You’d better like your flatties,
If you’re coming to the shack,
You’d better like your sauso’s
And your lamb chops good and black.
You’d better like your screen doors
With a squeak and then a bang,
Your cricket match with salt
And your night’s sleep filled with sand.
You’d better like your mornings
Infused with motor oil,
And your evenings spiced with smoke
From the back deck mozzie coil.
You’d better like your children
Grubby, loud and tangle haired,
Your afternoons with snoozes
And your choccy soft and shared.
You’ll have to like your noons
With beers or bloody marys,
Your nights starlit, your books dogeared
Your spiders bloody scary.
Yes at the shack you’ll have to take
Your tea in mismatched cups,
Your towels with frays, your knives with blunt,
Your leavings with cleanups.
Categories: Stories & Poems