Bill Nelson
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A New Zealand Sonnet
You say cack-handed fanny bangers
I wonder if you mean not wrong
sipping warm shandies at the Morris Club
while you sing old-timers
misplace pikelets on the tea table.
You tell me as a sprog you knew
only dunnies and wet blankets.
I’m not sure how that relates to
kumara chips and the Boer War.
A committee convenes
and immediately moves a motion:
cardies and finger stalls it is then.
All this yacking, you say, like bloody pig dogs
your red cheeks chocka with biscuits and pink lamington.
