charlie

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Charlie aka Crusty

Ode to the Road.

New South Wales is killing me, its lousy roads the reason,

It doesn’t matter where you ride, and it’s the same for every season.

I took a trip the other day, three hundred klicks to Sydney,

Three hundred potholes later, I’d gone and fucked a kidney.

Backing off to forty kays, passing all the schools,

Avoiding fucking Volvos, piloted by fools.

With so many different speed zones, and cameras on the take,

I’ve got a dose of RSI, from pulling on the brake.

Little snot nosed ruggies, chucking things off bridges,

Road-works with its gravel, neatly formed in ridges.

Rubbish falling out of utes, causing you to crash,

I’m sliding down the road, with a dose of gravel rash.

Copper lurking round the bend, with his radar gun,

I’m doing three kays over, got nowhere to run.

“Had to pull you over sir, you were going like a rocket”,

As if the body’s not enough, he’s hurt me in the pocket

Mother on the mobile phone, car full of kids and shopping,

“Sorry didn’t see you, had a little trouble stopping”.

Indifferent passers by, all thinking ‘that will learn ya’

Watching as you lift the bike, and get a fucking hernia.

The weathers stinking hot, and every lights a red,

I can feel the motor cooking, and so’s my fucking head.

Some bastard run his red one, when I finally get a green,

Had to lay the bike down, now I’ve got a ruptured spleen.

Finally arrive, just glad at last I’m there,

Bike is running fine, but I’m the worse for wear.

Friends walk up and shake my hand, saying “ Howya goin mate”,

Suddenly the pain is going, and I tell them “fucking great.”

A little later with my mates, I see that cop again,

Standing by the roadside, waving hands in vain.

He’d really like for me to stop, but I’m cured and having fun,

Speedo needle on one eighty, I’m on a poker run!!

Crusty.

As has become the standard for this Crusty ole bikie, everywhere he goes, according to him, he just gets taken out of context. But sometimes.....just sometimes.......... the bit of bloody Pom still in him, tickles the shutter finger reflex....................and they unwittingly get it right!

There is absolutely no end to this blokes talent! Truly one of the greatest most warped and deviated minds of all time! Damn it makes ya proud!!! And no, we don't want to know what you were doing Charlie to come up with this pearler!!!!!

IT’S AN ILL WIND

The contest was to seek the best fart lighter in the world,

And as they strode onto the stage their countries flags unfurled.

They made a proud and splendid sight when with a fanfare loud,

They spun around in unison, bent down and mooned the crowd.

The tumultuous cheer became a groan they’d seen the Pommies cheeks,

With dried up dags aplenty, he hadn’t washed for weeks.

A bar of soap came sailing in thrown by an Aussie fan,

Mate, those dags they rattled loud when the Pommie bastard ran.

A late entrant minced up to the stage he wore a sequined bag,

He’d thrown his hat into the ring, he could cause he’s a fag.

When the judges measured up his arse they had to use a broom,

To sweep out six dead gerbils, hidden in the gloom.

The current champ a Yank bent down and flexed his arse,

He’d worn a butt plug for a week allowing not a thing to pass.

No thunderous roar no sheet of flame as the match was lit,

Just a giant steaming turd, the Yank was full of shit.

Next up came a huge man a Sumo something like,

He hailed from that country which makes the Jappa bike.

With monstrous legs spread wide apart he gave his thighs a slap,

But it was like their bikes a dismal try, another pile of crap.

A sled arrived upon the stage dragged by a team of dogs,

A blubber-chewing bloke got off and began to drop his togs.

An expectant hush fell on the crowd as a match the bloke ignites,

Then he disappeared in a flash of green, just like the Northern Lights.

The contest see-sawed back and forth as each bloke had a go,

The poofter got disqualified for pausing for a blow.

The judges called the coppers in, the Kiwi got a bluey,

Seems they caught him round the back trying to do a ewey.

As the challenge neared its end and the sun was going down,

It looked as if the Eskimo was set to take the crown.

The Aussie entrant hadn’t shown “Last call for fifty one”,

The Eskimo began to rise, he thought he had it won.

“Final call for fifty one” the tannoy echoed loud,

A long protracted silence, then a movement in the crowd.

The scattered sound of clapping became a mighty roar,

The Aussie entry had arrived to even up the score.

Four thousand Kays he’d ridden through the Mulga and the Sticks,

He’d only stopped for fuel and oil the last one thousand Klicks.

As he crossed the stage with weary steps, he paused a while to linger,

He checked the opposition out and then gave them all the finger.

He turned his back upon the crowd his jeans down to his knees,

And bending down with cheeks apart he stopped to check the breeze.

The match was lit held to his arse and as it burnt down to his finger,

Fuck me dead!! There was a massive blast, just like Maralinga.

Whilst the biker checked his arsehole and put out a smouldering hair,

“There’s no fucken doubt you’ve won” the judges did declare.

“You’ve shown the other entries to be but just a farce”,

“We’ve never seen a flame like that from any other arse.

So just a word to the wise, before I have to go,

That if when you get your mull out at a rally or a show.

And you note the guy your stood behind looks like this poem's bloke,

I would advise you step right back, before you light that smoke.

Charlie Conroy

The Daily Telegraph - 21 January , 2002

page 4!!! trust Charlie to have his face imbedded in the semi-naked girl on page 3!!!!!!!