NIGHT OF THE LIVING BOGAN
Out of town I was, in a pub out west, yeah
Where everyone looks like Uncle Fester
Tattoos, rats-tails, broken teeth
My very first thought was good grief
A nightmare played in slow motion
It was the night of the living bogan
Whereaya from asked a mullet stain
Lacking manners, and a sober brain
An atmosphere of supressed violence
A deathly fear of soothing silence
This grubby yobbo then sat next to me
He wasn’t gone when I counted three
Dressed in blueys with no shirt on
T’was the night of the living bogan
His keenest passions were drinking and smoking
Both kinds of weed, with a chemical coating
His sunburnt gut was stylishly bloating
Like the sausage sandwich he was proudly toting
Southern Cross tattoo, inelegantly spoken
Eyes like two turds floating
How I wish that I was joking
About the night of the living bogan
He introduced Damo, Daz and Mick
Heads like bricks only twice as thick
Upon their greeting, I felt sick
They said “don’t be a stuck-up prick!”
Back at their place was a party
Nothing ritzy, nothing arty
They made sure first I was no fag
Before firmly inviting me back
Where real men slap their missus
Amid the squalor of broken dishes
Where Ice isn’t to cool one’s drink
Where it doesn’t do you well to think
Squashed together on a bleeding sofa
A thief, a junkie and a lifelong loafer
This septic trinity quizzically gloating
As though a fight I was provoking
A cloud of bong smoke, all three choking
Not the lifestyle I’d have chosen
On the night of the living bogan
Boasting about their welfare scam
Their girlfriends started to make demands
They said “shut your faces, stupid bitch”,
One of them began to twitch
Nudging me he said “let’s switch”
I wasn’t persuaded by his pitch
Listen cunt, he seized my arm
He knew all the words to Khe Sanh
Ugh boots, undies, and human waste
None of these things were to my taste
I bid farewell with all my haste
Good luck with the lifestyle, the legal case
Attempting to leave this camp of dross
They acted like they were my boss
The night is young and they fancy I’m cashed up
Be generous before I am soundly bashed up
Don’t be a wanker, have a line
What’s theirs is theirs and so is mine
Ciggie butts and 5-litre wine
Who says there’s no profit in crime?
Blood and teeth, they’d soon be hosin’
On the night of the living bogan
The one with eyes that went astray
Pretended to joke, “Come on, you’re gay?”
A redneck, cretin, a leering Okie
Whose mum gave birth while playing pokies
His womenfolk they were not ladies
They could have given an Alsatian rabies
Perfumed with the scent of toilet freshener
The kind of wombs it’s not safe to enter
Sex is just a bodily motion
For this cast of scary bogans
I searched for my best transitive verb
To flee this desperate suburb
From this little house on the swamp
Where gunsels, liars, and paedophiles stomp
Nothing but old drug bags to chomp
Bodies flake about the loungeroom
Nowhere is safe to walk until noon
The only thing worse than the gloom is the
Intergenerational doom
Where there’s no such thing as soon
And nobody’s heard of a broom
Screeching tyres are a top ten tune
Living life like a popped balloon
Kmart chic and the ubiquitous pram
If you’re not amused then change the programme
I will shout this out as loud as I can
May I never again meet another bogan
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