- a parody
Written by Gordon Campbell
Copyright © 2015 Alison Constable
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.
This parody was written circa 1955 hence some of the old fashioned terminology & slang.
In his memory I have transcribed it as he penned it.
There was movement at the station for the word had got around,
That the boss of Old Regret had run away,
And had joined the wild bush natives,
As he owed the pub a solitary pound.
All the heavy drinkers who wanted him to pay,
Had attended to the bar-b-que that night.
With their native trackers ready for the chase,
And the cattle doges were barking with delight.
There was Harrison who made a pile when Pardon lost the cup,
Pulled up by a jockey in the know.
And Clancy of the Overflow paid homage to his friends,
sat listlessly off to one side.
His horse too weary to go farther or to make another ride.
Modern technology was there to lend a hand - "Take the jeep,
It will outrun any band of natives that're wandering the land.
The motor bikes can run the wings and turn the blighters round.
And the jeep can take the lot on board
And then you'll have your bloody pound!"
And one was there, a scrawny chick upon a rusted cycle.
It was in fact a bike without a seat, minus one pedal and a tyre,
Three spokes were gone at least.
And such as are by bikey chicks well prized.
She was tall and slim and boney - a huge squint in one eye -
There was a quiver in her slow unsteady tread,
And she bore the signs of blindness in one dull and whitened eye.
"What an ugly sheila!" One sexist Clancy said.
"She hails from Mud Sludge Pond up by Kosciuszko's side,
Where the waters run twice as stiff and twice as tough.
Where the bike treads stick to the sludge when a biker takes a ride,
A chick who holds her own is good enough.
And at the shores of Mud Sludge Pond the bikers make their home,
Where the stench of sludge is under and between.
I have seen full many chicks since I first commenced to roam,
But no where such a biker chick have I seen."
So she went - they got an old jeep from the local smelly dump.
They raced away towards the camp.
The old man gave his orders, "Boys with the jeep try to do a jump,
We don't have time to practice on a ramp.
And Clancy you can be the driver, try to steer the natives right,
And drive fast my lad and never fear the spills,
For never yet was a rider that could keep a mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
When they reached the mountains summit, poor Clancy took a spill.
It made the other boldest hold their breath.
The ground was soft and dug up, though some of the holes were filled,
They were wombat holes and Clancys fall was almost death.
But the chick from Mud Sludge Pond let her cycle surge ahead,
And she swung a bra above her head with cheer,
And she scooted down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
She sent the flint stones flying but the cycle kept its tread.
She jumped the fallen timber in her path.
And the chick from Mud Sludge Pond never flinched nor turned her head.
By the end of this she would need a bath.
She was going down the mountain at 80 clicks and hour,
When the chain on her cycle broke.
They found her in a breakaway with a sprocket in her pocket,
And being tickled into submission by a spoke.
And down by Kosciuszko's side where the poor girls grave was raised,
The boss and natives lived in the bush nigh.
Where the bike was set on a tree stump and that night was set a blaze,
At midnight under the eerie star studded sky.
And now around the blackened stump the regrowth sweep and sways,
To the breeze of a biker chicks ride.
The chick from Mud Sludge Pond is a whispered word today,
Cause at night the her ghost comes out for one last ride.