Wongan Way/Stooker's Rash
Stooker’s Rash
Morning
Was it grass-seeds you mentioned? Beg pardon, I’m sure.
Proceed with your story, I pray.
Didn’t mean to be rude; but I misunderstood—
I thought you were speaking of hay.
A ton to the acre, your five-cornered lot—
Is that where you’re stocking to-day:
We chaps from the city are objects of pity.
We envy you, stooking your hay.
Sore arms, tired back, and a splinter or two?
What matter? ’Tis thanksgiving day.
After famine’s long battle you’ve feed for your cattle—
You ought to be singing of hay.
Try thanksgiving oil for the blisters and rash;
Or your Mary will kiss them away.
Or let me try the charm of life on a farm,
I’ll give you a hand with the hay.
****
Evening
I’m swarming and teeming with grass-seeds!
I’m sure the dashed things have struck root!
Here! let’s have a go at the bathroom;
And lend me an unseeded suit.
I tingle and burn worse than ever!
What’s that? Oh! the order for Perth—
I can’t hold a pencil for splinters—
Just order some best Fuller’s earth.
Some wadding and lint and carbolic,
Some needles and tweezers and oil.
Order Zam-Buk and eye-salve and Condy’s—
I’m all of a sizzle and boil.
I’ve fly-fever, blood-poison and snake-bite,
And sunstroke and measles.—Don’t laugh.
I’ll “write up” the cost of production—
You deserve a good price for your “chaff.”
Say, when can I get these dashed cure-alls?
Next week! via Johnson and Brown?
Good heavens, man! Order the sulky!
I’m back by the next train to town.
What’s that you say? Cream? Ah! that’s better—
Why Mary, you’re saving my life.
Here, some on my arms—ah! that’s heaven!
I think I must order a wife.