
In your chest, in your legs and, in fact, any place,
But nothing beats a bath.

You can sign a petition, or ring your MP.
Do what you like. It means nothing to me.
You can ring Channel 10, or a DJ shock jock.
You can give him a phone call and preach to his flock.
You can launch a campaign centred on my address
Till my letter box fills and the street is a mess
As the letters pile high and they spill in the gutter,
My ears are quite deaf to the words that you utter,
For nothing beats a bath.

You can travel to Canberra, squat on the lawn
Of Parliament House from red sunset to dawn;
Recruit the UN, and Barak Obama,
G. Reinhardt, A. Forrest, and even Clive Palmer;
Blackmail me, bribe me, threaten me death,
Shout for a fortnight and never draw breath;
Stick little pins through the nail of each finger;
Zap me with xrays like poor Maralinga;
Kick me and punch me and call me a stinker;
It'll have less effect than the cuss of a tinker
Because nothing beats a bath.

You can paint me with Vegemite, smear me with jam,
Spread peanut butter wherever you can,
Scratch all my vinyls and crush my cassettes,
Shred all my flowers and poison my pets;
Dig up my drive-way and chop down my home;
Launch an attack on the duco and chrome
Of my poor little car till it's sorry and sad,
Wound me severely, and say that you're glad;
You can poke out my eye-balls and cut off my ears,
Fill me with Bonox, impale me with spears,
Cut my veins open and drain me of blood;
Stomp what's remaining, what's left, in the mud,
But nothing beats a bath.

You can...
Oh, I think you get the general idea.

Well dear Dr. Stephen with this I agree.
I hate low flow showers they’re no good to me.
But make mine a spa bath please sir if you will
with lovely hot water and bubbles to spill
right over the edges and drop to the floor
if I made a leap to the bath from the door.
...
Nothing beats a bath.

Whenever I travel no matter how far
I must have a bath and it must be a spa.
And make sure the spa is filled right to the top.
The floor might get messy but I’ve got a mop.
And those are my rules for a hotel, it oughta’
have a deep bath – I don’t pay for the water.
...
And nothing beats a bath.

You sound like a hazard, Leonie!

Aaaaaagh!


You sit in a bath intending to get clean
but the water is cooling and run out of steam
and the dirt from your body now forms a grey scum
that floats on the water around boobs and bum.
I don’t get the point. How will this get you clean?
The water now scummy and somewhat obscene.
You might like your bath Mate but me I think not
I’d rather a shower be it cold or damn hot.

No, Maureen, baths are not about getting clean.

Aahhh …

But Maureen you see when the water turns scummy
and leaves half tide marks on your bum or your tummy
you pull out the plug and jump out of the tub
and into the shower to have a good scrub.

But don’t go forgetting that shower must be
a bloody full blast for the people like me
who hate the low flows and the dribbling woes
of a shower that can’t even wet all your toes.

…… Did I mention I hate low flow showers.

I had a bath once ‘twas ‘bout ten years ago,
I put in the bath salts and bomb
then stripped to the buff and lowered myself
into sweet water with great aplomb.
I lingered a while just enjoying the heat
as it soothed away my aches and pains
but alas when I tried to rise up on my feet
the vertical I could not attain.

I let out the water thinking that would help
but no purchase at all did I get.
I visualized friends breaking down my door
and me lying there pale, beached and wet.
I gave it some thought and scrabbled for the towel
which I placed in the slippery bath
then weak from enforced struggle in my escape
I got out and managed then to laugh.

But that was the last time I bathed my dear friend
for I’ve no wish a sight to inflict
on some poor helpless fireman who’d have to break in
on a female trapped in a bath slick.
So don’t give me bath salts, or bath bombs or oils
for I’ve no use at all for them now
and the dogs dislike being shampooed with the stuff-
they prefer scent of bovine – that’s cow.

Echoes of Banjo and Henry?

I have to admit nowadays I’m not fit
enough for the spa bathing ways.
I too have a job to get upright and sob
when I think I’ll be stuck there for days.

And the thing is so deep I could drown in my sleep
not to mention it’s murder to climb
but my memory’s clear of the days before fear
and how soaking in there was sublime.

Now the spa gathers dust as neglected spas must
and in spite of my full shower’s flaws
the water that’s saved now the spa is not braved
means I’m doing my bit for the cause.

Leonie's chucked in the towel? Well, I hope it doesn't get wet!