WHERE I LIVE MAP

A MAP WILL NOT DO A LOVELY LITTLE VILLAGE LIKE BRUNSWICK HEADS JUSTICE, so you will find many images of 'BRUNZ' contained ON this site.

NOTE: IF YOU CLICK "VIEW LARGE MAP" ON THE GOOGLE MAP BELOW, WOW, YOU WILL BE ABLE TO NAVIGATE TO SOME GREAT DATA, (better than I can do).

Whats this poem got to do with anything, well, you will find several of these inglorious attempts at rhyming prose embedded in this site. Most will emanate from BRUNSWICK HEADS, YOU KNOW, THATS WHERE I LIVE.

Night soil carters, dunny carters, shit carters, night carters, dunny can carters, sani-can carters, sanitary can carters, “you make it, and we take it”.

Actually, this poem has nothing to do with the above professional expertise. Rather, it is an analogy about the shape of their hat. You ascertain that to carry many cans of “night soil” will necessitate a certain flattening of their hat, hence: the “sea is as flat as a shit carters hat”. My mate Johnnie McKeag, (go on GOOGLE; ‘mckeag, Brunswick heads), loved our fishing, read on.

SHIT CARTERS CARTERS HAT, AL LA FISHEN’

VIZ A VIZ: FLAT AS A SHIT CARTERS HAT.

When the sea is flat, "like a shit carters hat", it’s time to down the tools. McKeag and me will launch the boat, you see in our town, well folks, the fishen’ rules.

A block of ‘pillies’, our trusty rods, some ‘occie’ Maybe out there we will ‘spotya’.

Listen for the sound of 115 horses, no, not a stampede, it’s our trusty steed the ‘Gotcha’.

Bond wood, clad with fiberglass proud as punch she takes us.

Through the Brunswick ‘Walls’, out to the ‘local reef’, “around the pot holes McKeag, hey mate don’t shakes us”.

So we drop the ‘pick’, we sets the rods, and compulsory bit of ‘coolite’ float are cast.

Very soon the ratchet whirrs, “hey Keggie were fishen’, get out the gaff, the fun’s about to start”.

Well, not always is the pace so frenetic, there is days we wait, then there’s day we get real hectic.

Just to be on the briny, kicking back and reminiscing, folks, this seems to be eclectic.

“Hey old mate what about old “Walleye”, biggest bastard I’ve ever seen”.

“You pulled him up from 40 fathoms, brown and awesome, teeth with unholy gleam”.

Our faces turned white, and, while our duds turned a different shade.

“But you had to have your moment of glory McKeag, the moment I will never trade”.

We cogitate and think about adventures nature had us subjected too.

How we nearly sunk the “Gotcha”, the rains came down, we nearly drowned, the things that we both went through.

We reflect upon the massive catch of Mackerel we hooked upon the local.

What to do with our ‘fishy bounty, makin’ money was the point real focal.

Market down, prices crap so a sales journey we did venture.

WE crawled from Tweed to Billinudgel, we sold the fish, we got pissed, boy what a great adventure.

We talk about, what comes about; you will gauge by this little yarn.

Coupla’ days, she’ll be right, so one more day wont harm.

Stuff the workload, we’ll be there tomorrow, right now were on a mission.

“If you accept these terms then hang about”, ‘cause McKeag and me have ‘gorn fishen’.

OK mate, get this story straight, and get your teeth into the bit.

Lewd and crude and very "Occer", this prosy rhyme will sit.

Pack a sanger and a stubby, 'cause fishin' is where were at.

Let's try our luck old buddy.

LET'S GO FISHEN’ mate, the sea is 'FLAT AS a SHIT CARTERS HAT"