Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TALE OF A KANGAROO'S HEAD, by A HUGHES MCC.


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TALE OF A KANGAROO'S HEAD, by                    
First Line: I've a truthful reputation, boss, as you can well believe
Last Line: So I calls my little history, a bomer;—so it air!
Subject(s): Kangaroos; Story-telling; Whips


I'VE a truthful reputation, boss, as you can well believe,
For a native-born gumsucker isn't given to deceive,
And as in shoutin' nobblers you've proved so very free,
I'll spin you a true anecdote, wot happened once to me.

Two miles above the crossin', there's a station, Dimbooloo,
That was regular infested by a giant kangaroo
Wot played up perfect terror with the pasture for the sheep,
And it never came in gunshot—is a weasel caught asleep?

You could hunt him, he'd romp over a six-foot fence o' logs,
Then squatted cool and picked his teeth, till overtook by dogs,
When he'd work his hinder digits with a sky-entific scoop,
And you found your pups curled neatly in a sorter flabby loop.

He stuck up Biddy Flanagan one night when all alone—
She's a widdy nigh on fifty, and would ride some twenty stone,
(Which proves that kangaroos in love have well-developed taste)—
And he well-nigh scared her into fits by huggin' on her waist.

'Twern't embracin' that she minded; the thing wot scared her most,
She took it for a visit from her dear departed's ghost;
And he didn't use to hug her, bar he came home very tight,
And that, preliminary to a rough-and-tumble fight.

I guess he cotched a Tartar, she's a decent pair o' lungs,
And 'tain't old men like him alone gits frit by women's tongues;
Anyway we found her safe, imbibing whisky on a bank,
And there arn't a blessed saint in heaven she didn't take and thank.

One night when arter cattle I got bushed; 'twas black as black,
The horse fell lame, I had to walk and fumble out the track,
When that long-legged beast rose sudden just beside a boxwood clump,
And I took it for old Nick and gave a blarmed almighty jump.

Horse reared, and turned, and scooted, like it was fresh from grass;
T'other flopped for me like a big dog (there wern't no room to pass),
A-bowin' and a-scrapin' like a Chinee when he's sacked,
And thinks I, "Old chum, your biz'ness will be settled in one act."

It's a creepy sort of feelin', boss, to hob-a-nob with death!
(Eh?—well just to oblige you—Here's luck!—I'm out of breath.)
In a fit of desperation, I lifts my long stockwhip,
And sez, "Fore I goes under, you bet I'll make you skip!"

Clean as a penny-whistle, that lash snipped off his head!
I reasonably expected the brute would tumble dead.
But he—you won't believe it, and it's fact, boss, wot I say—
Slipped his head in his breast-pocket and calmly sloped away!

And they say 'bout here you'll see him still a-loafin' round at night,
And if he meets a lady, he will raise his head polite,
But should it be a stockman with a ten-foot lash instead,
He doesn't stop inquiring, but he tries to hide that head!

Well, I'll take it without sugar, as you are so very kind;
I've a truthful reputation, boss, and always bears in mind
That though the world is round as round, we must act on the square;
So I calls my little history, a Bomer;—so it air!





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