Bufus Marinus Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A fly of rather noble class
had flown across the Strait of Bass.
He was quite proud of this great feat
and looking for some things to eat.

The sun had set and it was late,
it had been ages since he ate,
and, coming from the Southern parts
he liked his chicken pies and tarts.

Tasmania is, as you may know
the island where they chop up crow
and mix the feathers, beaks and feet
into their favourite pies of meat.

Victoria (this makes me shudder) ,
is known to grind up Emu udder
and add a bit of kangaroo,
to make a most revolting stew.

The rich though eat down at the pubs,
they like their roaches, ants and grubs.
They top it all with Vegemite
and have roo oysters late at night.

Well, luckily, flies aren't selective
each sees himself as a detective.
They seek to find nutritious fare
there favourite is fromage gruyère.

This afternoon, the fly had landed
inside an otherwise abandoned
and quiet room inside the town.
He rested now and wore a frown.

His bones were tired from the journey
and in his gut, near the McBurney,
he felt a rumbling and a pain,
he needed tucker, that was plain.

The fly, I should have added early,
was rather handsome with his curly
and black and silver speckled hair,
he was surrounded by an air

of feudalistic foreign roots,
and did I mention, he wore boots?
He was, as fate would have decided
en route from Europe on a guided

and Yankee missile launcher rocket,
he'd flown inside the pilot's pocket
and landed safely then Down Under,
the day they had that awful thunder.

Australia, it must be mentioned,
is as a country, well-intentioned.
The Natives like the Northern yanks,
their jets, their money and their tanks.

But, those who think that they can come
be welcomed with a mug of rum
would skip their homework at their peril.
Australia can be quite feral!

As you will see, just bear with me.
The fly stood up, prepared to pee
when on the ground a little critter
walked through the room with a large litter.

Bufus Marinus is a toad
who'll shoot at enemies a load
of toxic venom when he's scared.
No fly can ever be prepared.

The little toads now watched their mother,
release a bucketful, oh BROTHER!
The fly was hit, fell without grace
and landed on his lifeless face.

A toad, who looked polite and groomed
(he was the one who had assumed
his father's role when he passed on)
a custom for the eldest son

did get the honour to imbibe
the fly, watched by his canetoad tribe.
And thus, the story ends and teaches
that you may visit foreign beaches.

But be aware that other lands
(it's what the smart bloke understands) ,
have traps for those on every street.
Be careful, what you choose to eat.

And if you need to take a wee,
in matters of great urgency,
watch for the little critters, sunny.
It always pays to use the Dunny.