Competition

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Poor Old McPhee
by Valerie Read
Bicton, WA

Old Billy Mcphee was a neighbour to me,
and a grumpy old blighter he was.
He'd come from the bush to live in the push,
and hated the city because:
"Those young hoons in cars; they act like galahs;
they rev up their motors at night.
They're all drunk as owls, and they cackle like fowls,
and their lang-u-age just isn't right.

"Gor! If I swore like that, Dad 'Id give me the bat,
then give me a kick up the rear.
I'm tellin' yer, mate, this old world's in a state
"these kids need a belt on the ear."
I’d add fuel to the fire and encourage his ire
By remarking; “It’s testosterone.
They're having some fun, and when all's said and done,
we oldies should leave them alone.

"So, you're losing some sleep; you should try counting sheep,
and let them have fun now and then..
What's a couple of brogs? Mate, don't treat them like dogs,
they'll end up as bloody good men
with a wife and some kids. No more hooning and skids,
with little blonde floosies to cheer.
So, come on, old man, let's both suck on a can
of freezing cold, Emu Gold beer."

He'd give me a stare, like a big grizzly bear,
and hobble back into his house.
His life was a bore, such a non-ending chore
for this disgruntled, rejected grouse..
Though he made me mad, there were times I felt sad
that he lived so bereft and alone,
So I'd say 'good-day' when I passed every day;
he'd reply with a deep-throated groan.

When kids played a game, his words were the same:
"Those brats should be gagged," he would gripe.
And if one ventured near, they would shiver with fear,
for he'd give them a back-handed swipe.
A good kick up the bum would send them back to Mum,
who'd return like a bat out of hell.
"You miserable bastard! You lousy old dastard!"
The kids would start yelling as well.

Sometimes Dad came along to join in with the throng,
and he'd threaten McPhee with a fist.
Well, the old bloke would shout, and then shuffie about;
a charade that I couldn't resist
The father would swear; grab McPhee by the hair,
and lift the old bloke off the ground.
McPhee would submit, then get in a king hit,
and head for the kids in a bound.

"Yer see what I've done, an' I'm jist 'avin' fun,
I wuz small but I 'it like a brick.
So clear off yer lot, make it quick!
I used ter fight bantam! They called me The Phantom,
Pick up yer old man, and the rest uv yer clan,
an' don't come round 'ere any more."
Then he'd spin on his heel in a victory reel,
and make a beeline for his door.

When my little dog barked, he would come out all arced,
to turn on the hose at full pelt.
Well, I'd get real irate,  ‘cause that dog was me mate,
and his actions hit me 'neath the belt.
So, I'd get out my hose and aim straight at his nose;
the water was rank from the bore.
"I'll sue yer fer this, an' I ain't gonna miss,
I'll contact me lawyer, fer sure."

When Christmas drew near, we would tremble with fear,
for Jingle Bells sent him insane.
New Year, even worse, for he'd shout and he'd curse;
at Easter, he'd do it again.
When Emily Brewster brought home a big rooster:
‘A stuffed Christmas roast would be nice'.
She found it stone dead, cleanly sliced from its head;
the poor thing had never crowed thrice.

When Harrington's cat, (an old moggy quite fat),
yowled love songs on old McPhee's fence,
it came home next day with it's nuts cut away,
which made the poor feline quite tense.
When Harrington said: "Now, old man, you are dead,
I'll sue you for all that you own."
"Yer welcome, I'm sure, 'cause I'm bliddy well poor:
the meat 'as all gorn from the bone."

Then, strangely 'twas quiet; no rumbles or riot,
the whole street enjoyed sweet repose.
'Til, on the hot breeze, (and we started to sneeze),
a terrible stench burnt our nose.
We'd made a bad blunder, and started to chunder,
and stared at McPhee's open door.
where a black cloud of flies met our horrified eyes,
and cockroaches covered the floor.

What a hideous end! Though he wasn't a friend,
I sort of feel full of regret.
Though a nasty old bloke, it's a bad way to croak,
and I haven't got over it yet.
Now some rumours abound that McPhee's still around;
some say that he still roams the street.
Well, the hoons have all gone, and sweet peace lingers on,
and that is a laudible feat.