Old Bill and mate Blue came in from the bush,
They were sick of the dust and flies.
And they landed a job at Eagle Farm,
Refuelling a giant of the skies.

Now the Concorde is special as aeroplanes go,
The brew for it's engines is tops.
Some splashed on Bill's face,he licked his lips
And pronounced it much better than hops.

So they drained off a drop,had a wee dram,
And toasted,then went shout for shout.
How they ever got home at the end of the day,
Was something to wonder about.

Bill woke with the dawn to the telephone's ring,
His head held a jet engine's whine,
His proboscis had grown like a Concorde cockpit,
And there was his mate on the line.

"Hey Bluey,"Bill said"have you looked in the glass?"
I look like a bloody aeroplane.
I swear to you, son, it's a right lively drop.
But never, no never again.

"Now listen up close," came the crackling reply,
"May the Lord strike me down,cross my heart
I'm calling you now from a phonebox in France;
Whatever you do,mate,don't fart!"
Mark Kleinschmidt

All the best
The Roosel