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 
 

Slowly they turned and faced each other,
Like two maddened bulls ready for gore,
Tearing at turf, no place for mother,
There was one big fight for us in store.

The tension was palpable, crowd on edge,
The drought had worsened this Great Divide,
The two combatants symbolised the wedge,
Strong feelings they could no longer hide.

It all came down to the muster at Deni,
The place where all the brute utes meet,
These two stood out in a field of many,
Why had they decided to turn up the heat?

City versus Country, Coast versus Plain,
The differences were plain for all to see,
A feud that couldn’t be dampened by rain,
This would be well worth the entrance fee!

On the left, the ute from the city Big Smoke,
Lime green, with a bull bar ever so small,
Tinted windows, mags, right for town folk,
Most thought it was destined for a fall.

Atop this fine ute were things protruding,
Like a pin cushion its spikes ever so taut,
What’s the ute’s use? had all of us concluding,
Dubbed it ‘Echidna’, or ‘Echy’ for short!

On the right, the ute from the fabled Bush,
From somewhere west of Bullamakanka,
With a bar that’d give a big roo a push
Who’d want to call this ute a (bad name)?

This bush ute was not the latest version,
Seen better days, it was a right real ruster!
To young ladies it had a strong aversion,
Poor suspension made it a ‘filly buster’!

Facing they frantically spun each wheel,
Headlights eyeing each other for a flaw,
But neither moved forward to seal the deal,
A standoff reminiscent of the Cold War.

Slowly they dug themselves into the sand,
And there they stalled with no more in store,
With no crowd willing to give them a hand,
The standoff would now last for evermore.

So still they stand in the paddock at Deni,
Memorial to the folly seen by us all,
Near them a sign to be read by the many,
It reads: ‘United in sand, divided we stall’.

© Neil Dufty