More Poems by Wayne Pantell
“Donita – Don’t Hit a You Bruno!” Wayne Pantall © 10/9/08 You break a my favourite mirror. You kick a my Valiant door, part a my hair with da rolling pin, and knock a me on a da floor. Prettiest mirror in Noodelup, is broken - is break a my heart, because I get home at a midnight, my shirt a you rip it apart. One o’clock a now, in a da morning - You call a me ‘Bruno da Creep’. We plant a spaghetti tomorrow, and you need a da beauty sleep. Donita, stop a you hit a me. So I can a tell a you true. I was a no drink a very much, and I was a think a of you. I bring a nice a rose a for you. Is in a da back o’ da ute. I get a – you let a me get up. I give a you – don’t a you shoot. Donita, Darling, I love a you. Donita, please calm a you down. I was a Good Samaritan. I help a da lady in town. She lose a da keys in a da dark, at da back of da Sportsmens’ Club. We look a together for find them. Grass a long out back of da pub. We can a no see – we must a we feel. We go down on da hands and knees. Donita, put a da shotgun down. No shoot a – no kill a me please? We was fall and got a da scratches. We tangled a little bit up. She was a spill da vino on me, when she was a drop a da cup. She think was Russell - snake in da grass, and was hold a on me so tight. I squeeze a for help a excitement. She get a then better alright. So, why you now hurt a your Bruno, when I’m a try be nice a man? I like a to help a da people. All a time do best a I can. Donita, give me da hockey stick. We kiss and make up on da couch. Donita is all a big mistake. I’m a love a you, Darling – OUCH!!! waynepantall@westnet.com.au www.bushverse.com/pantall Spaghetti Cup to Noodelup. Wayne Pantall 21/6/08 ‘Noodelup’ this year, have won the prized ‘Spaghetti Cup’ as the top team in the ‘Pasta Valley League’. They rolled ‘Lasagne Flats’ on the road to hold it up, where they shook off injury and deep fatigue. They’d used their noodles well, to hang up ‘Salamidale’. and had ‘Digitup’ trip up, into a hole. ‘The Noodels’ pulled their corks out, to win at ‘Vinovale’, when ‘Big Bulging Bruno’ saved another goal. On the day at ‘Cowdung Hill’, at war with ‘Gumboot Creek’, who play hard, and work and live, in deep black mud, a Gumboot in the melons, dropped Bruno with a shriek, as the fans from Noodelup all called for blood. There our hero, in his pain, face down on ‘Cowdung Hill’ slowly rubbed his altered ego back to shape. He took a swig of Grappa, to reinforce his will, spat potato out, and grunted like an ape. Suction from the mud and dung, could not hold Bruno long, as he staggered to his feet and took a pass. He bolted down the fence line – in pain to right the wrong - slammed the melon home, and back-flipped on his (gr)arse. ‘Noodelup’ went crazy as the cowbell signalled time. All the Valiants and Fiats tooted loud. Thanks to that Bruno melon –his rocket through the slime, ‘The Spaghetti Cup’ was hoisted to the crowd. Now in Pasta Valley where our top spaghetti grows, where the spuds, the milk and vino are the best, The locals have a hero, and as the vino flows, (Squeaking) Bulging Bruno, bulges out his chest.	Noodelup Growers’ Market (The pride of Pasta Valley)  © Wayne Pantall 24/7/08. The experts have raved and they’ve ranted, since the valley’s first noodle was planted, that our soil is unique – it’s a pasta boutique. But we know that, and take it as granted. Our pasta is poetry to us. If we had nothing else, it would do us. We all buy swap and sell – “Mister Big - Go to hell!” We won’t let a duopoly screw us. At the Noodelup Growers market, where they’ll load an old truck up and park it, in the rush for the bays, by the sellers, most days the slow’ll miss out for they’ll shark it. The place is a hotbed of action, for that grower direct satisfaction. Come and buy - come and sell – sing and dance –ring your bell, At’ Spaghettidom’s’ major attraction. Pasta Valley’s best chutneys and jams, Local grappa, pickled peppers and hams, Salamidale porkers - fair dinkum - they’re corkers. And there’s live marron, fresh yabbies and clams. Spaghetti Seed Row is a ‘must see’. Prima Quality there – you can trust me. You should take a bag home – to mix in to the loam. If I load any more, it could bust me. You’ll not see Fettaccini like it, growing so tall, that lightning could strike it. Best of Pasta Valley - it’s right up your alley, with a flavour so loud you could mike it. Cappellini - grown to perfection, from the Angel Hair - Capel selection. Why not pick a few through, you can nibble and chew? Take a sample – there’ll be no objection. Bruno Bulgianato da Licra is one cutting edge farmer who’ll strike ya. On his Valiant ute - oh so purple and beaut. As the star of the show, he’ll excite ya. Now look what he’s got on his trailer - Supaghetti cut fresh from the bailer. It’s the best in the land - that’s why Bruno will stand On his soap box to use his loud hailer. He’ll gene splice a product to suit ya. He grows chillies to ‘electrocute’ ya. From his big bulging stall, his display will enthrall of such noodles that would ‘convolute’ ya. His spiral crop this year came early, from his twisty seeds - robust and curley. And it grew left hand thread, with a good nutty head, with a bronze texture - glossy and burly. The paddock where all Bruno’s sauce grows - Bolognase, Carbonara, Alfredo’s, has been worked to it’s peak, from the hill to the creek. Now it’s ‘superbo’ sauce for the Gringos. It’s ‘Noodelup Fresh’ for all shopping, where the roo meat is so fresh - it’s hopping. Invest in your locals – support your own yokels - and you’ll keep ‘your’ community bopping. waynepantall@westnet.com.au www.bushverse.com/pantall
Bulging Bruno. Wayne Pantall - 22/11/06 Bulging Bruno (Lycra Man), Penelope’s ‘Pers’nal Trainer’, keeps her ‘looka soo bootiful’ - she gives a ‘retainer’. Hubby, (Richard) tries, but he’s a busy corporate head. Bruno knows just what she needs to “looka sooo good” he said. She has ‘extended training’, in his ‘special sicret gym’, for frequent ‘one on one’ work outs – to “ keepa you een trim”. Pru and Candice feel that Penny gets too much attention. But their private ‘two on ones’ with Bruno, they don’t mention. As money’s not an object to ‘The Bulge’s’ clientele, luscious lovely loaded ladies let his ego swell. He runs his dozen damsels down the dunes onto the beach, along the road, up through the park, and ‘interacts’ with each. They jog in their bikinis – Bruno, in his leotard. He has his agile angels doing push-ups in the yard. His girls are feeling muscle tone they’ve never felt before. The ‘big boy’ has them stretching into shapes that men adore. Bruno’s bulging body bits will shine with fragrant lotion, ‘til his circus, all abreast, then plunges in the ocean. His babes all have a hand in oiling Bruno up once more. As each will get her weekly pers’nal massage free, for sure. Big Bruno makes appraisals of Penelope’s muscle tone, so when he gives a score of ten, he’s bound hit the zone. And Roger, Bruno’s gym-jock mate, cannot help but agree. For he rubs down the girls himself, to keep each body free. Each working day of ev’ry week, in lycra cammo tights, his fluoro singlet all aglow, and all a-bulge in lites, with pounding pod of princesses, our pretty prancing prince, may bounce by before breakfast, and you’ll bet you’re off your quince. Now Bruno’s wife is lonely, in response to his neglect. But her boss, (Richard) ‘understands’ – they’ve mutual respect. The pair have ‘closely bonded’ and put passion in their task, of ‘working on projections’ late, as corporations ask. “It’s unfair Richard - you’re so fit, yet, don’t work out”, says Pen, while Bruno pushes me so hard to reach my score of ten”. “We must all make more sacrifice”, ‘Dear Dickie’ does divulge, “as one and all are players in ‘The Battle of the Bulge’. waynepantall@westnet.com.au  www.abc.net.au/greatsouthern/poems.htm	If God was to be Elected A God given Aussie muse by Wayne Pantall - 20/1/08 If God was to be elected, to govern for all of the world, with truth a consideration, and will of free hearts unfurled, by honesty, free of all threat, without fear at choosing to think - confidence in sincerity, and freedom to search for the brink … Many are born to fear diff’rence, so snuff out alternative views, by snuffing life from opponents, yet pray on their mats or on pews. If God was to be elected, with all of us given free choice, would honesty become Satan, or would it deny us a voice? If spirits lined up on the stage, to engage in the big debate, would we all see what isn’t there, as we question each candidate. Should we surrender choice at the vote, - submit to manipulation, how might free spirit