Let’s Go Tolfing
Once upon a time in 1935,
Queenslanders were struggling to keep their sugar cane alive.
The cane beetles had made it all do a Harold Holt
but the solution they found would cause a revolt.
The cane toads were brought over to give a helping hand,
but then they took over all of Queensland.
Now, we’ll fast forward to twenty-eleven,
it was up to us bush kids to send the toads to heaven.
We’d head out with buckets, shovels, golf clubs,
whatever we could find and carry with us through the scrub.
We’d trek dodging bindiis and mozzies in the middle of the night,
and look for toad gold beneath the streetlights.
When we’d found a good one (which wasn’t hard to do),
we’d give it a bonk and a swing, and watch as it flew
far enough away, forget to count the par,
chuck it in the bucket and continue our waltz beneath the stars.
Once the bucket was chockas, we’d head to the main road,
line ‘em up on the tracks on the bitumen to ensure a dead toad.
We’d all watch from the sidelines until a road train came through,
motioning our arms, as anyone would do.
It didn’t matter, about the time,
just as long as we got to witness our full crime.
The trucks would come along with a generous honk
‘til the toads were flat as a tack – plonk, plonk, plonk.
Now, in this story, I’ll introduce my mate Tom – nice enough bloke,
but he’d never been tolfing before – you’d think he was from the big smoke.
Recently moved to our small town beyond the black stump,
showed him the local way – our town would have no chumps.
It was Tom’s first time, so we told him, “Go on, ‘av’ a go,”
he took a big swing, looked like a pro –
but we reeeaaally should’ve let him practise,
as another mate looked at me, then to Tom and said “You’re cactus!”
Because what happened, you see, I was standing just behind,
holding the torch on the toad so he didn’t do it blind.
I was too busy watching the bloody toad,
and I didn’t even notice I was right in the road.
He got me on the upswing, on the left side of my head,
and when Tom saw the blood, he thought he was dead.
Off we choofed, back to Tom’s place,
when they saw me, his parents’ eyes widened, but I raised my hands saying, “All good, no worries – I’m ace.”
Bandaged my head, and took me home in a panic,
I walked into mum, lights off or she’d be manic.
“What’re you doin’ ‘ere?” she asked in the dark.
“Well,” I replied as I flicked on the light –“Farrrk!”
Out of bed she jumped, and woke up my dad,
disturbed from his slumber, he wasn’t glad.
“Waddayawant?” he asked her before he looked up at me,
“Oh,” he said, “Uh huh, I see.”
Then he shrugged and muttered, “Ah well, she’ll be right,”
and rolled out of bed without a fight,
wandered over to me, and pat my arm,
playing it down for my mum’s alarm.
For once, Mum was speechless, her face of worry,
ushered me out the door, to the doc in a hurry.
Well, we had enough time to take a quick snap,
I felt alright, but looked like crap.
In the commie we loaded and to hospital, we floored,
I was covered in blood, and Doc was appalled.
He cut my hair and stitched my wound closed,
and was very surprised I remained composed.
The worst part of it all was the temp at the hospital –
cold enough to freeze the tits off a bull.
They rugged me up with a spankin’ new blanket
that read “Property of Queensland Government”.
Before he sent me home, the doctor spoke,
“You may not feel it now, but will tomorrow, no joke.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head in doubt.
“Oh well,” I said, “it’ll give me something to chinwag about.”
