To the glory of God, all me are a stranger to myself,
Wearing Death’s old warm cardie and Big shorts forever.
Bunyah. Bunyah. Bunyah.
I’ll be right.
I am a toothless Sanskrit sideboard,
A blood-moaning tankstand
A bread and butter pudding.
We flow like the Barwon didn’t in the Depression.
Like the Bungawalbin does
But not the Boonoo Boonoo.
Now Cloud Creek is mine,
Saint Vincent De Paul will get his clobber back.
All me are the impossible child writ large
On the smallering not really Aboriginal landscape distance.
I’m off, but the cows came home.