5 min 3 yrs

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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