Furlong, Durack
On a hot Thursday evening round eight by the clock
I parked up the Nissan and zapped on the lock
But my shorts and my shades and my extra large shirt
And my banjo and all ended up in the dirt.
My sandal struck something - I still don't know what -
Which altered the plans of the evening somewhat
The Reels of the Month - and I had them off pat -
Would be played by another and that would be that.
I took to the air like an overweight duck
My number was up - I had run out of luck
Newtonian gravity raised the red card
No soft landing there boys - that tarmac is hard!
My forward momentum was measured in blood
No traction in forearm, the hand brake a dud
The skin was peeled raw on the left - what a sight
And the elbow gleamed redly and dripped on the right.
The knees and the knuckles, the palms and the wrist
No sparing for them - to the mill they were grist.
I picked myself up till I stood my full height
No witnesses please for my eight o'clock flight.
But a car had come by while I flew to my fate
And the lady within mentioned Hospital Gate
And she offered to take me to medical care
But I said "No you're grand Mam, my car is right there!"
I threw the old banjo straight into the boot
And I lit out of there like some crazy old coot
It's only a Road Rash, a scratch if you like
Sure I often had worse off my old motorbike!
Toora-loo, Toora-lay!
There'll be no pints of Carlsberg tonight you may say!
