I had written him a letter which I had for want of better,
Knowledge sent to where I met him down at Maccas years ago.
He was knifing when I knew him,
So I sent a letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows,
“Scomo of the Hash #Smoko”
And an answer came directed,
In a writing unexpected
(and I think the same was written in potato wet with starch)
‘Twas his numbers man who wrote it
and verbatim I will quote it
“I still can’t count to forty, and we don’t know we’er he’s Marched
In my commitment to all God-Bros,
Visions came to me of Scomo,
Hopping off on a some big jet plane as the fires burned down below.
As the troops are fiercely sprayin’,
Scomo flies above ‘em Prayin’’
For a PM’s life has pleasures,
That the townsfolk never know.
And Trump has friends to meet him
And their kindly voices greet him,
In the murmur of the beaches and the luau under stars.
And he sees the vision splendid,
Of the Rapture now extended,
To Oz, the wondrous glory of great fires now seen from Mars.
I am sitting in my dingy – little office,
Where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly,
Down between the plumes so tall,
And the fetid air and gritty, of the fiery ravaged city,
Through the open windows floating,
Spreads the foulness over all
And in the place of lowing cattle,
I can hear the fiendish rattle,
Of the fire trucks and their hoses making hungry down the street,
And the language uninviting
Of the Twitter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and loudly through the thunderous click of Tweets.
And the screaming people daunt me
And their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in,
Saving koalas in their haste.
With their eager eyes now bleedin’,
And their stunted forms now heavin’
For townsfolk have no time to go,
Taking Shelter, no time to waste.
And I somehow rather do know,
That I’d like to change with Scomo,
Like to take a turn at hiding,
As the crises come and go,
While he avoids Questions eternal,
From the Walkleys and their Journals,
Cos he knows he don’t suit The Office,
Scomo of the Hash #Smoko.
An adaptation of Clancy of the Overflow. By A.B. (Banjo) Paterson
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