Winner of last year’s Best Bush Poem gazetted in the Gippsland Farmer was Trevor Hopegood of Moorooduc. He takes home $1000 of stockfeed thanks to his penmanship. Get involved in the 2012 competition and give rhyming a rip.
As city folk we did okay, we thought we knew a bit.
Then Bob retired and bought some land, our farm would be a hit.
Gumboots at the ready, a dog and chainsaw too.
We’d look the part, fake the art: what a lovely view.
Started off with chickens, they’re small and don’t have teeth.
Sussex hens packed in a crate, from our neighbour Keith.
Rural scenes aplenty, hens laying lots of eggs.
Then mice began invading us, a thousand little legs.
We set a dozen mouse traps, but it didn’t make a dint.
No matter what we thought to do they wouldn’t take the hint.
A hunter’s what is needed; we went and bought a cat.
All those tasty mousey meals have made him very fat.
Then foxes found our hen house and made off with the lot.
Snakes are in the feedbags, they hate barns full of rot.
But a fool is never daunted; we’ll win this farming game.
There’s goats arriving on a truck, Boer they are by name.
The fences cannot hold them, we need a better yard.
Solar-powered electric wire should make escaping hard.
Goats fail to make our fortune, we haven’t got the knack.
If we were being paid for this, we would’ve got the sack.
We’re stressed out to the max, we’re dirty, tired and sick.
This farming stuff’s too much to bear; it would make a wowser drink.
Agistment: that’s the way to go, we rent our bit of land.
To other farmer’s cattle, and they pay us – cash in hand.