The Yarra’s browner than wombat shit: burnt leaves

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Blows all the smoke and shit straight over the city.
The river bears empty tinnies, ciggie butts,
And possibly one stiff, who we’ll get to in Part IV.
The chicks on the bank have all gone home,
And their boyfriends, Scotch boys with rich daddies,
Have also all shot through.
Dirty old Yarra, must you keep flowing?
See? I can do intertextuality too.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
Is that someone opening an ice cold beer?

Nope. Fair dinkum, it was a hissing fucken water rat.
Dragging its slimy arse up the banks
Trying to nick me fucken bait
While I was minding me own business,
A spot of fishing, thinking about me old man,
Nope, officer, I swear I didn’t even notice
The naked couple going hell for leather
On the bank below. They wouldn’t have heard
Me either, except that I stepped on that fucken rat
And the next thing I hear
The sound of cop cars and sirens, which shall bring
Me a night or two in the clink.
Now I sit thinking of Mrs Porter
And of her sexy fucken daughter
And crack one out quicker than I ought ta
And sing some shit in French.

They took my phone
So I can’t even tweet
Drugs drugs drugs drugs.
Wankers.

Wait, London again?
Even fucken colder than last time, and foggy to boot
Some frog poofter asked me for lunch
And back to his hotel for the weekend.
Not gonna lie, I thought about it,
Something different, plus he looked cashed up to the eyeballs
But in the end I just told him to piss off.

Anyway, the sun’s setting, everyone’s out of work,
And frankly I have no idea
Why I’m here. I hail a cab.
I, Tiresias, old man with wrinkled female brea—
—wait, what the fuck?
Jeez, this is what spending too long with the poms does to ya.
Anyway, I guess I’m perving on this sheila
Who’s a bit of alright, to be fair
Looks like she’s got a special guest comin’,
Cos she’s laying out the lingerie.
Truth be told, he’s a bit of a disappointment,
Face like a slapped arse, looks like a real estate agent.
He’s keen as mustard, but I dunno if she’s got the hots for him.
Have a go, ya dickhead!
Finally it’s on with the franger and onto a shithouse root.
(And I—still Tiresias, apparently—got nothing out of that
Possibly because I’m thousands of years old
Possibly because I’m a sheila
But truly who fucken know at this point?)
And then one last half-hearted pash,
And he’s back out the door to catch the last tram.
The sheila, meanwhile, goes back to looking in the mirror.
You can’t expect much from the Poms.
Lay back and think of England, and all that.
She puts some mopey shit on the stereo
And I decide to piss off before someone calls the cops. Again.

I wander down the river,
Along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
There’s some doof coing from some joint down the Thames
But the place looks a bit suss
Full of sailors, and you know what they’re like.
And the walls are gold? Nah, fuck that.
No poof doof for old Tizza tonight.

The river stinks
They all stink, really
Which I think is the point?
And then some weird noises

Weilalala leia
Wallala leialala

Some lost Kiwis
Doing the haka?

‘Trams and gum trees
Kinda bore me. A pub crawl through Richmond and Kew
Undid me. I passed out on the banks of the Yarra
And chundered into a tethered canoe.’

‘My feet are in Morang, and my heart
Is in South Morang. After I gave him the arse
He had a sook and promised to apply for NewStart.
I said, whatever. Not my problem.’

‘Down St Kilda way
I can’t connect
With anyone. They’re all backpackers.
Broken fingernails, dirty hands
From picking fruit for visas. For
Nothing.’

la la

Wait, why am I in Carthage?
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord I asketh you now
O Lord I asketh

what the fuck is going on?