BUNDEMAR STUD

Like me, my paltry poems are based on my paltry life.

BUNDEMAR and the Body’s. BOONOKE AND OTWAY FALKINER.

AS a young bloke I lived in many places in N.S.W. I attended no less than 14 Schools, or had Correspondence School in some cases. WE lived along the east coast, the central and far west of our great state. We lived at / on sheep stations, dairy farms, villages and cities.

Some schools were re-visited, like Plunkett Street Woolloomooloo, and Darlinghurst Jnr. Technical School, and while many of my school friends were ethnics, immigrants and ‘refos, lebo’s, wogs, itie’s, four be two’s, slope’s. Did I know, or cared back then, about these awful derogatory terms?

The answer is a resounding NO! They were all my school friends. 15 nationalities went to “Plunko” and “Darlo”, some of their parents could not speak ‘proper English’. My attitude today has not changed, well, except for KIWI’S. They can’t play Cricket, and their dog’s cant fight.

My Auntie Kina Wharepapa would kill for me saying this, but her Maori wisdom and humor have rubbed off, I loved my Kina, Kia Ora lovely lady.

So anyway this poem, this “crappy bushy poem”, is about another friend I met.

THE BUNDEMAR STUD, aka, MY MAN THE RAM.

City folk, what a joke, wouldn’t know your up ‘em ‘till you coughed.

Who am I, can’t tell a lie, quarter city three-thirds country, and the bush I dream of oft. (piss poor effort that).

Bugger me what an intro, but put your smirks aside and come outback with me. Let me tell you of the real men of the bush, wooly blokes they are, horny and roamin’ free.

Classic lines escape me now, some more chardonnay; my grammar may sound new. Eagles in my background, THEIR music, not the one’s that soar, and that will please many a wooly ewe.

So see me when I was a little tacker, baggy draws and Blackfriars Correspondence schooled. Lovin’ bush stuff, havin’ good times, believe me folks; the Merino, well he was the one, he ruled.

We moved from place to place, on my way to the esters I am bound. I had a galah for a pet, had a shangai and stones, the vast BUNDEMAR property I roamed around.

Then this little wooly lanolin enriched, testosterone bewitched, cloven hoofed bloke entered my very bein’ . I can see him getting the dock, retaining his precious cluster, so his pride will still be seein’.

(The ratbag was close by).

He was a little wooly bundle, like a puppy really, followed us all around the place. Me Mum and Dad and I on afternoons, down the creek, along the tracks, I swear I can see his innocent face.

The little bugger grew, we knew a time would come for us to feel some harrow, give way to his place on earth. The clue became evident; fall behind, sounds of quickening hoofs, shunt, on your bum, on his face the look of mirth.

He had a name, God knows what, Dad called him “ratbag”, and he grew and grew, and covered many a Ewe. He became an Aussie wooly bush hero, THE BUNDEMAR STUD, he sold at auction, and he was a record, 4500 guineas, gives or takes a few.