I’m churning out this poetry, sometimes at
three a day
This life it is so busy, and my days slip
right away
I search to find a topic, an interest to
exploit
I’ve written about loads of stuff, how 'bout Russell Coight
Australia’s rugged bushman, Alby Mangels without the chicks
He roams around the outback, as he uses bushman's tricks
To fight off all the critters, with venom in
their fangs
Finding challenges almost everywhere, his life in his own hands
We chortle at his antics, and he fumbles through the days
Sets fire to his fireproof tent, his infalibility we praise
We all know it’s a miracle, that he is
still alive
As he rambles all around the land, that
now belongs to Clive
A cross between the Leyland’s, Harry
Butler and Ben Cropp
Thinks nothing of a red back, or an humungous
hungry crock
Not frightened of all the nasties, that we run
from every day
The Bush Tucker Man and Malcolm, they'd have much to say
He a natural disaster, a catastrophe in khaki
He shies away from grubs and roots,
preferring teriyaki
Been poisoned twenty two times, from
berries that he’s eaten
But he will tell you very straight, his will shall not be beaten
So he loads up his Range Rover, ready for
the next
Challenge in the desert, while we sit here
perplexed
What is that thing he’s wearing, that’s
perched upon his head
Wait, is it made of metal, good Lord, he
think’s he’s Ned
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