unity, return to the population? If each gave a presentation, with no promise – only on fact, and should God-elect fail mid-term, would we say “Go mate – you’re sacked?” How long between each election – would all of the world disagree, on who has high authority - and who would the scrutineer be? If all Gods man has invented, were at the polls - put to the test, cold hard physical evidence, might determine which God is best. How much hypocrisy’s OK, so each allocation’s the same? How many Gods in the ballot - how many would be just a name? With thousands of Gods created - many thousands of years gone by, no one’s invented the top god, who’s accepted by all – and Why? If we have dreams in our minds’ eye, and pick out the bits to suit self, Gods and Goddesses would differ, as Santa Claus does from an elf. ‘Literal interpretation’, opposing the ‘metaphor mob’, reading “the word” man has written – should ‘Greens in between’ get the job? If God gets to be elected, by each from one’s true point of view, who can demand what you’ll believe? The whole belief thing’s up to you!
Plugger Bill’s Banjo Wayne Pantall - 11/10/07 "Come here young fella," said old Plugger Bill. "There’s a banjo for you here, and play it you will. I’ll teach you how, to play music so sweet, on a number five banjo, as you shovel wheat." Old Plugger Bill Collard thus showed the way, to a fifteen year old, on his first working day. "Reg is conductor – he gave you the job, in this travelling show, with the CBH mob." "You’ll play in ‘The Gang’ now, for Allan, our boss. Be on time and in tune lad – we don’t want him cross. This here’s ‘Old Dick’, and young Gazza you know. Because he’s my nephew - gotta keep him in tow." "We’re on a road trip - like ‘Slim Dusty’s Show’, and performing in places that Slim doesn’t know. The ‘Late Sixties Tour’ – you’re now in our band. Better get on the truck, but first give me a hand." "I’m not as agile as I used to be. Though I make lovely music, so listen to me. Boss and old codgers in front, by the way. You two scally-wag boys, always ride on the tray." Rotten grain, mouldy grain, weevils in lumps, we took from all sidings, out to all the town dumps, Banjos kept swinging, in dusty refrain, from the Lakes and Great Southern, to encores of grain. Itchy oats, Malathion, hot tin and flies. The race to roof the pig-pens, knew no compromise. Long days in hot sun to beat summer storm. We were roofing wheat-mountains, and had to perform. Plugger, the old bloke was teaching us life. How to work for a living and stay out of strife. Wisdom in humour, made green young men think, about when to work, how to play, when not to drink. Plugger’s green pasture had not been far off, But we laughed as we learned, as we drank from his trough. Now I play solo – the old ‘Gang’ long gone. But the rhythm of Plugger Bill’s banjo rolls on.	The Gospel o’ Billy O’Tea. Wayne Pantall - 15/7/07 Billy O’Tea is an old mate o’ mine, and if he says “It’s dinkum” well by me it’s fine. When Billy’s on song, believe what you will, but “It’s dinky-di Gospel”, according to Bill. What’s dinkum to Mathew, Mark, Luke and John, isn’t always the same track that Billy is on. But this is true blue, cos Billy told me. It’s the “fair dinkum gospel” o’ Billy O’Tea. There’s been the time, I was loath to agree, when the smoke from his campfire, made points hard to see. But Billy explains, while bubbling away, “It’s as dinkum as I’m sitting with you today”, Bill’s waltzed Matilda, with ‘wee Nipper Scotch’, from Wyndham down to Walpole, with nary a botch. With Nipper beside, as “spiritshul guide”, who will stoke up his coals, when his spirits subside. He tells of the Banjo, Henry, J C, when he’s pouring his soul out, to old mugs like me. If “it’s honest to God”, Billy can tell. And he’ll pick out the knot from the yarn, just as well. I recall once, as we sat down to tea, when he told us how ‘Gotchas’ will hide up a tree. To flickering flames, his eyes became wide, with his ashen face grateful for Nipper beside. Be it ‘Albany Road’, ‘Bluey McNab’, or old ‘Hobo the Bitza’ - attention he’ll grab. So sit for a yarn, as Billy warms up. Give a rest to Matilda and pass Bill your cup. As age wearies me, my wallaby tires, and I think I can feel when my rego expires, I know the one thing to comfort me still is the “dinky-di Gospel“, according to Bill.
