The Barbecue Poem by Rod Morris

I look forward to the summer and the things we like to do,
Like open up the garage and wheel out the barbecue.
Perhaps you've got a built in and you need to chop some wood,
Smoke-flavoured steak and onions are really very good.

Friends and family all arrive with tasty cuts of meat,
They park their bums upon a seat the booze goes underneath.
Chips and dips are scattered round a rundown part-time table,
Chateau cardboard red and white with fancy coloured label.

Genders congregate, separate, seems to be the trend,
They still meet at the middle but they sit at either end.
They talk of this, talk of that, it really doesn't matter.
Meet all your mates, and have a damn good natter.

Footy, fishing, shooting, they're all topics for the guys.
Cars and trucks, hunting ducks, spare parts and best buys.
Family, hairdos, shopping are the are the go for all the fillies.
Recipes, the new neighbours, and the colours of their frillies.

Its time to cook, and its guaranteed, some bloke thinks he's the most,
Experienced chef in the entire group, his wife claims he can't cook toast.
Still non-plussed he steps up; his choice of booze is carefully placed.
Then tells a yarn, while wrapping raunchy apron round his waist.

Deft flourishing of the skillet spells certain death to some poor fillet.
You can guarantee he'll make a well done bloody steak.
Unending telling of his gags, he's sidetracked, and cremates the snags.
Because he wrote the book; he's the world's best Barbie cook!

No need to be glum when the yakka's all been done.
Get your mates around for a Barbie and some fun.
Share a wine a beer a bubbly, and get a little cuddly.
With your missus, not your mates, don't be dumb.