Butcherin’ in the Bush.

Me dad, ‘e was a butcher in the bush before the war

jist after the depression, before market’n was the score,

before red meat was packaged in a film of clear clingwrap,

before a bloke jist ‘ad to cook in a microwave - poor chap !

I remembers at the sale yards almost each and every week

where I jist ‘ad to look and learn, ‘ardly allowed to speak,

where dad would do the bidd’n while mum served at the shop

and ‘iffen I was lucky, might get a lollipop.

When the sale was over, that’s when the work begun

because after killin’ cattle each one ‘ad ter be ‘ung

then skinned and sliced, sawed and ‘acked

to shoulders, legs and sides,

then put in to the coolroom after stretchin’ out the ‘ides.

Flies were mostly friendly, they’d ‘ang around all day,

we did’n ‘ave the aerosol to send ‘em on their way,

we’d put up sticky, curly strips ‘angin’ everywhere,

poor ol’ mum would be relieved, not surrender to despair

for steaks and chops and sausages ‘angin’ from steel ‘ooks

or plucked and dressed white leghorns, known to all as ‘chooks’.

Course, as I got older I usta ‘elp me dad

servin’ in the butcher shop, becomin’ a - ‘bit of a lad’

weighin’ up the prime mince, jokin’ the local bum,

lookin’ after Mrs Jones but never weighin’ me thumb.

That’s on account,

they all would say,

I’ll hafta pay another day

what could a poor ol’ butcher do

to keep ‘is wolves at bay.

(c). Rimeriter. 11/2/03.

      Revised 25/7/12.