As Race Director of Masters Athletics WA's 25 km Road Running Championship, I had an interesting time marking out the new course this year. Picture this: The Legfoot Mob of MAWA. The Legfoot Mob of MAWA planned a run through Lilliput. They were bold at heart, keen of mind, and very fleet of foot. They’d run along the riverside, a-celebrating life, as they do eve’y Sunday, somewhere new, devoid of strife. The old fogies of MAWA take no chances when they run. So scouts go out to check the course is safe for ev’ryone. The mission plan has little arrows showing all the way, In case some loping, legfoot lass or lad should run astray. Precautions must be taken to avoid the Ipod gangs, with plugg-ed ears and block-ead eyes, which easily cause prangs. So marshals must be mustered there, to manage danger zones, from leash-less, lurking Labradors, and folks on mobile phones. And big bold blokes, on bell-less bikes, who zoom up from arrears, Can spook a tight-knit Legfoot bunch, and trip them on their ears. Legfutians are responsible and cautious, by and large. But rile ‘em up and hinder ‘em, can bring an ANZAC charge. So it was, one took offence, at his interrogation, when captured by the Sheriff – a tricky situation. Caught, fluoro green-handed, pioneering ‘May (Not) Lands’, and painting little arrows for the charging Legfoot bands. The handsome prince, in recce mode, was marking out the course, when up plodded the Sheriff of ‘May (Not) Lands’ on his horse. "Allo, allo, allo, allo, wot you got in your ‘ands? Do you ‘ave p’mission from the King of ‘May (Not) Lands?" The prince espoused the virtues of the caring Legfoot mob. Explaining that if he had doubts, he should ring ‘Uncle Bob’. "But do you ‘ave p’mission?" was the only line he knew, as life took on some purpose, with this ‘criminal’ in view. ‘Graffiti Vandal Captured’, read the entry in his book. ‘I never even cast me line –this fish jumped on me ‘ook.’ "But do you ‘ave p’mission?" ran the mantra through his head, as handsome prince, through ‘May (Not) Lands’, on deadly-treadly, sped. All is calm in May (Not) Lands, our twenty five kay’s looming, but eight o’ clock on Sunday morn, you’ll see Legfoots zooming. The spirit of the MAWA mob, will burst out with the gun. So come and join the Legfoot Mob of MAWA when we run. Wayne Pantall ã 19/6/07 waynepantall@westnet.com.au   The Royal Flying Interest Group The Royal Flying Int’rest Group, it’s int’resting to note, is int’rested in saving lives, it’s int’resting to quote. And just out of interest, it may run out of fuel, if int’rest lacks in funds from tax, to support our jewel. Our loyal Flying Int’rest Group, needs more than wing and prayer to keep her services aloft, providing hope and care. Friends and family from afar, cannot all ring Saint John so they must plead for God to speed the Flying Doctor on. The Flying Doctor (Int’rest Group) must therefor plead for cash to buy the things that save our lives, thanks to their mercy dash. Within the queue of int’rest groups, Doc begs for surplus slice. “Don’t wanna stir, but Minister – Some AVGAS would be nice.”  19/5/08	“Noah Fence.”   A Narrogin bloke, old Noah Fence, is pretty close to God. He hears voices we can’t hear. Some folks find that odd. He was dinkum when he told me this, ‘cause he’s got a direct line. God rings him up quite often, and says “Noah you’re doin’ fine. You strive for mediocrity. It’s not your fault you fail. You’ve had the toughest gig on earth, and preach to no avail. From Albany to Quairading, they’re causing me concern. The collection plates are mouldy. A mere pittance do I earn.”   “From Ravensthorpe to Frankland; Collie to Lake King, I haven’t heard a choir for months. No one comes to sing. So get yourself a decent mutt, that heels and kneels and prays, and round up all the heathens. It’s time they changed their ways. Go grab Digger Posthole, who drives the Wagin bus, Phil Emin and Andy Mann. These blokes I can sus. Fence off moral high ground, we’ll put good Christians there. We’ll draft and sort the sinners out, who’ve caused me such despair.”   “I’ll have to drench this mob again, like I did back in BC. Put razor wire around this fence. There’s no escape from me. I had to send me young bloke down, two thousand years ago. This time it’s Saint Peter’s turn, and he’ll say yes or no. I can’t afford an ark and flood, and the stock has not been sinning. But I must flush out bad habits, from joints like Popanyinning. Noah! Get on the gate with Pete. The mutt can push ‘em through. Town by town from A to Z. Oi, Albany! Start with you.”   From towns as far as Shakemup, and Wakemup they came. From Bangemin and Scrubemup, he called ‘em all by name. Right down through the alphabet, by road and railway line. This God almighty round up, flushed ‘em out to stop decline. They were sorted out and purified. Good Lord, there were some shockers. The ones already squeaky clean, were God’s own Freo Dockers. Eagle fans would not scrub up. They don’t make stuff that strong. Saint Pete cried “Hell! God help this lot. Quickly, move along”.   Mount Barker, Cranbrook, and Tambellup, went to a separate pen. They took one look at Boyup Brook, and ran ‘em through again. Lake Grace, Hyden, Corrigin, Kojonup and Kulin, all got dunked an extra time, to show God wasn’t foolin’. Nyabing, Pingrup, Ongerup, Gnowangerup, and Jerry, got Solvol soap and wire brush, and scrubbed till cheeks were cherry. On Brookton, Broomehill, Beverley, Bridgetown, Boddington, Borden, Bremer, they scrubbed so hard to clean ‘em up, the earth began to tremor. Rocky Gully, Kendenup, Dumbleyung and Darkan, got tossed in with Newdegate, and then they threw a shark ‘n. Katanning, Denmark, Yealering, Williams, Wicky, Woody; They checked them all out pretty close, and rarely found a goody. Kukerin, Walpole, Pingelly, Wandering and Cuballing, came through in the last mob, (with a stray down from Goomalling). They hosed the evil off the good, and sorted right from wrong. The air was thick with bull manure. It gave off quite a pong.   They drenched with holy water, to put ‘em on the level. A task made far more complex, by Noah’s new dog, Devil. The mutt worked like a Demon, and took the hindmost for his own. He ran them down a separate chute, lined with hot brimstone. “I’d swear I had a damned lot more,” God scratched his beard in shock. “That red mutt Devil’s a fiery brute. He’s nicked ‘em from me flock, and run ‘em off to Christ knows where. The mob is getting littler. I reckon I’d be better off, to contract Adolf Hitler.”   As Devil ran the Lawyers down his chute, from whence they came, “The job’s complete”, the boss told Pete, “without the ark and rain.” Digger, Phil and Andy Mann, stood there looking smug, gazing over their handy work, at all the holes they’d dug. “Now listen up.” God told them all. “I’ve spared your souls this way. ‘Cause this was just a dummy run, for the judgement day. So take a long hard look, inside your hearts and souls. Then whip yourselves back into line, or dance on red hot coals.”   “Help family, school, club and church. Support the local the pub. Change your selfish greedy ways, or you’re all back in the tub. What you give is what you get. For God’s sake be objective. Do your best for all concerned, and keep me in perspective. The Angels of Porongurup, do Stirling work down there. Link Twin Creeks with heaven, so Mother Nature won’t despair. The Aquafest can go ahead. I’ll ensure that they get water. The Woolorama too can stay, but behave like you oughta.”   The Lord looked down across the crowd, and made notes in his book, in case some reach the Pearly Gates, he’d take another look. “I let you off the hook this time. Only God knows why. So take pride in your region. Now go forth and multiply. And, in case you lose the link to me, and wind up in the oven, my new Angels take inquiries, at ABC Great Southern.” If you see an old bloke by his fence; red dog with wagging tail, check the name upon the gate. It might read “Noah Vale.”
