Probably been seen by many - but here it is again - an oldie but a goodie

 

 

 

 

There was movement at the station, so wrote a famous man
But how did the Banjo know this? P'haps he towed a caravan.
Perhaps Banjo had been woken, in a van park from his sleep
Some two hours before the sunrise, by strange noises from the deep.
All the 'erk, erk, erk' of van legs, being screwed up in the dark
As the first nocturnal traveler starts to wake the sleeping park.
Then just like a feral mating call, some others answer back
With their 'erk, erk' flaming chorus, as the first start down the track.
Everything they pack's metallic, and it clatters, bangs and dongs
As they bark out loud instructions, amid hollow clacks of thongs.
Now it's best to warm your motor, if your leaving in the dark
Especially if it's diesel, and jackhammers all the park.
Cause now it's time to hook on, and you hear the circus start
More left, not right - I said this way, you pig-headed, deaf old fart.
And how dare you call me brainless, you ungrateful senile drone
If you don't want directions, do it on your bloody own.
And by now the doors are slamming, just to finish off the show
"Are you sure you turned the gas off"?, you shout, "Just bloody go".
Because now it's almost daylight, and the camp picks up the pace
As these geriatric gypsies all begin their morning race.
For the next park is their target, where like metal ants they flock
For the first in gets the best shade, and a close ablution block.
But for us still vainly sleeping, we just toss and kick and turn
Who said holidays are restful?, beauty sleep is what we yearn.
But there's miles of zippers zinging, as the tents all fold and go
And there's campervan doors grinding, as they whiz bang to and fro.
And there's neighbours out there yelling, "Looks like another nice day, Fred"
And you think it would be better, if you mob were still in bed.
You can't beat 'em so you join 'em, in this hyperactive spree
For the laundry's now in full swing, throbbing like a DC3.
To the bathroom men are walking, holding buckets with a lid
While discussing ageing prostates, and comparing what each did.
Then a rotten kid starts whinging, and will not do what he's told
"Bring back the lash" you yell out, "It worked fine in days of old".
All this action makes you thirsty, so you start to lift a lid
Then he comes from out of nowhere, the Eternal Outback Kid.
He's a clone of Harry Butler, Malcolm Douglas rolled in one
He has fished and climbed and driven every track under the sun.
And he brags about his conquests, twice around the bush and back
Though you half suspect his tinny has been welded on his rack.
For this man is a fanatic, he has traveled everywhere
After half an hour's ear-bashing, you wish he was still there.
Cause now in the park it's show time, magic moments all can share
You prepare for entertainment, as you grab a beer and chair
For here come the new arrivals, with the wives all looking terse
You thought leaving was a hassle, well arriving's ten times worse!
Cause hand-waving female logic, with male thinking won't compute
So a jack-knife on the van site, soon erupts in hot dispute.
It's as good as any circus, wife and husband on attack
As spectators in their deck-chairs, watch the rigs shunt up and back.
For there's tree and shrubs to barge through, and a water tap of course
Then the happy couple unhook, mostly ending in divorce.
Then in come the tourist buses, with their worn and frazzled crew
And they bail out almost running, for they all have jobs to do.
Then a canvas city rises, built with hammer's echoed clacks
From the old girls driving tent pegs bike they're laying railway tracks.
Then it's 8pm, cheap phone calls, there's a rush to all get through
There's three phones for 90 people, and you're the last one in the queue.
With the callers always yelling, 'cause their homes are far away
Forcing half the park to eavesdrop each and every word they say.
Telling all about the weather, and adventures they've been through
Then they swap and start repeating, from the others' point of view.
Then the lights dim on the campground, and a gentle hush then falls
'Cept the drone of rasping snoring, through each caravan's thin walls.
And you drift in gentle slumber, as sweet dreams flit through your head
Till at 5am there's 'erk, erk, erk', "Hell, here we go again!"

This Poem was written by BOB MAGOR from Myponga, South Australia and is available in his book or on his CD of the same name. He has several books and CDs. He also has a web site, so crediting this author would not have been hard, and it does not have anything to do whatsoever with the John Williamson song. Credit where credit is due when posting copy written material please folks.