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


Caught in a Drum Net

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, Caught in a Drum Net


A similar fishy tale to this has been knocking around the bush in one form or another for years. This is a true story that is about Ron getting caught by some fishing inspectors while he was checking a fish trap that he had found several years ago. Fish traps, or “Drum Nets”, are of course highly illegal. As it turned out the trap he was inspecting when inspected by the inspectors was actually the inspector’s trap. They were apparently doing a survey of fish numbers. That was their story any way. Here’s Rons.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

A fish inspector’s job is to enforce our laws,
From poachers who driven by greed.
Use methods unfair in the name of their cause,
And then take more fish than they need.

It’s a well known fact that bag limits retract,
From those who tend to be illegal.
And the nature of tackle is sure and exact,
On what is and what is not legal.

And apart from a gill-net the worst to conspire,
Is a round trap with the nickname of “drum net”.
With a funnel at one end, made of chicken mesh wire,
It just rolls into the river when set.

But still because of my respect for the law,
I’d never risked using one myself, “true”.
The cost if convicted means losing it all,
Your boat, and your four-wheel drive, too.

One morn I went early to a secret location,
Where I new I’d catch a good feed.
I had permission to fish on the grazing station,
And I never catch more than I need.

But there on the bank not ten feet from me,
Was a rope disappearing into the river.
I thought seeing this end is tied to a tree,
The other must be tied to a… “fish giver”.

An easy free feed seemed too good to pass,
So I hauled up the trap for inspection.
And I emptied the catch on the river bank grass,
Completely unaware of detection.

Then I jumped in the air when a voice on my right,
Said, “looks like a pretty good feed”.
And my heart went on strike from effects of the fright,
And my bowels soon followed its lead.

The local fish inspector right there, in uniform stood,
Surveying his latest investigation.
And I looked up the bank at my Landcruiser’s hood,
And new it was marked for confiscation.

I new in an instant as my life flashed me by,
He had already decided my guilt.
And I had to think quick of a suitable lie,
Or suffer the law at full hilt.

I drew a sharp breath and very loudly I said,
“And who the bloody hell are you”.
And I stood holding ground, demanding instead,
Where he probably thought I’d shoot through.

Then with a swing from my aggressive manner, 
I said, “Oh I’m dreadfully sorry old chap”.
What luck that it’s you the local fish inspector,
I thought you must be the bloke who owns this trap.

© Ron Wilson


The Human Gaff

March 4, 2009 by  
Filed under Bush Poetry, The Human Gaff

Poem Introduction

The fisherman will already know that a ‘gaff’ is a large hook on a pole which you use for landing fish. A friend of ours lost his arm in an industrial accident. Ron thought this was a boring way of losing a limb and certainly not worth the trouble, so he decided to embellish a bit, not being the sort of bloke to let the truth get in the way of a good yarn

Bush Poetry by Ronnie Wilson

Fishermen closely guard from inspections,
All the secrets on which he relies.
Being vaguely loose with directions,
And the colours of his lures and flies.

But to tell this tale now before me,
For sole purpose of raising a laugh.
With tradition I’ll just have to break free,
In the tale of “The Human Gaff”.

See me and Chris, we call him C”J”,
Had a unique way of landing our cod.
We’d first catch them in the normal way,
Then bring them to the boat with the rod.

But we never had the usual “gaff” or “net”,
To pull the fish up into the boat.
Still we managed and hardly ever got wet,
By ripping them out by the throat.

See when you lift a fish’s head from water,
He has no choice but to open his gob.
And hanging back near his aorta,
Is this dirty big red dangly job.

Now it takes most of the arm just to reach it,
And all of your strength to hold once you do.
Cause the fish don’t like cold fingers one bit,
And generally try pretty hard to shoot through.

Well for years we were kings of the weir pool,
Catching cod by the tonsils at will.
And apart from being covered in fish drool,
Chris really perfected the skill.

But our method backfired on one tragic day.
And Chris, he now has an arm missing/
The tragedy befell us during a coastal holiday.
Were we tried our luck at “Shark Fishing”.

I’ll go no further with details all bloody and gory,
‘Cept that the day finished on a happier note.
Cause once the snapper got a whiff of that burly,
We set a new catch record for our boat.

And now Chris he is happier than ever,
With a new bionic arm and a steel hook for a hand.
And he thinks them city docs were so very clever,
To give him a gaff for the fish that we land.

© Ron Wilson