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

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