In this bleak limpet on a blown volcanos lip
there have been those whose shoulders wore a chip,
in past times they have scratched the itch
and in sour verse they had a bitch
and rightly so because it’s required
or else this village makes you tired.
So in respect to those who fought
the fight of warring schemes of thought
I will add a few brief lines
and try to keep it mostly kind.
There is a certain style of bloke
whose inner light is probably broke,
a flat screen holds his eyes on stalks
and he blathers on with grog fueled talk.
He has a team and lurks in a crowd
and sometimes is a bit too loud –
Whaddaya eh? You’re living in Pig Island State
where boys are boys, and mates will be mates.
Yet if his style gives you the creeps
he’ll get a free pass from his peeps
What did she expect from this red blooded stag?
He’s not some mincing PC fag –
It was HER fault, the dirty wench,
so leave our fella on the bench
to sleep off his inner reptile brain
for this basic model feels no shame.
He leads a rather dim lit life
filled with noise and cash and strife,
he listens to the FM buffoons
and cranks up all their shitty tunes
He loves the crook for whom he labours
and thinks his pay check is a favour,
he struts the town tanked up on piss
but finds it hard to land a kiss.
Takes pride in things he doesn’t know,
and swims the way the river flows.
If you feed him pies and games
occasionally some rock star gone lame
he’s happy as a little boy
with a row of matchbox toys.
Votes with the boss and quick to sneer
at greenies, pinkos, blacks and queers
this rugged dude may look self reliant
but everyday is most compliant.
His taste runs to things that make a bang
and drop things dead or go kerrang.
He has some shades and a smartphone,
lives on a card that gives him loans –
he thinks he’s on the winning side
and may think this until he has died,
playing a part that he was handed
with half a brain stamped and branded
he’ll roar with glee about tits and bums
that magnify his cred with chums.
And if some nights he’s so scared he cries
this is something he must hide
from others of his matey clique
because feeling is for weepy chicks.
I’m almost feeling sorry for
this hefty hairy snoring bore,
a real Kiwi through and through
swearing in a McDs queue.
And yet we all share this commonwealth
of moral swamps and rude ill health.
We have to stick it out and to him say,
we don’t like the way you play –
it’s your backward ways we query
because you make things f*****g dreary.