Bush Poetry

Bush Poetry, it has been said, is undergoing a modern “revival”. While this may be true in the cities, way out the “Back O’ Bourke”, two local bush poets, have fiercely believed for years that it had never died out in the first place, so how on earth can it be revived? 

The bars of little outback hotels throughout the bush have long been frequented by “Closet Bush Poets” who, with a bit of liquid persuasion, can entertain the bar with their humorous rhyming’s. Usually they will inspire even more patrons to stand up and recite their favourite verse, which surprisingly enough, is often written by the reciter.

Probably some of the best nights we have ever had were spent in an outback pub that contained no jukebox, no card machines and not even a pool table. But the our publican Tim could go verse for verse with the best and sometimes it seemed that bush poets out numbered non-bush poets, ten to one in the bar.

Australians all through history have maintained a close affinity with rhyming yarns, and bush poetry has always held a valuable place in folklore and history. All the warehouses filled with historical documents and records in the world cannot capture and permanently record the true “essence” of the peoples of an era? Bush Poetry records the peoples’ language and lifestyles, along with their life’s triumphs and tragedies, and does it in a format that is enjoyable to read. Bush poetry is a combination of poetry and place which is capable of turning a history lesson into a pleasant experience for even the youngest of readers. The pair of us fell under its spell before we were able to read, through hearing our “bushy” ancestors recite the words of Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson.

These days we have bush poets across Australia battling for their lives in rhyme on the Internet. A concept pioneered by yours truly, now taking the flavour of the outback across the world.

We have spent years sharing campfires on river banks studded with ancient forests of mighty “river gums”, on plains that vanish in far off horizons in all directions, and amongst giant desert dunes in an ocean of red sand. We have, in the process, been caught in every extreme of weather from floods that leave you cut off from supplies for weeks, to dust storms that roll in from the west with a blinding, choking fury. We have been held at the mercy of temperatures that seasonally plunge off the thermometer at either end. Throughout we have shared the ups and downs of life in the true spirit of “Bush Mateship” and our poems are a reflection of our experiences and values, written with generous lashings of bush humour.

After eating a hearty camp oven meal, we’ve watched many a campfire burn down to embers as we tossed verses to and fro under a blanket of outback stars. It was around one of these campfires that it was decided to put together a book that could be carried by campers throughout Australia and assist them to step into the world of a couple of modern day Bushmen, Bush Poets from the Back of Bourke.

We have provided a collection of camp oven recipes that can be cooked with basic tucker box ingredients to a standard that may have other wise been a bit ordinary. After your meal, you can turn the page and recite some original Bush Poetry and in so doing live out a lifestyle that has been idealised throughout history as being “Truly Australian”.

The recipes have been written to be “yarns” in their own right, making the book readable even from the comfort of the lounge chair at home. The most important ingredient is typically Australian. It’s a “no worries” approach to food and cooking. If you haven’t got the exact ingredients, substitute. If you haven’t got a substitute, use the exact ingredients. With any luck, you are enjoying a few beers or a nice Australian red anyway, so it probably won’t make that much difference. The idea is to make the recipes your own.

So whether you are camping somewhere in the bush or at home, dreaming that you are, read on and enjoy.

Ron Wilson 


The Road Gang

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Road Gang


The earth moving industry in modern times is powered by huge machinery often with the luxury of air-conditioned cabs for operator comfort. Vast amounts of earth in a single day can be moved creating large water storage’s, “tanks”. Lengthy stretches of outback-corrugated road can now be graded in a day.

We both stand testament to this, having both worked as earth moving contractors throughout outback NSW.

Ron’s ancestors were earthmoving contractors also, but they used an entirely different type of plant. They used “Clydesdales” and “Bullock Teams” to haul scoops for tank sinking and road ploughs and grader blades for road making. They carved roads up the sides of mountains all over the Northern Rivers Region of NSW, in the days that it was called “The Big Scrub”, and its primary industry was the cedar industry.

Apart from mountains and cedar and rainforests, the area is known for its high rainfall, the highest in NSW by far. It was while driving on a road still in existence that was built by these tough bushies, in a torrential down pour and marveling at their feat when the inspiration to write about them came. This poem is dedicated to those early “earthmovers” who certainly had it tougher than us. 


