DRY ARGUMENT
Posted: Sun Mar 13, 2011 11:11 am
DRY ARGUMENT
If you blink Mate you will miss it – for it’s only pretty small
Just some empty shops, a phone box and a pub.
A deserted service station with graffiti on the wall
advertising nonexistent fuel and grub.
There’s a line of shackled poles like slaves all heading down the track,
joined at the neck with fetters made of wire.
And termite tombstones north south set, decaying back to back.
It is not a place that sparks a man’s desire.
Two crows stalked arrogant and black across the bitumen
to the stinking mass of road kill on the ground.
It was meals on wheels for this pair, natures garbage men
and both looked enraptured at what they’d found.
Mirages in the distance showed a blue and tree lined lake.
It’s amazing what the old heat hazes conjure.
But travel miles and miles and you will not its shoreline make
these mirages have lured men to death. No wonder.
With temperatures of forty plus the old pub looked inviting,
its old brown dog sleeping in shadowed shade.
On a bench an old bloke sat on the verandah unexciting,
drinking down the dregs of beer for which he’d paid.
I said ‘G’day Mate – Bloody hot - I hope the beer is cold
for I’ve a thirst the Murray Darling couldn’t quench’.
He mumbled something indistinct as to his feet he rolled;
near’ fell down the stairs stumbling from his bench.
I walked into the bar, which was old. Cleanness redeemed
its shabby walls, carpets and stools of dingy brown.
Colour co- ordinated with the dog – or so it seemed
in fact in retrospect it matched with the whole town.
‘What can I get you Mate?’ asked the bloke behind the bar
which I figured was a question just rhetorical;
for I figured cocktails never had been shaken out this far,
just Tooheys and Bundy – liquids metaphorical.
‘A beer Mate if you would and could I also have two pies
for I’m hungry as a horse and twice as dry’
‘No worries Mate’ he answered as he shooed away some flies
‘they won’t be long and they’re homemade – want chips or fries?’
The beer duly arrived it was the nectar of the Gods,
Foam topped and gold. Glass dripping with condensation.
We chatted as I drank – seems life had trampled him roughshod;
but we both enjoyed our easy conversation.
The pies were good. Homemade and big with rich brown gravy dripping
down the golden puffy pastry of their sides.
Cholestrol raisers? That they were – and there was sauce for dipping.
Ruby red, rich ripe tomato for the fries.
Stomach replete, and dry throat soothed – now came the bit I hated
but I had to do it – for there was no choice.
‘I’m sorry Mate’ I said as I sat there with breath baited
‘but the brewery have sent me. I’m their voice.
Your liquor licence soon runs out and they just won’t renew it
for I’m sure you realize your sales are down.
I know that it’s a bugger Mate – I’ve seen it oft before
each time a new road bypasses a town’.
He took it rather well I thought. He took it on the chin.
Took it like a man without a tear.
Well I guess he saw it coming and he knew he couldn’t win
No way you keep a pub that’s got no beer.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11
If you blink Mate you will miss it – for it’s only pretty small
Just some empty shops, a phone box and a pub.
A deserted service station with graffiti on the wall
advertising nonexistent fuel and grub.
There’s a line of shackled poles like slaves all heading down the track,
joined at the neck with fetters made of wire.
And termite tombstones north south set, decaying back to back.
It is not a place that sparks a man’s desire.
Two crows stalked arrogant and black across the bitumen
to the stinking mass of road kill on the ground.
It was meals on wheels for this pair, natures garbage men
and both looked enraptured at what they’d found.
Mirages in the distance showed a blue and tree lined lake.
It’s amazing what the old heat hazes conjure.
But travel miles and miles and you will not its shoreline make
these mirages have lured men to death. No wonder.
With temperatures of forty plus the old pub looked inviting,
its old brown dog sleeping in shadowed shade.
On a bench an old bloke sat on the verandah unexciting,
drinking down the dregs of beer for which he’d paid.
I said ‘G’day Mate – Bloody hot - I hope the beer is cold
for I’ve a thirst the Murray Darling couldn’t quench’.
He mumbled something indistinct as to his feet he rolled;
near’ fell down the stairs stumbling from his bench.
I walked into the bar, which was old. Cleanness redeemed
its shabby walls, carpets and stools of dingy brown.
Colour co- ordinated with the dog – or so it seemed
in fact in retrospect it matched with the whole town.
‘What can I get you Mate?’ asked the bloke behind the bar
which I figured was a question just rhetorical;
for I figured cocktails never had been shaken out this far,
just Tooheys and Bundy – liquids metaphorical.
‘A beer Mate if you would and could I also have two pies
for I’m hungry as a horse and twice as dry’
‘No worries Mate’ he answered as he shooed away some flies
‘they won’t be long and they’re homemade – want chips or fries?’
The beer duly arrived it was the nectar of the Gods,
Foam topped and gold. Glass dripping with condensation.
We chatted as I drank – seems life had trampled him roughshod;
but we both enjoyed our easy conversation.
The pies were good. Homemade and big with rich brown gravy dripping
down the golden puffy pastry of their sides.
Cholestrol raisers? That they were – and there was sauce for dipping.
Ruby red, rich ripe tomato for the fries.
Stomach replete, and dry throat soothed – now came the bit I hated
but I had to do it – for there was no choice.
‘I’m sorry Mate’ I said as I sat there with breath baited
‘but the brewery have sent me. I’m their voice.
Your liquor licence soon runs out and they just won’t renew it
for I’m sure you realize your sales are down.
I know that it’s a bugger Mate – I’ve seen it oft before
each time a new road bypasses a town’.
He took it rather well I thought. He took it on the chin.
Took it like a man without a tear.
Well I guess he saw it coming and he knew he couldn’t win
No way you keep a pub that’s got no beer.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11