The Mosquito Trap

In the far-off north of Queensland, a nostalgic, might-have-been’s landThere’s a wild ferocious creature roams the sultry tropic nightMaking frequent depredation on each lonely outback stationAnd creating consternation by the fierceness of its bite. Round the swamps in late December it can easily dismemberAny tourist that is fool enough to stumble in its wayAnd it’s not a crocogitter or the fabled bunyip critterBut the true Queensland moskeeter that you have to keep at bay. When the cattle hear it coming with a sort of distant hummingThey rush down to the river and they roll themselves in mud;Through a rubber boot or blucher will the creature persecute yaIt will ruin your flamin’ future if it gets to suck your blood. Now, one night when we were goin’ through the jungle east of CoenWe pitched our tent at twilight on a little grassy flat;It was supper I was getting as the sun was quickly settingAnd my wife put up the netting... for you must remember that. I was writing at the table (just as well I was able,For the page was damp and soggy and the pen was losing ink)When my love discerned a bitee buzzing around her shortee nighteeAnd she thought in ghastly fright he might be looking for a drink. Well, a trap to catch an otter her friend Gwen in Mudgee got her...It was lying near the pillow, so she quickly set the teeth,Latched the bar across to crank it, then she folded down the blanketAnd with tender touch she sank it in the bedclothes underneath.Let’s forget about the mozzie... he was just a dream (or was he?Is he up there in the ceiling laughing off his rotten head?)But just focus on the writer who’s a horny sort of blighterAnd who shortly thought he mighter liked a snuggle-up in bed! His passion made him bolder, so he taps a sleeping shoulderAnd he moves a little closer lest his chances should escapeWhen there comes a crash like thunder and a crunching sound down under,And his screams created wonder from the Fitzroy to the Cape! The last pages of his journal fill with agony eternalAnd his dictionary is plundered for superlatives of painNot of bruising or of swelling, or the leap from bed he’s telling,But the hot tears slowly welling... when that trap ran out of chain! Written by Charlee Marshall