By bark slab huts hidden in forests tall
And beside the bubbling creeks
Where ten inches of rain in a day can fall
And flood you in for weeks
Where men can’t walk they have to wade
Cause the ground all round is mud
Old roads are lost and new ones made
And the price is paid in blood

The bullocky snarls at the falling rain
With a dreary sodden curse
Then trudges on in weary pain
That is slowly getting worse
With a hand firm on his bullocks head
Round the mountain side they trudge
Trying to remember his last dry bed
And trying to ignore the sludge

A smoke is rolled under a battered brim
To shield from the pouring rain
Lit with stiffened hand cupped to hairy chin
But it gets wet just the same
It falls in half further down the track
So it is left there where it fell
He wonders why as he wanders back
There’s so much water in hell

Torrents down the mountain side
Fall down to a ferny glen
Where a team last week went a little wide
And that was the last of them
The bullock driver also lost his life
Because he tried to save his team
Then straws were drawn to tell his wife
Camped further down the stream

Road plows pulled with Clydesdale strength
Lay wider the treacherous trail
No gamer beast found in nature’s length
Their hearts refuse to fail
But if the plow pulls wide and starts to slip
And the driver reacts too slow
It will pull the horses out over the lip
And down to their deaths below

Winding slowly up through thick black clouds
The road is carved by flesh and bone
Leaving graves marked only by leafy shrouds
And at the head a mossy stone
The road gets built over the mountain side
Despite the constant flood
And those that remember the ones who died
Know the price was paid in blood


The Bush Olympian

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Bush Olympian


How many of us have that special talent that we cultivate? Something we can do better than everyone else? The fencing we see in the Olympics isn’t the kind of fencing that we do out here, and those hats the horsemen wear wouldn’t keep off any sun.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

My legs were too long for cycling,
And my arms were too short for weights.
I’m no good at running or jumping,
And my boxing skills aren’t great.

Me hair was too short for tennis,
But I gave badminton a bash.
My hair was too long for golf,
And cricket pads give me a rash.

I can’t stay afloat in the water,
And I’m too scared of heights to dive.
I haven’t the balance for motorbikes,
And I haven’t a licence to drive.

But I have developed a tendon,
Between my elbow and my wrist.
And it allows a stubby bottle,
To fit perfectly in my fist.

I can roll a smoke one handed
(No handed if I try).
And my mouth is perfectly suited,
To swallowing whole a meat pie.

If you take me on at yarn spinning,
Then you are a bloody fool.
And I’ve tuned my body perfectly,
To sitting on a barstool.

I know I’ll never be recognised,
For the athlete that I am.
But these are skills I can use every day,
I’m a bush Olympian.

© Andrew Hull


An Old Bloke Like Me

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under An Old Bloke Like Me, Bush Poetry


Every workplace seems to have a resident ‘Old Fart’ hanging around, someone who used to work there years ago and is now retired, or has some vested interest in the goings on of the place. Memories blur with reality on a regular basis, ( the older you get, the better you were) and shearing sheds are a notorious haunt for such past legends.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

Every old shed’s got a bloke like me,
I’m usually found by the door.
My cigarette smoke lines the roof of the shed,
My crumpled akubra near swallows my head,
All I am is my stories, the smoke that you see,
And the piles of ash on the floor.

I have no real title or job to perform,
I speak when I want you to hear.
I lean on a broom but I don’t ever sweep,
I wake up at four and by four I’m asleep,
I’m a remnant of days before union reform,
So they pay me with smokes, tea and beer.

The mornings I’m always hung over and down,
The rest is my memories it seems.
Like the time that I shore three hundred or more, 
Or the day that I knocked the boss clean out the door,
The young fella’s listen, but stare at the ground,
As I recall my half drunken dreams.

I know that there’s pity in the young shearer’s eyes,
But I talk and pretend not to see.
For the yarns that I give are half lies and half true,
But they’ll become their memories and their stories too,
And that way this old shearer never quite dies
‘Cause each shed’s got an old bloke like me.

