|Ada Cottage Writing|
Every harvest brings you here
Locust plagues, year on year,
You strip the fruit, find a mate,
Do courtship dances, copulate -
And then fly off to harvests fresh,
While I thirst for absent juice and flesh.
Predictable, your nine-month trip -
Tassies fields to Cape York's tip.
See Sydney Harbour with its ferries,
Glenrowan, where you'll pick cherries.
Follow the harvests, earn your crust
Lifting wealth from our rich red dust.
You'll learn to surf in Byron Bay
And get your PADI along the way
Maybe in Cairns, where I've heard it said
"If you can't get laid you must be dead!"
But do recall, when dues are paid,
You'll find the dead are also laid.
There's a place I know, outside of Perth,
Where jewels lie in shallow earth,
So come with me my precious girl,
With studded lip and sun-bleached curl,
Combat pants and skinny top -
You are the sweetest of my crop.
The land it dreams, black fellas say,
Follow a songline, find my way
Through the bush to my sacred site
Where I toil throughout the night
This land is rich, and as I fill
I know I leave it richer still.
|Still being revised. The product of listening to Nick Cave and news coverage of the Falconio case. Sorry.|