Sunday, November 05, 2006

Rupert Macawl

... nor on the external walls of Northbridge grog halls.

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2 Comments:

At Thursday, May 03, 2007, Anonymous Anonymous said...

There's a great big fresco way high in a town i used to know
's a town that plenty takes the warm, no sign of any snow
I haven't been there lately, but the memory is crystal clear
with the Joh for Piss and Wind graffiti, was the Festival of Beer

A bloke I never knew seemed the boss cocky of the place
You'd hear 'im on the air mainly, you hardly saw 'is face
'less you looked at the local rag and saw him beaming mug
Somewhere on the sports page near some rough-tough football thug

A talker he was, a rhymer, a man of sporting words
He'd sell 'em up, he'd talk 'em proud, no room for any nerds
This was man-talk, the kind of stuff that shakes an opponent's nerve
The kind that some, not all, but some, would rather give a great big swerve.

He'd rattle on and on about the glory of the league
'bout Lewis and Meninga and fightin' game fatigue
I think he thought it gave his game some class, a better connotation
He had the voice, he had the style, but could he grab the nation?

Now I'm certainly no snob when it comes to any art
I'm talking martial, graphical, dramatic, for a start
I'm partial to the poet, and their place in Aussie culture
Lawson, Patterson, Wright etc ... I'm not trying to insult ya.

And I don't mind the odd stand-up with all their city swagger
They strut their stuff with a "slam" on stage like that Rolling Stone Mick Jagger
I accept their boho modern musings through their yellow smoke-stained teeth
But I'll hold my hand up, I say no, to stuff along the lines of Urban, Keith

And when it comes to people like that fella Rupert McCall
I can't help wonder if he thinks that he's got it all
Is he the league's Gideon Haigh, a cricketing intellectual
or is he coat-tail rider, and largely ineffectual.?

I s'pose the proof is in the pudding, or occasionally on a building
I'd rather have a pseudo-poet on a beer fest wall than Family First's Steve Fielding
at any rate, everyone has their day, just look at old Paul Sharratt
really, they're all just a bunch of bastards banging on like a great puffed-up parrot.

 
At Thursday, May 03, 2007, Blogger Grump Les Tiltskin said...

That's a ripper.

I doubt Paul Sharrat, Steve Fielding and Mal Meninga have ever been mentioned in teh same poem before.

Thanks, whoever you are.

But, of course, I know who you are.

sweda mate!

 

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