© Andrew Hull



March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bourke, Bush Poetry


I guess there are a thousand towns that are well removed from major centers that seem to have an obscure attraction for a lot of people. Once again the quality of the bush spirit remains undeniable, but almost impossible to explain.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The publican at old Fitzs Hotel, 
Was watching the stranger approach. 
He would be in need of a beer he could tell, 
He’d just come in off the coach.

After a nod to the group at the bar, 
And a long cool draught of beer. 
The stranger announced that all roads so far, 
Had finally bought him to here.

He said that he knew that the weather was good, 
And he knew there was plenty of work. 
But while he was here he hoped that he could, 
Find out what was so special about Bourke.

Now a publican has his own social class, 
And he has a unique point of view. 
So he quietly filled up the strangers glass, 
And he poured himself one too.

“That question”, he said as he filled up his jar. 
“Is much more complex than you think.” 
“But the answer lies at the end of the bar, 
With those four blokes having a drink.

The bloke on the left is a grazier, 
He’s a man of some wealth and renown. 
He owns about two million acres, 
And he’s well respected around town.

The bloke two his right is a shearer, 
He’s only just finished a shed. 
He makes his way in about every two months, 
For a beer and a comfortable bed.

To his right again is a local, 
And he plays a valuable part. 
You could say he keeps the town moving, 
As he drives the dunny cart.

And the man next to him is a learned man, 
And a good bloke to have as a mate. 
if you find yourself in some trouble, 
He’s the local magistrate.

Now I see that I’ve got you confused, 
I can tell by the look on your face. 
You ask me what’s special ‘bout Bourke, 
And I don’t even mention the place.

The special thing is the fact that they’re here, 
All sharing a beer and a joke. 
The dunny cart man will probably shout, 
And the magistrate could bum a smoke.

In no other place would the social standards, 
Allow them to all sit down there. 
But in Bourke, none of that matters, 
And you don’t find that anywhere.

You see mate, money and power, 
Don’t work when you’re out this way. 
They don’t make it any cooler, 
On a 40 degree summers day.

And they don’t make you closer to Sydney, 
When it floods and supplies can’t get through. 
And you don’t smell any better in drought, 
When one bath a week has to do.

You can call it mateship or madness, 
Whatever it is seems to work. 
It’s the fact that we’re in it together, 
That’s what’s so special about Bourke.”

It was that stranger who told me this story, 
His families now lived here for years. 
And he told me and a rich cotton farmer, 
After we’d sat and had a few beers.

And we were joined later on by the mayor, 
And a council bloke, just out of work. 
And I thought, well, we’re all still here in it, 
But we’re on it together, in Bourke.

Andrew Hull


Fishing for Wasps

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Fishing For Wasps


It is a common rule in the bush that ‘anything that flies and can bite you should be made extinct’. The problem with wasps is that if you miss on the first attempt, their common rule is that ‘anything that tries to kill you and fails, should be made extinct’. And a fishing boat is definitely not a good place for the two species to co-exist.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

We were whaling on the Darling,
On a lazy Sunday afternoon,
Not bothering if we caught any,
And no plans to head home soon.

Well we found a very fishy site,
Near a big old fallen tree.
So we moored the boat up tight,
And settled back comfortably.

We set the bait and began the wait,
With an esky near each knee.
And before half a can I felt a bite,
From a fresh water Kamikaze.

I reeled him in with a bit of a grin.
And said mate, I think we’ve found the spot.
Well settle in here and if it takes all day.
We won’t move till we’ve caught the lot.

It was somewhere round the second fish,
That I froze with a sudden gasp.
On a protruding branch just three feet away,
Hung a bloody big nest of paper wasps.

Well we called a meeting on what to do,
Should we pack up and go or should they.
Or were we really in any danger at all,
If we just kept well out of their way.

Well I passed a motion and “Chris” he seconded,
That both parties had a right to stay.
Then we had a beer with the voting ended,
And continued with our fishing fray.

But I soon snagged a stick and I dragged it in,
As I cursed the flaming pest.
And in a rum spurred rage I threw the thing,
And it hit the bloody nest.

Now a wasp bite is ten times worse than a bee,
The only good one that I know is dead.
And they all charged into battle straight past me,
And attacked me mate, Chris, on the head.

Imagine the terrifying experience I had,
Sitting there amongst world wasp war three.
But I suppose it wasn’t really all that bad,
After all they didn’t come near me.

