Wombat's Nasty Secret

All of us artistes find ourselves toiling away for nothing.  Unfortunately most of us attribute unwarranted significance to our own worthless endeavours.  That's my own definition of the word 'wanker'; one of our more colourful Australianisms.  Not me personally of course.  Sure I earn nothing, but I also understand perfectly well that my efforts are transient, meaningless, and insignificant.  But I find it amusing, and hope it will be similarly enjoyed by at least a few of my creative peers and my small fan club.  Which anyone of good will is welcome to join.

I have a friend who is a very serious poet.  One day I mentioned I was working on a children's book that was a spin-off from an artistic commission in which there is a carved wooden book with the title 'Wombat's Nasty Secret.'  It would have both prose and poetry.....

"Oh yes!" he said impatiently.  "I can see it now, Willy Wombat and his little bush pals and their wonderful adventures tripping through the flowery undergrowth....  Hasn't it been done to death by now?  No-one will publish anything like that."

"Well this is different.  Right now I am working on a bit about a wombat being torn apart by mongooses."

"What!" he shouted, leaping from his chair.  "Mongooses! No-one will buy anything like that!"

But I immediately understood that I had something good.  That's what its like to be a contrarian.  And here is a preview in the form of that fragment of an epic poem appearing therein.  If the occasional line refers to something vaguely recalled out of TS Elliot or somesuch,  it was intentional.  But I haven't been able to find the source try as Google and I might. 

                         The Story of Hard-Hearted Harry

A Cautionary tale for Self-Serving, Psychopathic, and Otherwise Criminally Inclined Wombats

It was Hard-Hearted Harry, the scourge of Tocumwal

Hard-hearted Harry the hairy-nosed wombat

The hairy-nosed wombat who wanted it all.

Which is never enough for some people it seems-

The kind you avoid like the plague on the street

And never get shut of in disconsolate dreams

The king of the rackets, the police in his pocket, kahuna of crime.

He was the biggest, baddest, most feared, capo of capos

To rule Shepparton and Morwong at least

And maybe also Gagebrook

In his time.

His loan-sharking business might grab your attention

His suit only knows

How he coldly foreclosed on the orphan’s estate

How neatly he snaffled the poor widow’s pension

And committed other outrages

Too numerous to mention.

His burrows were found at prestigious addresses

Marked with black X’s on all of the maps

With chauffeurs and butlers and chiropodists’ services

Underground caviar and gold-plated taps!

But alas for his lifestyle; a criminal faction

Had arrived from the States

To take over the action.

They were slinky and long and kinky and lean

The most malevolent gang of Hawaiian mongooses

A still- living wombat could ever have seen.

Implacable, merciless, never defeated  

They telephoned Harry their itinerary

Who famously answered (expletive deleted!)

 “We’re coming your way with a courtesy call –

We’re tired of your hare-lip and catcalls and taunting

We’re going to give you much more than you’re wanting:

The bigger the wombat the harder he falls

You hairy –nosed wombat who wanted it all.”

They searched out and found him to harry and hound him

And slowly the murderous circle closed round him

Of unspeakable shirts and untuned ukuleles

While he pleaded and threatened

And thrashed in the melee.

He whined and he wheedled, cajoled and he blandished

And brandished his claws and slashed with his teeth

But for each bloodied battler that cut and retreated

A half-dozen more would slink in off the street.

How he laid about bravely, his blows thudding down

The shrieks of the wounded upsetting the town

But on pressed the Hawaiians, like the Bloods AND the Cripps

The names of their black pagan gods on their lips.

He slipped and their chief murmured ‘Aloha Harry ‘

And “Kamehameha, lest we forget thee!”

As he braced for the kill.  But Harry arose and again laid about

With claws and with cudgel knocked more of them out.

Again he went down and …..  all earthly travails

Must end for the worst and the bravest heart fails…

He came up for the third time and with one final wail

Went down in the forest of bottle-brush tails.

Some morsels of Harry were all that were found

That half-filled a matchbox

Collected by keeshonds that scoured the ground

Where the battle was fiercest.

The coroner queried the size of the sample

Sadly shaking his head

“Not enough for a knackwurst.   I cannot conclude

Or imply that poor Harry is dead.

Perhaps he has bunked to more hospitable climes

Where mongeese and wombats partner in crime

And plumbing runs champagne......

And the sun always shines……”