THE FLEA
by
Frank Daniel
Canowindra, NSW, Australia
We were drinking beer in a quiet Pub
in a little old town out west.
We had told some yarns and bragged a bit,
and were giving our tongues a rest.

There was me and Jim, and his brother Tom,
and a couple of shearer blokes,
for once in our lives all stricken dumb -
we had clean run out of jokes.

Now the silence was disturbing -
our beer was going flat,
there was nothing on the Telly,
and Jim just fiddled with his hat.

Then a squeak from the hinge of the old bat-wings
turned all eyes towards the door,
and lo and behold, a weary flea
came hopping across the floor.

He hopped across the dusty boards,
and jumped up on the bar,
and ordered seven schooners,
said, 'I'm dry, I've travelled far.'

He gulped them down without a breath,
those schooners, one by one,
then told the boss to 'fill 'em up!
it's nearly time to run.'

He downed those seven schooners
just as easily as the first,
then bought a dozen stubbies,
'just in case he got a thirst'.

He paid his debt, picked up his load,
and skipped off down the bar,
and soared out over the bat-wing doors
and out past Tommy's car.

Well, I looked at Jim, who stared at me,
and we gawked at the shearers too.
All blinked at the Boss, who shrugged at us,
and we wondered was it true.

Then we heard an awful crash,
and the shattering of glass.
Said Jim, 'I think I've had enough
Might make that one me last'!

The bat-wing hinges creaked again
as the flea came through the door,
with a busted wing, an injured leg,
and a lump beneath his jaw.

He looked at us distrustingly,
as he shivered, soaked in grog,
then bitterly he snapped these words,
'Who moved me flaming dog?'
The end