Towns that Smell Like Farts.
John Martin
We come from back along the coast
Where palates are refined
We’re used to things more cultured
All genteel and sublime.
But we're really not that choosy
We’re really “good ol’ boys”
We like to take some AvGas
And turn it into noise.
So SMB all saddled up
To see what was on view
We went out west to see the rest
To do what we all do.
We flew away from posh and glam
We left behind the arts
And what we found was little towns
Whose water smells like farts.
We liked to stop and see the sites
Take in the town museum.
But noses turn and faces twitch
At the sulphurous effluvium.
The water has it’s own bouquet
From Winton to the Isa
We tried to find the reasons
But we left no more the wiser.
It’s all to do sulphur – we know.
But the questions left to beg.
Why does it always have to smell
Like someone’s shit an egg.
An old bushie in the public bar
Said he didn’t really mind.
“You get used to it”, he drawled
“You won’t notice it, you’ll find.”
But then, I think he’s lost it
I think he must be nuts.
To like the thought of washing
Where someone’s dropped their guts.
You can wash your face or shave in it
Just when the day begins
It’s bring your nose in really close
To someone passing wind!
So you can turn a tap or shower on
Or flush the dear old bog
It stirs the soul when from the bowl
Comes the smell of a dead black dog.
You can put a jug inside the fridge
Or swig it from a glass
There’s nothing worse to slake your thirst
Then the smell of someone’s arse!
So while we love the red outback
We love to fly the Birdsville Track
All our tours must finally end
Then homeward bound we weave and wend.
Then finally we leave these parts
Whose water there all smells like farts.