The Town of Accoladia    The town of Accoladia had bought a neon sign, which came in at a bargain price - and what a grand design. But who’s name would best fit the thing, and who should shine on high - upon the screen upon the hill – and did it matter why?     The town of Accoladia was set to have a vote. They jockeyed for position and all thunk hard for a quote. The race to lead the punters, and to have one’s name in lights, took on a new dimension, at the Tuesday council nights.     Each week the Accoladians, would read their local rag. Might it be a Wonderman, or would it be a dag? Would they vote with conscience, or would they vote in block - for left or right or centre, and each other’s choices, mock?     Now, how would Bloggsville fit the sign – and how would Smithtown go? Mister, misses, Miss or Ms, or what about Joe Blow? The folk of Accoladia - the punters as they might, still helped each other selflessly and saw each other right.     A members meeting up the creek, was where they would decide upon the words, upon the sign, and who would burst with pride. Lightning flashed as storm cloud blew – a thunder bolt went “BANG” Then came the mighty flooding rain, as loud the church bell rang.     In darkness, as the torrent rose, they scrambled for the boat. “Which way will we row” they cried “We’ll have to take a vote”. The right voted for this way, whilst the left voted for that. So round in circles Council spun, thus deepening the spat.     “We must get back to Chambers to ensure our sign’s OK. But how will we get back on course if we keep on this way?” A distant generator noise, and beacon split the night. “WELCOME TO ACCOLADIA - WHERE TOWNSFOLK SEE YOU RIGHT!”    Wayne Pantall ã 1/10/05 waynepantall@westnet.com.au	G'day Debbie, Here's some Traditional Aussie romance for Valentine's Day. Cheers, Wayne ‘This Year’s Valentine.’ (Me Current Missus) Me Current wife’s a beauty, so she’s this year’s Valentine. With elevated status, she’s no middy – she’s a Stein. This sheila’s up there with ‘em, so she’s got me vote this year. The clip-clop of her wooden peg, is music to me ear. She’ll proudly walk behind me, with the Esky and me kids. And roll me smokes before I ask – I wouldn’t swap for quids. I love the way she eyes me off – her glass eye even glows. And when she gives that toothless smile, I love her cute flat nose. Some tarts I’ve had, got uppity, and tried to run the show. A bloke would be a drongo not to tell them where to go. This sheila doesn’t try to lead, she knows to stay behind. She’s noticed that it’s smarter when you’re nearly deaf and blind. My secrets are all safe with her, cos this bird’s not a talker. My record’s in the bottle now – she’s a bloomin’ corker. I never hear her whinge at morning when she loads the ute, before she brings me brekky in – so cute and beaut and mute. She mixes concrete expertly, and without a mixer, lays a thousand bricks a day, then helps the ceiling fixer. You don’t find many like her, and she won’t stop till I’ve said. She’ll only pause to wipe the sweat away from her bald head. Because she’s ‘This Year’s Valentine’, I’ll knock off some flowers, And give her breakfast in her bed, and let her sleep for hours. We‘ll share the day together, and I won’t send her to work. We’ll bask in love and harmony - together we will shirk. Between us we’ve a pair of legs, ‘cos I’ve got one leg too. So Darling, you can lean on me and I’ll hang on to you. Today you are my Valentine – let us both get blotto. And celebrate the million bucks, you just won on Lotto.  Wayne Pantall 11/Feb/ 07 waynepantall@westnet.com.au
