So pack a picnic hamper,
     let's go touring through the countryside -
     balloon in the Barossa,
     or go wading in the surf;
     Australia is our oyster –
     say, that's worth consideration …
     Kilpatrick and a chaser in a bistro at the turf!

Our farmers' brows are furrowed like their paddocks late-prepared,
as blades of crop are wilting and the waterholes are bared;
and vignerons are calculating losses on the vine:
let's have a glass of Chardonnay - the weather here is fine!

     And pack a picnic hamper;
     take a journey to the Hinterland -
     we'll track across the Simpson,
     or go duning down the coast;
     Australia is our fillet mignon –
     NOW my mouth is watering …
     should we light the barbie,
     or would you prefer a roast?

The reservoirs have bottomed and the city lives on nerves;
the Murray River mudholes are our desperate reserves:
but things are never hopeless while the Gods look down and shine …
I understand the forecast says "tomorrow will be fine"!

     Now get that picnic hamper –
     let's go visit mountain waterfalls;
     perhaps we'll find a rockhole
     where the water's cool and deep:
     we'll plunge into their valleys
     growing mossy-covered undergrowth,
     beneath the fronds of tree-ferns,
     where the tendrils climb and creep.

Another string of highs is moving in to fill the Bight;
like mongrel dogs, the citizens are spoiling for a fight:
if any precious drop is found, a scream goes up "It's MINE!"
and the bloody Bureau STILL INSISTS the weather will be fine!!

© Max Merckenschlager