Thunder box

I live in a street. It’s called Byrill Creek.

What a diabolical drive it can be!

Potholes so deep, you could bury a jeep!

 And a caravan too, when it rains.

Now city folk come to my country home

And some a them, I really quite like.

I tell em about the road and its sin

And say Oooh. It’s a bit of a hike.

But they come anyway, ready to stay

To breathe the green, country air.

In their Mercedes an Bimas, Minis and Vivas.

Course, it’s more than the poor car can bear.

They arrive in a lump, tyres flattened from bumps

Computer windas rollin up and down.

Red lights a flashing on the dash.

It’s a mess!

But they smile, coz they’re here safe and sound.

They walk in me kitchen sniffin the scones .

Hitchin up their designer jeans.

 I give em some tea and a whiskey or three

Then, the fun really begins.

Where’s the toilet?

Somebody asks

Eyes rollin’ round filled with doubt.

I wipe the grin from me face an show em the place

That’s the pride of my country home.

At the end of the garden, its beauty denied

 By them, who don’t have the eyes to see

Stands a building so quaint.

Though lackin in paint.

Me thunderbox. By the lemon tree

The shrieks of despair ring through the air

When I show em the best place to be.

So I airily wave round the paddocks and say

Well there’s all this if ya just wanna pee.

But if you do use the toilet?

I solicitously speak

Be careful you don’t frighten Jim.

He’s a bit of a perva, specially with sheilas

And he wriggles if you make lotsa din

He’s harmless enough, just lives in the roof

Acrobats the rafters a treat.

He’s not big for a python, only five foot or six

So you’re all too big to eat.

Their faces go white these folk I quite like

From the city and all it contains.

Scares the hell outta me, the way that they live

With traffic lights and black rain.

But friendship is all an shouldn’t be palled

By feelings of horror and dread.

So I go down the back.

Get the porta pot off the tip

And set the buggar up in the shed.

When day comes to end, me good city friends

Wriggle an shuffle their feet.

 We’d better go now, they say. It’s a bit of a way

And those potholes are big in your street.

Stay the night! I eagerly ask

I got mattresses an all of that stuff.

I’ll brush off the rat poo an cocky eggs

And the blankets should be enough.

Their faces a bit puce, they gently refuse

And as I watch them drive off at high speed I ask

The stars up above that they remember with love.

Their day in old Byrill Creek

By Tonia Haynes