The Last Sheet.

This is another poem that typifies the laconic Australian

sense of humour, (with a U) that it earned a place here.

The Last Sheet.

It was a hundred in the water bag, much more in the shade,

Too hot for working anyplace, but this here roof had to be laid.

Here I was down on the ground, passing up that red-hot iron,

Up there on the roof, I knew my mates were nearly dying.

The afternoon wore slowly on, and a hotter sun beat down

Like to get the best of some, when things ain’t going sound,

Two there were up on the roof, this here new found iron to lay,

Finish it today we must, the new grain would start next day.

She’s nearly finished nearly done, just one more sheet to lay,

When an evil thought took hold of me, I regret it still today,

They had given me a hard old time, like I didn’t have a thirst,

So I printed neat on that last sheet, this sheet must go on first.

I passed it up and I stepped back, less they see my cheeky grin,

I rolled a smoke and waited for the awful flaming din,

But not a blooming sound I heard, the air should now be blue,

Puzzled by the turn of things, I took a gander at the two.

They stood there looking at that sheet, their traps were shut up tight,

I could hear the wheels go round, as they thought with all their might,

They scratched their stupid looking heads, inspected here and there,

Back they came and stared some more, at what I had written there.

They picked it up, turned it round, no difference could they see,

Looked like they had to lift the lot, put this one where it should be,

So sad it is to stand and watch, two brave men about to cry,

So I stepped out and shouted up, “Hey, you two, it was I,”

They looked at me quite wearily, and sadly said, “I what?”

“I put the words on that last sheet, just to have a shot.”

“Rubbish,” said the engineer, “Hogwash,” said his mate,

So I wrote the damn thing once again, then headed for the gate,

If you are in Swan Hill town, go find the barley stack,

You’ll find a ladder there somewhere, watch yer bleedin’ back,

Climb on the roof and you will find, if your lungs have not yet burst,

A sheet of iron which says it twice, this sheet must go on first.

Written by Lyall H Welsh.