When the attackers finally called a cease-fire,
Me mate he was flat upon the deck.
All bleeding and moaning in tattered attire,
With big blotchy bites above the neck.

But he really was a game sort of fellow,
And not easily deterred from our quest.
And though his face was a peculiar yellow,
He wanted revenge on that wasp nest.

So a plan was hatched of evil theme,
And we prepared to face the foe.
These wasps were fast and particularly mean,
But we weren’t exactly slow.

We snuck the boat in at a drifting pace,
Like commando’s stalking their foe.
Then first mate Chris with his swollen face,
Swung a stick with a mighty blow.

Well the nest hit the water in an instant,
And we watched it disappear from sight.
But the bloody wasps didn’t go down with it,
And they looked like they wanted a fight.

We went straight into battle stations,
And prepared to repel all invaders.
Our act of aggression had severed all relations,
And we were attacked by the homeless raiders

I straightaway summed up the situation,
As I tried very hard to look like a tree.
But Chris was swamped by the invading nation,
All hell-bent on wasp victory.

Like a living swarming human hive,
He staggered gamely to his feet.
And though I thought he must be barley alive,
He showed he wasn’t beat.

He lurched and threw himself overboard,
No doubt to drown his foe.
But he only took with him half the hoard,
The rest weren’t quiet as slow.

It was about then I turned back into a tree,
As they circled me round and round.
But once again they didn’t see me,
And Chris was no where to be found.

Finally they realised they’d had a clear win,
So they gathered together to gloat.
And Chris set a new record for an underwater swim,
As I still sat perfectly still in the boat.

Eventually we reunited, and we quietly stole away,
And it was good to see the homestead lights.
Then my wife asked, “did we catch any today”?
And I just said “no, but Chris got a lot of bites”!

© Ron Wilson


The Bush Telegraph

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Bush Telegraph


In the city, housewives meet for cups of tea and bickies, or lean over the back fence to discuss relevant topics of the goings on of the people around them in their communities. Well the bush has the same sort of system, we call it “The Bush Telegraph”. It covers vast distances, as do the properties of the great out back, and is usually the first source of information on an important event in the outback community. It would have to be one of the fastest forms of communication on the planet even in to day’s high-tech net driven society.

It starts at the source of the event and then at great speed the information explodes out covering vast tracks of land, crossing rivers in flood, hot barren deserts and clearing mountain ranges in a single bound. It hitches rides with every phone call and every station bound road train as well as every mail truck and every “cocky” that scratches a stick in the dust during weather information exchanges with his neighbor. The outback always has depended on the Bush Telegraph and we believe it always will.


On every far off bush selection,
Out where the dingo’s roam.
There’s a means of communication,
that’s faster than a phone.
Its movement is always continual,
It’s not something you can photograph.
It’s an early Australian original,
Known as the Bush Telegraph.

It was used by early selectors,
Ploughing the sun baked loam.
Carried by all the visitors,
And distributed home by home.
It still moves around the outback,
Though the roads are often rough.
Both black soil road and bulldust track,
Carry the old Bush Telegraph.

It was used by ragged miners,
For news of each new rush.
Spurring dreams of untold riches,
Buried somewhere in the bush.
It starbursts out across the land,
Carried on, like wind blown chaff.
By “Cobb and Co” with four in hand,
All carrying the Bush Telegraph.

It was used by wiry stockmen,
With skin hardened by the sun.
And bush women raising children,
On a distant lonely run.
Where the loneliness is unending,
And she’s forgotten how to laugh.
She hopes soon they’ll be sending,
News on the Bush Telegraph.

Its not restricted by elements of weather,
Nor hindered by boundaries of time.
It can’t be bought sold or tied with tether,
It’s no more yours than it is mine.
The weight of its cargo is boundless,
So for the want of a suitable epitaph
Try unstoppable, necessary and priceless,
The grand old Bush Telegraph.

