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If you've ever been transplanted, of necessity, way out of your comfort zone
You might relate to my arrival as a female and stranger to a hothouse world of academics and testosterone
I call this piece, Dead on Arrival. Poetically speaking, give me an A, fellas. I believe I earned it
Cross-eyed Jill from Nanny Goat Hill
Lost the farm but kept the bill
With son to raise and banks to curse
Turned again to be a nurse
Lord save me, I can't fail
A world of male beyond the pale
Of chauvinists and chicken pox
A boarding school, the culture shocks
Be silent and forget your jokes
There's little humor in these blokes
Don't be seeing them in rhyme
Just hold your tongue and bide your time
Oh lordy, bide your time
Thus I died upon arrival
My life was lost to their survival
No more to gaze upon the sea
And pen a song with spirit free
Buried here beyond the range
The gary life to her was strange
Their dogs have even got the mane
A poet's feast, the comic line
And yet I left my pen to rob a card
Well, local I had learned
A foreign critic would be burned
Burned, burned, burned, burned
No one knows how much I yearned
My pen and itch to do them justice
Shut up, pen, or they'll bust us
Don't be seeing them in rhyme
Just hold your tongue and bide your time
Oh lordy, bide your time
For seven years I've paid my dues
Footy fractures, boils and spews
Few suspect the solemn nurse
Is cross-eyed Jill the cartwhale curse
Call the hearse
For none at home would get away
With half the rot I pass today
Put to pen immortalized
Their capers would be highly prized
But can I claim immunity
Am I yet community
Tis said I'm called the gary witch
So am I free to scratch the itch
Too late to wonder if it's so
My grave is opened and I go
Mark this day my resurrection
Sheehan's Valley needs protection
School is out, ring that bell
Stick around, mark it well
Burned, burned, burned, burned
Oh lordy, how I yearn
Now I'll be sharing what I learn
Go bingo
Better run boys
Go dingo