Xmas in the Lock-up
By Alf Johnson.

It was just a country village in a patch of mulga scrub,
Where the bulk of local business was conducted in the pub.
Here you booked in as a tourist, or if broke, in "Rotten Row",
It made but little difference, there was nowhere else to go.

Here the mate and I got stranded with our usual run of luck,
With not a cent between us since we left "Old Toolebuc".
And despite official statements, we knew we had become,
Just two more homeless, wandering waifs, on the streets in '91.

And to add to our misfortune, the worst I can recall
It was the social evening of the Christmas Festival.
But to join in the festivities, there was little we could do,
Only to ask the villagers to lend a quid or two.

So we asked a few inhabitants that we thought might understand,
How charity this time of year was spread throughout the land.
The response was somewhat negative, to what we did expect,
But all donations were received with genuine respect.

But the mate had no idea how to run the enterprise,
For he goes and bails the Sergeant up, mistaking his disguise.
Though we bitterly protested, to maintain our civil right,
He said it all depended on our takings for the night.

Then with a beckoning finger that boded us no good,
He led the expedition where the local fortress stood,
Followed by the residents(we were fearing an attack),
Who all the time were shouting, "We want our money back!".

But soon we reached the calaboose at the end of our parade,
Where the Sergeant ordered us to stop, in front of its facade.
And instead of all the pagentry, lavished on V.I.P.'s
He wedged us in a cubicle with hands, and boots,and knees.

But a sympathetic lady, who was the Sergeants wife,
Wept in maternal anguish, when she saw us two in strife.
And she pleaded with her husband,"What those boys really need,
Is half a dozen stubbies and a decent Christmas feed".

But the Sergeant, he was adamant, and not at all impressed,
Refusing quite un-husband-like, her pitiful request.
In fact, he told her bluntly, with a fair amount of cuss,
He wouldn't be in the Police Force, if he couldn't handle us.

So we sat inside the cooler, with abundant time to think,
How our innocent adventure had landed us in clink.
And as we contemplated what the future had in store,
We heard some stealthy footsteps, and some voices at the door.

It opened wide, revealing the wife of Sergeant Hill,
With plates of ham and chicken,and T-bone off the grill.
And by her side, quite meekly, was the Sergeant, standing there,
With half a dozen stubbies, for the charges in his care !!!