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the bush meets the city

Updated on May 5, 2010

The Dinner Guests

There chanced that evening, among the throng

A smart city girl, who didn’t quite belong.

She was loud and noisy and somewhat rude,

making pointed comments, no one to exclude

Like a fast bowler, always on the go.

Never did she let up, pause or go slow.

Relentlessly she was sending, her wise cracks flying down

With “Why not?” or “What crap!” and “What a let-down”

But also at that table, a country boy right through.

Was visiting his mates, on the Mountains Blue.

He was wearing his white moleskins, and his trusty tan RMs,

He participated regular, conversing with new friends.

But as the first course ended, it all became too much.

He tired of being polite, benevolent and such.

Enough of the defending, and playing a straight bat,

He decided the time was right, for little of attack.

So turning his attention, to the city girl

He tighten up his muscles, and let his mind unfurl.

Then leaning on the table, he began to spar.

(His wife a little concerned, he might go too far.)

The city girl responded, he was in her sights,

he ripped it right back, giving every one a fright,

and caught her by surprise, did her fellow Diner.

Insulted her right back – and in a manner finer.

The wind taken from her sails, and for a brief minute

A come-back line was needed, but how could she spin it.

Struggling for a word, for the first time in so long,

Stunned like a mullet and left without a song.

The smile on her face, was turned into a frown,

and the exuberant expression, became rather down.

All of a sudden, quiet the room became

others round the table sensed, the starting of a game

The Bushy exhaled a breath, feeling now quite grouse

He’d silenced the Fast Bowler, and made her a mouse.

He waited - this Battler, his breath - all abate,

He knew the Fast Bowler, just couldn’t wait.

She was desperate to skewer him, to put him away,

as she plotted her revenge, his downfall to play.

Desert was on the table, as the second round began.

The Fast Bowler sure, she’d have him in the can.

His good name she defamed, an indignation sore

would infuriate and provoke him, to level up the score.

He battered not his eyelids, not once, nor at all,

as he smiled up from his parfait, having swallowed down the ball.

She was silenced again, and not sure what to do.

This was an experience, all rather new.

Thrice more she needled him, attempting to upset

She gave it her best shot, she tried every threat.

Like water off a duck, he took it in his stride.

She could not get under, no matter how she tried.

The evening was thinning, the others had to go.

She’d run out of time, and was feeling very low.

The city girl defeated! She struggled to concede.

But the Bloke from the Bush, had beaten her indeed.


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