I'm typing out a hundred pages of bush ballads and poems for an elderly poet who wants to publish a couple of books. In the background loud and clear are kind-of familiar words and certainly we all know that thumping music. The entertainer is dead, the individual who could sing and dance.
As I type I realize what a strange world we live in with all kinds of people, all so different. Just a couple of days ago I was was watching Ophra (and I only watch her about once a year) and it was about some Kingdom of something with families so isolated from the big bad world that the women wear neck to ankle, have weird hair styles, share one husband, and never read fiction, watch TV or videos, though they do have cell phones to listen to religious music and sermons. It is a weird world.
It's close to midnight
He flew to the top of a farmyard tree
Something evil's lurkin'in the dark
and crowed both loud and long
Under the moonlight
to let the whole world know that he
You see a sight that almost stops your heart
was fit fat and strong
You try to scream
but the cocky was hungover
But terror takes the sound before you make it
his head was aching bad
You start to freeze
his bull missed a prize
As horror looks you right between the eyes
at the Horsham Show
which made him pretty mad
He stuck his shotgun out the window
and blew the rooster up
there weren't enough big pieces left
to feed his starving pup...
And I type on, the words on the screen and the song on the TV get mixed up but I type on wanting to make my bit for the soli for the Methodist Church in Fiji's Conference - on or off - by getting $20 an hour for this typing of bush ballads for a few days! It is a weird world after all.