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Stranger please pause by this old bungalow
For it hides a grim battle that ebbs to and fro,
A primitive struggle devoid of romance,
'Twixt the Camooweal drunks and the giant white ants.
No quarter is given, no mercy displayed,
In this fight to the death with the termite brigade,
But if their rampaging is not soon reduced,
You can all say goodbye to the old ringer's roost.
There are termites to the left and termites to the right,
And their molars are grinding by day and night;
They raid and they ravage and plunder unchecked,
And they're larger, much larger, than one would expect.
By the wall plate and rafter they steathily creep,
And God help our hides if they catch us asleep.
And if we can't turn their attack mighty soon,
We'll be under the stars by the change of the moon.
There are white ants below and white ants above,
In the floorboards and battens and rafters they love,
The ydeploy to the left and attack from the right,
And their molars are grinding by day and by night.
They break up our parties and ruin our rest,
And they are in a nutshell a damnable pest;
And if we can't deal them a kick in the slats,
I fear it's the end of these batchelor flats.
We've tried every method to stop their advance,
We've fought them with poison and baton and lance,
But it does little good, for in thousands they breed,
And they sharpen their fangs as they look for a feed.
An Expert once called in to give us a quote,
But as soon as he entered they sprang at his throat.
He fought himself free with a leg from a bed,
And "One flick and I'm going," he screamed as he fled.
They've ravaged our larder, our furniture too,
And one night they punctured a carton of brew,
Then the word got around to the whole of their tribe,
And they bunged on an orgy I couldn't describe.
They've cleaned up our woodheap, our outhouse as well,
They've eaten our moleskins and eaten our Bex -
Two novels by thwaites and a pamphlet on sex,
And if very soon we don't stop thier advance,
Then I'll transfer the deeds to the flamin' white ants.
B.F. SIMPSON
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