Wollongong Wenches

Wollongong wenches
Must’ve done battle in the trenches
But not a rap battle
Probably one fought on the benches
At schools, bus stops, not the legal type;
Socio-political deficiencies
Have eaten at their proficiencies
Compounded by imbalances in gender
Have left relationship power in favour of the tender
Who are able to manipulate most men like a money lender.
But it’s not all their fault,
They get their power, oft confusing and unwanted,
From an industrial, working class default;
Dumb, slum, classless warfare
Houso westies with more baggage than luggage
Acridly augmented by too many men;
Blokes with smokes and tokes
Big beers and voracious leers
Their rough background
In this paltry playground
Leaves the sheilas as the wheeler-dealers;
They can pick and choose, with nothing to lose,
Save the right man, a bloke who can
A chap with a brain, left holding the can
No place in this town, for someone with a gown
Leaves all parties with a formidable frown;
Those with half a brain
Have long ago jumped on a train,
Totally sick of this culturally lost refrain.


One random day,
If things may go my random way
And In Randomland I can continue to stay and play,
Resist the mortal portal,
As some say,
I hope, eventually, to go bacterial,
Although I feel It might be something more viral;
In the meantime, however,
Before I get too clever
My poor, devoted device,
My old computer quite nice,
Appears to be caught in the grip-like vice
Of the modern equivalent of head lice;
Somehow they themselves have self-installed
And got my damn screen completely enthralled;
Every second second or two
One of these sick serial spams
Tries to trick me with their scams;
I scratch my skull, search my brain,
Please help me end this endless pain;
Now I’ve got to pay my mate the geek,
Pay a price he will seek
Because all this is random Greek,
Just to un-install the self-installed
To which there seems no insulation,
No potion, no wash, to cleanse my computation,
No remedy for my random reputation.

Troublous Times

Politically correct becomes incorrect
What once was safe now insurrect
Behave like a male, want to impale lest become stale
Afraid to ask lest she’s not up to the task
Social tricks make us all dicks
Accused of affront, not getting near my vagina
Denies her desire will forever remain an old piner;
An artefact lost in time,
Once just a natural harvest
Now a travesty, an ecological farce;
Like my poor platypus purse,
An innocent adornment back then, the property of an old relative
But now carrying a current curse
Clawing at modern sensibilities
From a time gone past;
A game for the young, for the mature perverse,
Perspectives never married, probably impossible to reverse.

The Great Google in the Sky

Once upon a Fairy Meadow time,
Way ago, before the real rhyme,
Before even a boy could read random time
When people fiddled with the flute and fleugel
And an old neighbour once blew his own bugle
When we played monopoly and boggle
Random Man, with help from his Random kids, tried to goggle;
Those random kids, trying not to giggle
Told him about this thing called Google;
I was pretty busy, with my daughter Lizzie
And thought the word was gurgle,
And tried to commit an electronic burgle;
So, in the beginning there was the word
But to Random Man it hadn’t occurred
There might even be a second and a third;
Into his head another term had just fled
All so confusing his poor nose bled;
This thing he thought was the webnet
Had him caught up in the internet;
Random rationality he thought was his specialty
But trying all these concepts to amalgamate
Was starting to prove his Randomgate;
Website, they said,
Is a thing not dead
Just a cobweb in your silly old head;
Internet, likewise,
Is not actually up in the skies,
A devil in some strange disguise,
But the master of this random universe;
A spooky witchcraft which I saw perverse
Is actually this great Google in the sky,
An engine to forever search my mind’s random eye.

Team Tony

Better join up, coz Lord Tony said,
You innocent suspects are worse than reds under the bed;
Join up or else, to his Team Australia
Lest be labelled a patriotic failure;
Flags and definitions he’ll have to change,
But still he continues to rant on the international range;
Join up! Or this pseudo statesman,
Caught up in a caprice, brandishing a brand,
By George!,
Will accuse almost all of turning to a terror band;
You might be acquainted with a cultural cringe
But the mad monk is on some bad binge
And is completely confined to the cultural fringe;
Scared of national issues, he parades abroad,
Wildly waving his uber nationalistic sword,
But to what end?
I’m afraid he’d be the last to know…,
Just wants to use the local media,
Shock jocks and simpletons he finds speedier,
Like those in Rupertland or Canadia,
To occupy the national glare,
Anything but face the embarrassing stare
Of the electorate, this country, so rare
That must deal with treatment in no way fair.