© Ron Wilson


Farewell the Son

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Farewell The Son


All those well versed in Shakespeare, will probably be able to draw some comparisons between this poem and Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3. There is a fairly well known soliloquy by a father (Polonius), offering some parting advice to his son (Laertes). It has given birth to several common sayings, “the apparel oft proclaims the man”, “neither a borrower nor a lender be”, etc. Hully thought it all seemed like pretty good bush logic.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The razors edge horizon is cutting through the sun,
And the land is scarlet as it bleeds to death.
This sunset seems more beautiful than any other one,
Tomorrow, Dad is sending me on my first cattle run,
And tonight he says good-bye through rum soaked breath.

He doesn’t look me in the eye, he never has before,
His pupils glaze upon the amber glow.
He says, “Could be some time until you walk back through our door,
I reckon you’ll be right, but a man can’t be too sure,
So a quick word of advice before you go.

“There’s a lot of time for thinking when you’re out there on the trail,
But don’t be quick to speak your thoughts out loud.
And don’t rush into anything or you are bound to fail,
Make sure you work out in your mind every small detail,
Then every thing you do will make you proud.

“The blokes you meet will like you all the more if you are straight,
They’re hard men, but most of them are true.
Don’t waste your time with each new face until they prove their weight,
But when their worth is proven, don’t be scared to call them mate,
Sometimes mates are all you’ve got to get you through.

“Keep hold of your temper, don’t get pushed into a fight,
You don’t know what the other bloke can do.
It’s no good in a droving’ camp if you can’t sleep at night
When a bloke says that he’ll murder you, you best believe he might,
But remember, he might think the same of you.

“Now every bloke out there will have a word or two to tell,
And you best listen if you know what’s good.
There’s good advice and bad advice, and both will serve you well,
But don’t make every word you hear, the same as what you tell,
And only tell the few you think you should.

Make sure you keep your gear top nick before you blow your wage,
No drover ever had to look a dag.
But try not to follow fashion even though it’s all the rage,
That fancy gear gets out of date before it comes of age,
You can tell a lot about a bloke from his swag.

“No matter what you’re earning, be careful what you spend,
An open wallet is no way to boast.
But try hard not to get in debt, and don’t be quick to lend,
And remember this before you borrow money from a friend,
Think carefully which one you need the most.

“But do an honest hard days work is the best advice I’ve got,
And know that you did all that you could do.
‘Cause if you’re square with yourself it doesn’t matter what,
It follows that you must be square with all the other lot,
And it follows that they must be square with you.

“Then for a punctuation mark he had another drink,
Stood slowly up and looked me in the eye.
He held my hand a while and then gave a steady wink,
Then sat back down and settled in to watch the old sun sink.
And I knew that this was how he said good-bye.

Then staring west he spoke so soft, he scarcely made a sound,
“Keep your head up boy, no matter what you do,
You won’t learn nothing special by looking at the ground,
You might miss all the snakes and potholes scattered all around,
But sure as hell, you’ll miss the sunsets too.”


The Darling Dream

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Darling Dream


Ron started this poem at the age of 19 and then twelve years later wrote the second verse. The inspiration to finish being triggered by a painting done by Hully with the theme of “Dreaming on the Darling”

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

On the edge of the blue bush plains where the “Darling” banks are steep
And the black soil when it rains is around about waist deep
Where the ghost gums lean and sway 
Home and shelter for the Western Grey
And the Black Cocky’s laugh and act the loon 
And the billabongs shimmer to a blood red moon
This land is alive you can feel its pulse 
With the silouheting sunset on the Brolga’s waltz
And wherever I go and wherever I’ve been 
My mind carries me back on a “Darling Dream”

From the winters frosty mornings to the summers searing glare
And the wild flowers in between them and the Gidgee scented air
And the curling red sand ridges, like waves upon a shore
Break on black soil beaches before pulling back for more
And all along the shoreline when long shadows tend to cast
The present and the future blend with an ancient past
Then history repeats all over in the rising of the sun
But each millennia in its coming is just another one
And if time was just a measure of what a man has seen
Then I have lived forever, from seeing a “Darling Dream”

© Ron Wilson


Old Ted The Dog

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Old Ted The Dog


For graziers and sheep handlers, “the dog” often is their best friend, and they usually know the bloodline right back to Noah. Look out, however if the parents and grandparents were all perfect dogs and the end product isn’t. You have an animal that is too valuable to get rid of and too expensive to keep.


