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G.M. "DOC" Lousignont, Ph.D.

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An Aussie Prospector's Christmas Poem

2002 G.M. "DOC" Louignont, Ph.D.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all o’er the land.

Not a creature was stirring, not even one bloke with detector in hand;

The Roo Scrotums were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that a gold nugget from St. Nick would soon be in there;

The ol’ prospector’s in OZ were nestled all snug in their swags,

The same for prospector’s in the U.S. but there they call them sleeping bags;

Mamma was still at home and I was still out bush, Down Under

I wanted to be home for Christmas but I was bogged down because of rain and thunder,

When outside my tent a terrible noise waked me from my sleep,

Fleeing for me life out of the tent I did try to leap.

I rushed right through the mozzie netting ripping it right fast,

Tripped over me privates parts I did, and fell flat on me ass.

The moon on the dry lake showed wet puddles of muddy mush

It brought a tear to my eye when I saw a full can of beer I did crush,

When, what to my bloodshot eyes should make me scream WOO HOO,

But a miniature sleigh, pulled by eight Big Red Kangaroo,

With a little old prospector, so lively and quick,

I knew in an eye blink it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than emu his Roo’s they came,

And he screamed, and cursed, and called them by name;

"Now, Skippie! now, Shelia! now, Bloke and Wanker!

On, Cobber! on Mate! on, Dingo and Drongo!

To the top of the trees those eight Roos flew all!

I heard him scream, "Get your arse in gear or I’ll cut off your balls!"

As hot winds that blow sometimes on a blistering December night,

When those Roo’s got out of line, he did make them fly right!

So up over those tree tops those Joeys they flew,

With the sleigh full of detectors, and St. Nicholas too.

As quick as a bean fart, I heard somewhere from behind

The rustling of the brush, and the smell of beer and cheap wine.

As I rose from me arse, and was turning ‘round in my place,

Into my camp stumbled St. Nick and he fell right on his face.

He was dressed all in detecting gear, from his head to his no metal boots,

And his clothes were all tarnished with red dirt, he was a nasty ol’ coot;

A bundle of detectors he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how bloodshot, his fat gut how disgusting!

A string of rancid burps and putrid farts he kept busting!

He smelled of booze, his breathe it was plain outrageous,

And the beard of his chin so filthy I hoped there was nothing contagious;

The stump of a fag he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

But he had a broad smiling face when he screamed, "Put on the Billy."

"You think I got all night to sit with you? Don’t be so damn silly!"

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

But his smell was so awful it about made me puke on myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

He told me he was so drunk he’d just like to go right to bed;

"But I got detectors to deliver," He said, "all over the damn place",

"Getting them all to prospectors before daybreak, will be quite a race!"

And grabbing a hand full of his knickers and scratchin’ his ass,

He roared, "Is that Billy workin’ I want tea, I need to get out of here fast;"

He sprang to his sleigh, to his Roo’s gave a cursing command,

"You better get to friggin' flying or you’ll feel the back of my hand!"

But I heard him exclaim, as he flew out over the lake,

"Why don’t you quit looking for gold and spend Christmas with your family for Christ's sake!"