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The Australian Poetry Competition had come down to two finalists; a university graduate and an old aboriginal..

They were given a word, then allowed two minutes to study the word and come up with a poem that contained that word.

The word they were given was ' TIMBUKTU '

First to recite his poem was the university graduate.
He stepped to the microphone and said:


Slowly across the desert sand,
Trekked a lonely caravan
Men on camels two by two
Destination - Timbuktu .

The audience went crazy! No way could the old abo top that, they thought.

The old aboriginal calmly made his way to the microphone and recited;

Me and Tim a huntin' went
Met three whores in a pop up tent
They was three, and we was two
So I buck one, and Timbuktu.

The aboriginal won !!!

So, I take it these jokes are funny in Australia?

So, I take it these jokes are funny in Australia?

Just checking.

This is my idea of an Aussie's view of poetry:
Piddling Pete by RON KERR "Reminiscences of a working drover's observations on how male dogs urinate to mark their spot" Probabaly based on one of the many kelpies or cattle dogs he had come across.

PIDDLING PETE
Well a farmer's dog once came to town, by the christian name of Pete
And he was a hound of high renown and his looks were hard to beat
And as he walked into the town 'twas beautiful to see
His work on every corner and his mark on every tree
As he watered every gateway and he never missed a post
'Cause piddling was his masterpiece and piddling was his boast

Well the city dogs stood looking on with a deep and envious rage
To see this simple country dog, the piddler of the age
They sniffed him over one by one and they sniffed him two by two
But noble Pete in high disdain stood still till they were through
And as they sniffed him over, their praise for him ran high
And when one sniffed him underneath Pete piddled in his eye

Well then just to show these city dogs that he didn't give a damn
Pete strolled into the grocer's shop and he piddled on the ham
Piddled on the onions and he piddled on the floor
And when the grocer kicked him out, Pete piddled on the door
Well behind him all the city dogs debated what to do
They'd hold a piddling contest to show him who was who

Well they showed Pete all the piddling posts that they knew about the town
They started out with many a wink to get the poor dog down
But Pete was with them every trick with vigor and with vim
For a thousand piddles more or less were all the same to him
And all along went noble Pete with hind leg kicking high
While most were lifting legs in bluff or piddling mighty dry
And on and on went noble Pete as he watered every sandhill
And all the city champions were piddled to a standstill

Well then Pete an exhibition gave in all the ways to piddle
Like double drips and fancy flips and now and then a dribble
And all the time the country dog did neither wink nor grin
But piddled blithely out of town as he had piddled in
Now the city dogs said, "So long Pete, you're piddling did defeat us?"
But no one ever put them wise that Pete had diabetes

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.