Because this story could end up true,
And I’d hate to be the one to blame.
I think the best thing I can do,
To protect the innocent is change the names.
And so this tale is not a prediction,
But has its foundation firmly in fiction.

The scene is the most romantic of places,
A country house with a wide verandah.
It could be the day after the Louth races,
And we’ll call this fictional property ‘Yanda’.
And we need two hosts of reputed good will,
So we’ll call this couple, Marissa and Bill.

Now Yanda, as far as bush venues go,
Was the partygoers dream discovery.
So everyone who was in the know,
Had gathered there for a races recovery.
To drink and talk the time away 
And face their hangover another day.

Bill was a well-respected grazier,
And a hard worker (by most peoples thinking).
But the truth was he couldn’t be lazier,
And was extremely fond of drinking.
And so at the party their roles were quite clear,
Marissa got organised, Bill drank beer.

The party was going exceptionally well,
Though Marissa was pregnant, as everyone knew.
But the secret that she didn’t tell,
Was that she was three weeks overdue!
But Bill kept doing what he thought he should,
Drinking as much as he possibly could.
Now at country affairs it is widely known,
After consuming the correct amount of grog.
The ladies will speak of the things they have sown,
While the men will argue the best working dog.
So this was the line of conversation,
That accompanied Bill’s inebriation.

And every bloke present said they had the most,
And the best ‘country canine cavaliers’.
But it seemed as though Bill was reluctant to boast,
And they found him nearly reduced to tears
‘I’ve made a horrible mistake’ he said,
‘I’ve put all of my faith in that useless dog, Ted’

‘I’ve tried to train him but each time I fail,
Being stuck with old Ted is a cruel twist of fate’
So they all looked at Ted, sitting, wagging his tail,
Eating a sausage he’d pinched off a plate.
Then Bill swung his foot in a savage attack
And said ‘Go on Ted, get down the back!’

Bill started drinking then, three times as hard.
As old Ted quietly skulked away.
And found a warm place at the back of the yard,
Where he could quietly pass the day.
And when Marissa went down there to turn off the taps,
No-one at the party heard her collapse.

With a shock she realised the baby was coming,
So she shouted out but no one could hear.
Unable to move, she had to do something,
Then old Ted gave her a lick on the ear.
‘Go and get Bill, boy’, she desperately said,
But this wasn’t Lassie, this was useless old Ted.

‘That useless old Ted, I should have him shot’
Wailed Bill, he was reaching the maudlin stage.
‘He’s by far the worst working dog that I’ve got,
I’m surprised I’ve allowed him to reach this old age.’
Then he told a joke to his friends and his staff,
And they all had a drink and another good laugh.
Meanwhile, down at the back of the yard,
Laughing was far from Marissa’s mind.
She had Ted by the collar and was twisting so hard,
That he couldn’t escape, he just stood there and whined.
But she got some comfort from this simple reaction,
As she worked her way through each contraction.

Then she realised that maybe she could make it through,
With old Ted beside her, taking Bill’s place.
She just needed something to curse and swear to,
And occasionally give her a lick on the face.
And Ted’s breathing was perfect, with no bark or bite,
Bill never could get that panting thing right.

Then the guests started asking ‘where was Bills wife?’
‘As its time they were gone and they wanted to kiss her’.
But Bill was the drunkest he’d been in his life,
And he had forgotten all about poor Marissa.
Then every one gasped and looked in surprise,
As she gracefully returned to say her good-byes.

Few people know what these moments are worth,
The fleeting and inimitable charm.
And beauty of a woman who has just given birth,
With her healthy boy cradled soft in her arms.
The expanse of gardens completed the story,
As the roses burst open in all of their glory.

And wagging his tail there proudly was Ted,
Unaware of the amount of time that elapsed.
‘He looks more like the father’ (a less prudent guest said),
“Than that drunk over there on the verge of collapse!’
And when Bill finally choked at the end of the keg,
Ted found a good place to cock his leg.

So now at this fictional place we call Yanda,
Things are pretty much the same as before.
Baby Edward now plays on the sunlit verandah,
And Bill has promised to drink nevermore.
But Marissa’s alone in the big double bed,
And Bill sleeps out back, with his new equal, Ted.


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