The Man With Blowy Liver

Last Sunday we celebrated with my Dad his 70th birthday. It was an excellent day. He sent me an e-mail yesterday which said:

I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed all the surprises of my birthday and to thank you for the part you and your children played in making the day so successful. The memories of the day will remain with me for the rest of my life.

Part of the day was a special concert that included songs and musical items performed by children and grandchildren. I also took the opportunity to write a poem based on the Australian classic 'The Man From Snowy River' by A. B. 'Banjo' Patterson written in 1890.

My version was titled: 'The Man With Blowy Liver'.

There was movement at Dart station, for the word had passed around
That the Phil with no regrets had come of age,
And according to all sources – he’d secured a plot of ground,
So all the cracks had gathered for the day.
All the tried and noted siblings from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the children love abiding where the birthday parties are,
And the main course beckons all with its delights.

There was Clarrie boy who made us smile with his relaxing banter,
And the old Pam with her hair and white as snow;
But few could match intensity with Lank’s amazing wit –-
He could talk ‘til hoarse leaving others in the know.
And Westley of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better poet ever held such sway;
Young Natalie could hold her ground, though she was soft and tender,
She learned to talk while tied to cars with chains.

And one was there, with Santa hair on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a Granddad in disguise,
He liked his Indian curry -- three serves on jasmine rice at least –-
And such as are by connoisseurs’ still prized.
He was hard and tough and cheery – just the sort that won’t say die --
There was courage in his quick but patient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and twinkly eye,
And a proud and lofty snore while on his bed.

But Granddad had a problem, they called it flatulence,
It resounded to the thunder of his tread.
And it seemed to wake the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the crescendo made it’s way,
Where Grandma and her family reside;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "Peace be still for just a day,
No man can hold such wind and smell inside."

And down by French’s Forest, where the local bridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The Man with Windy Liver is a household word to-day,
And his children tell his story with such pride.