I will compare you to my computer, if I may?
You are more lovely and more considerate;
Rough deals and plenty of crud are on Ebay,
And I haven’t been able to find a cyber mate:

Sometimes it won’t turn on and wastes time,
And often its monitor screen goes dim;
And I think its ability has greatly declined,
Like a mobile phone with a faulty SIM;
 
But your very being will never ever fade
Nor lose possession of its sense of humour;
And I apologise for all the errors I’ve made,
Please delete, and assign them all to rumour:

So long as we can breathe and our eyes can see,
You will always be better than a machine to me.

© Neil Dufty 

Out West there’s a yarn to tell, just the one or the two,
The parched plains seem to breed the oddest of tale,
Stories about snakes, the roo and the outside loo too, 
But this one’s ‘bout a pig: his love of egg and an ale.

Now my friends I’ll try not to overdo the piggy-type pun,
No porky pies (oops), no tall stories, this one is no bull,
Now from all of my spies, our pig is a very big ’un,
And he drinks most men under till he’s all but full. 

How this pig originated who really knows how,
I won’t bore you with all the theories for now,  
Some say from a feral boar and a domestic sow,
There are some that say his mum was a cow!

Now they say that his looks are so hard to describe,
A mix of black and red and some flecks of off-white, 
He’s as tall as he’s wide, there’s just nothing to hide,
So there’s no chance at all he’ll be taking to flight.

Someone gave the name ‘Homer’ to this gargantuan pig,
No chance he was named after the wise scribe of yore,
So he must have been named after the show that is big,
As that Homer has no manners and will eat off the floor.

A pig of inaction he would stroll down the street, 
And would reach the pub door at four o’ the clock,
He’d always arrive, either in the cold or the heat,
And show he was there with a grunt and a knock.

When inside, being Aussies, the bar would all shout,
They’d share it around for the pig could not pay,
And he’d stick with the best before they threw him all out,
Egg centres and many beers he’d have all put away!

‘Centre of eggs’, you say, have you reason to doubt?
Yes, he’d crack the eggs open with his own massive snout,
And suck the middle out with his cavernous mouth,
Leaving all the whites over as trophy of his rout.

Now the story goes that a bloke from the big smoke,
Had been told of the porker with the liking of egg yellows,
And he thought he would buy Homer before he might croak,
Take him back to the city and brag to all of his work fellows.

Now before the flash dude could bring home the bacon,
As the bid was placed there were frowns all around,
‘Who could take an icon? This guy has to be fakin’!’
And without further adieu he was run out of town.

So news of the guy’s exit got to folk and their relos,
And all of the West now tells this big swine of a joke,
As the pig continues to slurp the beer and egg yellows,
It’s known as the joke ‘bout ‘buying a pig in the yolk’!

© Neil Dufty 

I almost did not make this poetry book,
These words were lucky to get a fair look,
And the indignity I will now have to face,
They placed me in this ‘Whatever’ space.

See I’m here just to make up the numbers,
A used car amongst brand new Hummers,
A poem that sadly is not seen as gloss,
I’m at a loss to see why I’m destined for dross.

I’m the B side on those forty five vinyls,
The tune that never makes best song finals,
And now with all that new technology,
I might not be included at all on CD.

I’m the film footage that you never did see,
That you would not even see if it was free,
I’m lying on the floor in that film archive hut,
Only to be shown if there’s a Director’s Cut.

I’m the bench player that never gets a go,
I’m sure I have got some talents to show,
There is a battle for others to be fought,
But all I do is clean up the court.

I’m the kid that’s picked last at our school,
Why do they think I’m some kind of fool?
So I can’t catch, when they play that game cricket,
But why make me stand there as their wicket?

So you might think I’m some kind of loser,
But before I get upset and totally lose it,
History serves up plenty of surprises:
The turnarounds, upheavals and reprisals.

See the Phoenix can rise from the ashes;
The flip side can become one of those hit smashes;
The bench player can get a chance and take it;
The kid can become a brain surgeon and make it.

