Way out West where the droughts are always a menace,
People escape with a yarn and by playing some tennis,
The court is usually found next to the local small hall,
That is also used by some for the annual B & S Ball.
 
Who wins at our tennis it is extremely plain to see,
But the biggest contest happens prior to afternoon tea,
It’s in the kitchen where the battle will still be raging,
To cook the best offering, there’s plenty of upstaging.

Now Phoebe over there is the grazier’s wife,
She’s a true blue blood, if you’re to believe all the hype,
Her specialty is a sponge that tickles your fancy,
Although news is it’s cooked by a local lass named Nancy.

Poor Mona lives up to her name and no one does fear her,
She hangs with Old Bill, the shearer, struggling to hear her,
Her offering is some hot chips and those packet savoury dishes,
She’s even been known to bring a Cod, when Old Bill fishes.

The other ladies are married to men known as the ‘cocky’,
And their sweet servings never get a modicum of mockery,
As these wives conjure up plenty of the culinary delight,
All could win ‘the competition’ in their very own right.

But here’s the new teacher’s girl, her name is Roxy,
The gents are most interested and think she is foxy,
Whatever the dish she’s contrived it is very exotic,
Like Nigella, watching her cook would be highly erotic.

And now its afternoon tea, it will be hard for a fake,
Proof will be in the pudding, oops sorry, in the cake, 
The winner will be gauged by the amount of leftovers,
It looks like Roxy’s dish is where all the interest hovers.

And when it is over, judging by the many female looks,
They’re ready to question Roxy and get in their hooks, 
Instead of trying to rally and smash down some aces,
We may be watching cakes fly at about twenty paces!

© Neil Dufty