Bland On Bland – Running

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

It was a good one this week, the show had some great guests and JVG was feeling really up about how well his “In Oakleigh Tonight” show at the Caravan Club went. I enjoyed doing my spot there last week.

The poem takes up the bush and to a time when the phones were unreliable and there was no internet.

No NOT last week…

Ed Bates was missing this week (busy painting his fence) so no guitar backing this week. Just me. Have a listen to how it went below…

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Running

Denny King was unofficial mayor of Baringumma
Undertaker, fence contractor, pest controller, plumber

Dusty, barren farmland producing little more than sweat
There was bugger all to do in Baringumma apart from bet

It was near a five hour drive to the closest TAB
Denny filled the void, setting up as town SP

He was cagey and unprincipled; his odds were on the nose
After being in his company you’d count your fingers and your toes

He was glacial paying up, though he rarely took a hit
He could squeeze into a crack where a cockroach wouldn’t fit

He had some shady contacts; each morning Denny made some calls
They’d often know who’d won before the horses left the stalls

And so it was one Friday, Denny received word
A horse named Count Your Winnings was running in the third

It couldn’t lose they told him; the deal already done
At the more than generous odds of twenty five to one

The favourite Empty Pockets on the tote was even money
So Denny offered twos, trying to draw a bunny

He let it drift to fives; set to make a killing
They queued outside the funeral home, the punters all too willing

Denny stashed the dough in coffins then sealed the lids with screws
He’d taken so much cash the pub sold beer for IOUs

Bathing in his brilliance, Denny rubbed his hands in glee
Listening to ‘The Accurate One’ Bill Collins on 3DB

The words Bill uttered gravely drained the blood from Denny’s face
The stewards had just scratched Count Your Winnings from the race

A positive swab or something; allegations of irregular betting
Denny stood to lose his pants, the pants he was currently wetting

He had to quickly think of a way to lay off the bet
These were the days before telephone betting and there was no internet

Five hours to a TAB and the race was starting in four
Even laying it off, at the odds he offered, he’d still owe five times more

All he could do was hope that it lost, otherwise he was dead
Bill Collins crackled from Denny’s transistor; “Empty Pockets by half a head”

Denny filled a bag full with money and enough food to last him a week
Left the rest of the cash in the coffins and buried them down by the creek

He decided to do a runner, get out before it’s too late
If only he’d left his trannie turned on till the stewards declared correct weight

Empty Pockets had lost on a protest, so the money was his, every penny
Somehow I don’t feel much sympathy for a blood sucking leech like Denny

He didn’t come back for the coffins; scared he’d be killed if he showed
They’re still buried if you fancy a dig – ten metres below the new road

Denny for all his scheming had nothing to show for his cunning
Empty Pockets retired to the paddock, while Denny hasn’t stopped running

Beneath the glamour and fashion, it’s all dirt when you dig your way down
The Sport of Kings it may well be, though a King’s just a thief with a crown

© Copyright 2017 Ian Bland

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Also have a listen to the songs on my album “Everything or Nothing”