Little Molly Candice was a born and bred fanta pants

No dollying up or fancy ‘dos for her

She looked across the lounge room floor

Rubbing gently at her pash rash

Shags still glued to the cricket

Eyeballs mesmerised on the smelly telly

She recalled his little Bondi whistler

And the feel of his three day ‘tache

He was a fair dinkum drap sack, of that there was no question

Though naked as the day is long he still made quite a picture

But the time was here to move so through the door she hollered

“Come on Shags, it’s time to rattle your dags.”

He looked a little quizzical and cried “Whacko the chook.”

As he clambered to his feet with some difficulty

Looking high and low, searching with great vigour

As for him to get a move on, he’d have to find his fags

Once more he’d battled the great square bear

And ended up on the worst side of stonkered

But he forced his way across the floor

Muttering “Where the hell are the little buggers?”

Molly figured she’d give him a fair larridoodlin in time

But for now she’d just get him movin’

For he’d always been a backseat bogan

Dressed in rags and double pluggers

She recalled him as a younger lad

Skootin’ through the streets on his deadly treadly

Hotly pursued by the metcard mafia

Or trying to outrun the scooter pigs

He’d been known to play a handy game

On Rottnest known as Quokka soccer

That is until they caught up with him

And sent him packin’ swiftly back to his digs

“Fair suck of the Sav.” He had protested

Knowing all the while he was in strife

They’d made him emu bob the grounds

Picking up every piece of trash

More work than he’d done in an entire lifetime

And all for being caught red handed

And the biggest pity of the whole damn thing

All that work and no bloody cash

She watched now as he donned the cathedral underpants

And thought how terrific he truly looked

For someone who’d become a salad dodger

And was found fangin’ on land lice and mudda budda

She knew his heart was pure gold of course

And a grin creased her sun-weathered face

If only she could keep him off the turps

And somehow keep his mind outta the gutter

She gathered the litter one by one

A strange and unique mix of billy lids

Knowing all the while he’d never help her

Not while his whatsie pointed to the ground

He’d rather pick up a death adder than a shovel

As the nickname blister would aptly testify

To him the dole seemed the best way to earn a quid

‘cause the pay was okay and the tenure sound

But never the less dressed in the people’s palace

Proudly displaying his plumber’s crack

He looked the part and her eyes swooned

To her he was still top of the wazza

Sure he had his faults and they were many

But he was a one dog, one bone man

And he always tried to set her right

And never once give her the mozza

So now she’d pack the Kiwi suitcase

Handles dangling having had the chad

And off they’d go to watch the submarine races

Then home again for some of her special pang yang

She donned her favourite Gosford skirt

Knowing it would have him weak at the knees

Then called out unnecessarily “What’re bloody doin’?”

“I’m knittin’ a singlet for Cecil.”  He smartarsely sang

So off they went and strolled the parks

He staggered and she held him up

But that was how life went in the west

Be it from drink or funny plants

Smiling inside Molly the fanta pants

Thought how lucky she was to have Shags

The drap sack from over the bridge he was

But he was her sack and she his fanta pants

© Bernard J Rossi