It is probably only Australians who can write poetry
about Australian icons that can be understood by Australians.
Poor old Granddad’s passed away, cut off in his prime,
He never had a day off crook, gone before his time.
We found him in the dunny, collapsed there on the seat,
A startled look upon his face, his trousers around his feet.
The doctor said his heart was good, fit as any trout,
The Constable he had his say, ‘foul play’ was not ruled out.
There were theories at the inquest, of snakebite without trace,
Of red-backs quietly creeping and death from outer space.
No-one had a clue at all, the judge was in some doubt,
When Dad was called to have his say as to how it came about.
‘I reckon I can clear it up,’ said Dad with trembling breath,
‘You see it’s quite a story, but it could explain his death.
This here exploration mob were looking at our soil,
And they reckoned that our farm was just the place for oil.
So they came and put a bore down and said they’d make some trials,
They drilled a hole as deep as hell, they said about three miles.
Well, they never found a trace of oil and off they went, post haste,
And I couldn’t see a hole like that go to flamin’ waste.
So I moved the dunny over it, real smart move I thought,
I’d never have to dig again, I’d never be ‘caught short’.
The day I moved the dunny, it looked a proper sight,
But I didn’t dream poor Granddad would pass away that night.
Now I reckon what has happened, poor Granddad didn’t know,
The dunny was re-located when that night he had to go.
And you’ll probably be wondering how poor Granddad did his dash,
Well, he always used to hold his breath, until he heard the splash!’