Test TubesThe theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method is “Gas” and Jon has returned perform ringmaster duties and run the show with his grace and good manners. We chatted about the usual nonsense and then got down to the business at hand

Click here for today’s poem [audio:JVG_Poem20090404.mp3]

Today we have Ed Bates playing appropriately themed backings on slide guitar.


In the tribal culture governing school
Evan Waghorn was one of the freaks
As much at home talking cars with the bad boys
As quantum physics with the geeks

Spent all his spare time in the chemistry lab
With beakers lined up on the bench
His passion was gas – and the making thereof
Success he judged by the stench

One ml of this mixed with one ml of that
His methods both cautious and linear
His ultimate goal was to mimic the odour
Of “The Flynapping Arum of Sardinia”

The “Dead Horse Lily” as it’s commonly known
Smells so foul it brings tears to your eyes
It imitates the stink of a decomposed carcase
To attract the attention of flies

The science of odour demands patience and money
Evan had none of the latter
To fund his research he crossed to the dark side
Flatulence is no laughing matter

Desperate he set up a clandestine lab
Made illicit narcotics en mass
Not X or Ice or Methamphetamine
But high grade “Rotten Egg Gas”

Hydrogen Sulphide – H2S
In small amounts not dangerous to health
Sulphuric acid mixed with – I’m not going to tell you
You silly bastards might try it yourself

Forget GHB, Evan’s REG
Was the dope they all wanted to buy
The nauseous fumes guaranteed chaos
Demand soon outstripped supply

A tiny amount could stampede a crowd
Cause mayhem at parties and on trams
Every teenage anarchist’s weapon of choice
Perfect for disrupting exams

One part per million stinks like a sewer
A hundred turns your eyes red
Two fifty disables your olfactory nerve
Above eight hundred – you’re dead

To keep up production Evan cut corners
Judging each batch by the pong
And as he smelt nothing he increased the acid
Without realising something was wrong

Evan died as he lived – a bit on the nose
In a way he died for his art
Though he couldn’t quite replicate “The Dead Horse Lily”
At least he smelt like a fart

Some claim he survives in gaseous form
They swear it’s more than a myth
When you come across something not quite right
You’re liable to pick up a whiff

There’s no-one around and you know it’s not you
But it smells like a septic tank
Like when you discover all the extra fees
On your statement from the bank

Or when you’ve lost your job and your prospects
And your house risks re-possession
While wankers in Canberra argue semantics
Whether we’re technically in a recession

The manufactured hype over two women kissing
To publicize “Home and Away”
Pretty much everything written or spoken
That Andrew Bolt has to say

Sometimes the stench is so overpowering
It’s more than your senses can bear
Their words – like this poem and poor Evan Waghorn
No more than a lot of hot air

© Copyright 2009 Ian Bland

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