And even you have read till the end of this poem,
It shows they were right to give it a poem home,
So it might be worthwhile for me to smile a while, 
For ‘losers can be grinners’ and ‘grinners are winners’!

© Neil Dufty 

Back in the 70s – the 19’ not 18’!
Sent to the Bush as a new school teacher,
I stood out in the local everyday scene  
Like a newcomer to Earth, an alien creature.

There’s not much to tell of that tin pot town, 
Nothing too memorable, nothing to excite,
My time in the place brought me to a frown,
It was a scene from that film ‘Wake in Fright’!

The town was such a long way from the coast,
No waves around there to wash over my feet,
The long, hot sun made me feel like burnt toast, 
The only waves near were those from the heat.

Now when I reached town I went to the local,
Thought that the pub was the best place to mix,
And I found the locals there extremely vocal,
When telling me how to give my love life a fix.

“Go to the dance – it is on Saturday night,
Down at the club, the place for you to be,
You’re sure to meet there the one that is right
And for all this fun, it is totally free”.

These were the days of disco and strobe light, 
Floral shirts, chains and plenty of long hairs,
So I practised my moves till I got them right
Before donning my trusty Travolta flares.

At the club front were pics of the local ‘famous’,
No one that I knew - felt I was from Mars,
But I’m sure these acts were better than dross,
You could say I was ‘Dancing with the Stars’.

And as I went in the band sounded so tame,
No disco beat, the songs filtered from afar, 
In front was where all the pretty tunes came:
‘Frank Bourke and the White Rose Orchestra’.

And then I had a flashback to my youth,
The sounds lulled me into a déjà vu trance,
Mum thought that I was becoming uncouth
So she sent me to learn to ballroom dance. 

I told my mates “this’s where to snare a chick”,
But when we arrived it was not so very hip,
So we decided to extend the slide and kick
To see what unfortunate girl we could trip.

I then told Mum dance was not for me -
“As a footballer it‘s hard for me to turn”,
I made up this lie to be wholly dance free,
In fact, we‘d been told “Don’t ever return”.

Now awake from my dream I glanced around,
To my shock I thought I was in outer space, 
Purple hair, false teeth and specs abound,
Had I walked into a retirement place?

As I retreated a slap came on my shoulder,
Like a cougar her pounce couldn’t be neater, 
The invite to dance from one so much older -
A purple-headed young male people-eater!

She guided me quickly into the dance fray,
Stumbling, bumbling – what were those steps?
For this nightmare to be over I could only pray
Like a tired lifter asking “how many more reps?”

Just then I looked up and admired the Queen,
Her portrait was on the wall for all to view,
Young Liz was surely not the worst I‘d seen,
I joined Prince Phil on the interested queue.

But as I was perving I forgot to do swerving,
Tripped over feet and sailed through the air,
As I flailed, wailed, readied for a bruising
To my chagrin, I heard my tight flares tear.

Down went dancers all across the dance floor, 
My face landed on what felt like floppy foam,
But the pain in my foot was so hard to endure,
I immediately let out an almighty groan.

My nose was wedged in her luxurious bust,
And after I struggled to pull all my snout out,
I peered down to see what was the foot pain fuss,  
And saw that some guy had my foot in his mouth.

‘Foot-in-mouth’, you say, why would this be sore?
But what you’ll hear next is definitely grubby,
My shoe had dropped off to show me the gore,
Digging his dentures in was the old duck’s hubby!

Torn pants, red face, the savaged foot and more,
If this was a dream, I‘d awoken in fright,
Retreating quickly I fumbled for the door,
As they say in the theatre: “Exit stage right”.

Back to the pub I slunk feeling like a joke, 
This was a set up – I‘d been taken for a ride,
News was out ‘bout the bloke from the big smoke,
Beers all round helped my embarrassment hide.

Now I sit back, old, living in the Sticks,  
I recall the night of my dance initiation,
If I’d paid more attention to ballroom tricks
I would have avoided the painful foot situation.

From this there’s something for all to live by,
The wisest of sayings, so hard to refute:
“Be careful when telling a little white lie
It’ll always come back and bite you on the foot!”

© Neil Dufty