Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Balls “.

And once again we find ourselves at the mercy of JVG’s imagination. Balls. No, not the round things that people chase around on the weekend but dances.

Balls. I need a holiday

Ed Bates supplied the backing this week.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20120708.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Balls

Farken; west of nowhere; a windswept, barren hill
The arse end of the arse end; Population: nil

No shops, no church, no train, no pub; just a rundown wooden hall
Twice a year, it came alive – The Bachelor and Spinsters Ball

Given next door neighbours lived fifty K’s apart
Their chance, at best, was limited, to sate a lonely heart

The nearest town, a five hour drive, down the worst road in the state
It offered little prospects for those searching for a mate

Males outnumbered females by roughly two to one
Besides the balls the chance of finding love out here was none

So you’d reckon the young bucks would be chaffing at the bit
Not lolling in the car park, drinking beer and talking shit

But there they were, like rabbits, lounging round their utes
Akubra Hats and moleskins, and R M Williams Boots

Only blokes allowed outside; no shallow, idle, chatter
Spotlights, racks and roo bars – out this way size does matter

Drink beer, Jack and Bundy, then pile into a truck
Do donuts in the paddock and see who’s first to chuck

Such passionate male bonding seems to border on the queer
Bob Katter has assured us though, there’s none of that out here

While the blokes proved Darwin’s theory of natural selection
The girls were inside dancing in a state of disaffection

As Bronwyn Grilch and Kylie Blick remarked to one another
These Farken blokes don’t need a wife, they need a bloody mother

Once half the boys had flaked, either comatose or dead
The remainder, liquored up, made their way into the shed

Freed of inhibitions thanks to bourbon, beer and rum
They danced like Peter Garrets’ chewing Minties with their bum

They’d interrupt the courtship to go outside and spew
While the rejects did the next best thing and got into a blue

But thanks to “Death Breath” Simmons, all that’s in the past
Posing in his Falcon Ute doing burnouts on the grass

He thought the smoke was only dust, according to his claims
Either way, the grass caught fire and the hall went up in flames

With nowhere else to muster the whole balance was upset
The Farken singles forced to seek romance on the net

But without utes and booze they had no means to lure a spouse
It’s hard to do a donut with a touch pad or a mouse

At the ruins, someone scribbled on what remained of walls
“Those Farken blokes are useless since they lost their Farken balls”

© Copyright 2012 Ian Bland

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