“Father’s Day.”   Our Father, who’s out in the shed, today we’re sorry, for some things we said. Giving thanks, to the provider, we support Dad, as our rank outsider.   Dismissing flatulence and burps, ignoring the way, he dribbles and slurps, it’s quite clear, he’s less than regal. In a Dockers’ house, he’s merely an Eagle.   Don’t forget him on Father’s day. Get him a gismo, to keep him away, down in the shed, where he belongs, dressed in new undies, hankies and thongs.   A doover-lacky ought to do. He needs things to fix, to bolt and to screw. First to the wall, then to the floor, up on the bench top, right next to the door.   His special day; show him we care. We love him,    (to spend lots of time down there). A toaster, and jug, just for the shed. They should do the trick. He’ll leap out of bed.   Every day, out of our way, Yet still at our call, when there’s bills to pay. Buy an old fridge, a lounge and telly, a home brew kit, to comfort his belly.   Trust in father to weedeth our plants. for Mother it is who weareth the pants; who cracketh the whip, and calleth the shots; reigneth supreme, to tie Dad up in knots.   “Dearest Father, deep in manure, In love, and infection, always so pure. Man of the moment, man of steel. Manifest in compost – more than appeal.   On this day, in this September, We’ll pamper you, and also remember, aroma aside, we won’t turn our nose up, ‘cause we want your loot, when you turn your toes up.”	“The Legend of Uppy Day.”   Uppy Day Sheepy, as a rousie could gloat, for he knew a sheep, from a cow and a goat. He stood four foot nine, and weighed six stone three, chock-a-block with sponge cake, and audacity. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with a fleece. He could pick up a belly, and round up the geese. He’d learned to tell, a comb from a cutter, but cute cuddly bah lambs, made his heart flutter.   Uppy Day Sheepy, was a soul to be feared. Where chooks must be plucked, or sheep must be sheared. He controlled sheep as if they were dazed. Paul, Mort and Dudley, were simply amazed, to see woolly sardines, from roof down to floor. They had to crutch faster, or he’d pen up more. Sheep pushed the roof up, and bulged out the walls. So Dudley had Mort’s sheep, and Morton got Paul’s.   Uppy Day Sheepy, had filled in that day. ‘Cause the regular Rousie, had just run away. He couldn’t keep pace, with this trio of guns. So they brought the young bloke, and thought they’d have fun. But oh, what a dreadful mistake they had made. ‘Cause he worked like a demon, and had them afraid, they’d be buried beneath, a mountain of sheep. It was all they could do, to keep crutching and weep.   A great woolly wall, appeared in the shed. To slow for an instant, meant they’d have been dead. But how did he do it? The three cursed and swore. By stopping to look, they’d be squashed to the floor. But just after dark, when he’d stopped for a wee. The men snuck a squizzy, ‘twas something to see. Our gun penner-upper, was down on all four. A sheep-whisp’rer working, they’d not seen before.   They heard “Uppy day sheepy, please go in the pen? If you don’t go nicely, I won’t be your friend. If it’s no trouble, would all your mates go? I know it’s the weekend; the shearers are slow. But, please understand, sheepy why we have come? I’m sure you don’t like, having flies round your bum. The shearers are nice men; my Dad and his mates. They’ve come here to groom you. Please pop through the gates.”   So the legend of Uppy Day, spread through the land. Never had logic yet, penned up a lamb. Never had three shearers, been so dumb struck, or in awe of true brilliance, knee deep in muck. Never would Morton, or Paul take the mickey, or Dudley let their normal bloke take a sickie. They’d learned to respect, in a new kind of way. Our champion Rousie; the great Uppy Day.   Wayne Pantall ã 1/9/04 waynepantall@westnet.com.au