The Man From Murky River

There were motions in the Board Room,
When the word was passed around,
That a century had almost passed away;
And had joined with other memories,
Perhaps never to be found,
So lots of members gathered here today.

All the tried and noted plumbers
From locations near and far
Have gathered at Gazebo overnight.
For the plumbers loves hard yarning,
With wet finger on the bar,
And the ute is home - garaged, out of sight.

There was Paterson who made his pile
In multi-storeys going up,
And the old men with hair as white as snow.
But few can match their memories
When the years are counted up,
They will go wherever pipe and drain must go.

And Clancy with the overflow
Came down to lend a hand,
No shrewder plumber ever cleared a drain;
But few will work beside him
For his price is really up,
He charges such because he really trains.

And some are here a tippling,
Assembled for a feast,
Something like a banquet fully sized.
With a lot of Aussie flavour,
Three courses and beverages at least,
And such as are by hungry plumbers prized.

Now this is not the first time
Members gathered for a ball,
It really has been going on for years,
For about a hundred parties
The members really tried them all,
And often left the ladies home in tears.

But the years have not been easy,
Sometimes so very hard,
Though members ever raised a smile.
It was rough in twenty seven,
And worse in twenty nine,
But better times came later, it only takes a while.

Then as the evening furthered,
And the Tooheys took a hold,
The man from Murky River stands alone.
He's still telling of the challenge,
While on his jobs of old,
But cannot call a witness, he forgot his mobile phone.

Warming to his final story,
About the grandest ever choke,
He swung his stillsons round and gave a cheer.
Then answered listener's question,
No it's not a bloody joke!
And in ensuing silence said, "I'll have another beer".

Still down by Murky River,
Better yarns they ever try,
While the plumbers wax and wane,
It's proven in their stories,
Old plumber never die,
They just go down the drain.

Diction: Arthur Donnelley
Graphics: Alan Grasset


« Go back to Poetry index