‘I’m buggered!’ he said, as he buried his head
in his arms on the table. I am unable
to move or speak or even groan.
Help me someone, don’t leave me alone
paralysed here. Shit, pour me a beer
and then I may rouse to take just a sip,
a purely medicinal wetting of my lip.
But they all ignored the poor drunken sod,
left him alone on his own: his bod
sunken down on the wooden pew,
his brain wandering in a fog, or a stew ...
till morning arrived at last with the dawn
as it usually does — first light of the sun
staining the sky a beautiful red.
They looked for him then. He had not been to bed.
He was still in the pub, revived, looking for grub.
‘I’m not buggered any more!’ he yelled from the floor
(where he had fallen the night before)
as his unworried friends ambled in the door.
Then he shook his fist and out he staggered.
His mates in chorus said, 'Well, I'll be buggered!'
This dissertation on a good old Aussie expression was written in response to a prompt during a WordsFlow session in November last year. I just rediscovered it in my files and decided I like it. (Last line rewritten 31 March 2012.)
I'm submitting it for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #89 and dVerse Translucent Poetics: Writing Spoken Word. (Humorous, rhyming verse goes down well in performance.)
These poems are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.