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,
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