I trudged out where those old poets,
all melancholy and jowls, rhapsodise
of mud caked on their boots,
to suburban crowds.
And the crowds proclaim
how Australian it all is:
the literal and metaphorical bullshit,
the mangy dogs, the honesty of utes,
the you beaut cacophony of wayward
chooks, muck safe ensconced on pages.
And who would murmur what is that
to us and why's our truth always
someplace else? And if that's truth
then what's it make us?
Are we then un-Australian?
