A Collection of Poems about Land Rovers

[Sleepy]

I wrote this a couple of years ago. It's buried in a thread somewhere in aulro. (It is very much a bastardisation of Mulga Bill's bicycle - A Banjo Patterson classic - apologies Banjo)
I am really proud of it (not bad for a talent-less bloke like me!).
Being of like mind, I thought the SLOw Members may like a read. I note I made a "Slow" reference 4 years ago

------------------------------------------------------

A Land Rover Lament.....by Sleepy

'Twas Solihull in Eng-a-land that started the landy craze;
They based it on the good ol’ jeep that served in darker days;
They dressed her up in ex war paint, a splash of cockpit green;
They connected ploughs and welders to their shiny new machine;
And as they drove it out the door, with air of lordly pride,
A grinning English farmer said, `Can I take it for a drive?'

`See, here, young man,' said Solihull, `from Worcester to the sea,
From Stoke-on-Trent to Exeter, there's none can drive like she.
She’s good all round at everything, as soon you all will know,
Although with all that gear on board – She is a little SLOw

Her seats were trimmed in elephant hide.
She's made of ally mixed with steel,
There’s even a little ring to pull for driving all four wheels,
He had a sit, held the wheel, but before he drove from sight.
A little man called Lucas yelled – “Please don’t drive at night!”

From Solihull in Eng-a-land, he drove his eighty-inch
He drove across a swollen creek, then up a steepish pinch.
He drove her down slippery hill – ‘ been raining all the day
A smile had stretched across his face as wide as Plymouth Bay.
He found a track, with lots of trees, so steep he nearly laughed
Bounced his way on up the road then – CRACK – he broke a shaft.

So think about that farmer when you’re feeling blue
Or when the door wont open ‘cos you’ve blown your ECU
That rusty project vehicle that’s sitting in the yard.
Or the pile of money spent that’s making life so hard
Don’t think of driving to a cliff and giving her a shove
Your Land Rovers will always be a labour of love!

[Col.Coleman]

If I remember correctly, It is not the first such poem to be altered.

This may be about someone you know

THE MAN FROM LOWER BLACKBUTT apologies to A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the line maintenance track had turned away,
From the ridges to the gully- down steep and rutted ground,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted leafers from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the Radnor overnight,
For the leafers love hard riding where the wild bush tracks are,
And the leaf sprung owners snuff the battle with delight.

There was Scallops, who made his pile when Matilda acted up,
The brakes locked up, the car refused to go
And Kat had to ride beside him and his blood was fairly up -
He vowed to go wherever Puma and man could go.
And Big Dog with his Disco 3 came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while electronic traction control would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling in a loud and rattling beast,
It was something like a Mack truck undersized,
With a touch of mini minor- a Series stage 1, 3 parts ugly beast -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that wasn't faint -
There was courage in his slightly widened tyres;
And he bore the badge of combat in its badly weathered paint,
And the proud and lofty heritage of its' sires.

But still so slight and weedy, one would expect low range to play,
And the old man said, "That truck 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 Big Dog 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 up round Blackbutt, at Nanango’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where steeltreks strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Lower Blackbutt drivers on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many cowboys since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such an example have I seen."

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

So Big Dog drove to test it - he was racing on the wing
With his wides and electric bling in place,
And he raced his D3 past them, and he made the ranges ring
With his ABS in action, he rattled down that face.
The rest halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved target full in view,
And the track continued down the hill with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub it flew.

Then whilst others pondered, of how the ruts and pot-holed track
Responded to the traction of their tread,
And discussions woke the echoes, and they politely answered back
About tyres and angles and other things they dread
And onward, ever onward, common sense held the way,
About turning back and finding another side:
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the track good day,
No Series would hold traction down that slide."

When he reached the bottom, even Big Dog took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The slippery gravel ruts and, and loose rocks and sand was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Lower Blackbutt let his pony have its head,
And he put it in high first, and gave a cheer,
And then he raced off down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, miraculously staying on its feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Lower Blackbutt bounced verily in his seat -
It was grand to see those leaf springs take the ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
His brake lights never flickered till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was still in high range, the tyres hardly touched the hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw his knuckles shine white like torches, he was right among them still,
As he raced down hill, his CB strangely mute.
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 brake lights still shining yet,
With the man from Lower Blackbutt miraculously on his wheels

And he bounced around that cabin luckily lined with plastic.
Like a ping pong ball falling down a set of stairs,
Till they halted battered and shaken, wondering had it been that drastic,
And untangled them selves from food and broken chairs
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He had sprung from rock to rock, his bouncing caused a stir;
But his undies, they had suffered and his pride was fairly shot,
But never yet was leaf sprung car a cur.

And down by sunny Blackbutt, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the dust is mixed with oil, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Radnor pub, the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Lower Blackbutt is a household word today,
And the leafers tell the story of his ride.

My apologies to Banjo.
The one thing that struck me whilst playing with this epic poem written by our mate “Banjo” was that perhaps, quite ‘tongue in cheek’ Banjo was trying to tell us that “Mountain ponies” had faulty transfer cases too!!!!

Regards
Glen (ZuluDelta534)

CC

[The ho har's]

now that brings back memories of your stage 1 heading down the mountain

Sleepy, we all held our breaths as we watched

[digger]

As some may know I like the idea of converting poems...


I found this one... and I like it..
unfortunately it is prefixed with this....

Land-Rovers - A land-rover is a sport utility vehicle from Toyota like a Ford Explorer. Thanks to Paul Touchstone for this.


Twas the night before Christmas (Land Rover version)
From: Russell Burns (burns@cisco.com)

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the land.
not a rover was leaking, not even a series one oil pan.
The rovers were all snug and warm in the garage,
with visions of winches and romps through the mud.

Mama in her nighty, and I in my rover cap had just
sat on the couch for a camel trophy recap.
When out on the garage there rose such a rattle
I swore that my D-90 must have shorted out in battle.

I rose from the couch in a rather quick fashion,
and rushed to the garage to see what had happened.
I threw open the door, turned on the light
and to my great surprise, everything was all right.

Then out on the drive I heard a man grumbling,
something about sir Lucas and his great mental fumbling.
As I peered out my window much suprise was mine
as I spotted jolly Saint Nick in an old green 109.

The fenders were tattered, the bumper askew,
the tires were smoking and letting off fumes,
the hood was propped open, and tools all askew
as Jolly old Saint Nick quickly disappeared from my view.

The light lights came on dimly, with the left one on first
and jolly old Saint Nick let out another curse.
The grounds, he was muttering as he came back in sight,
a few whacks with a jack and bye gosh there was light.

He gather his tools and slammed down the old hood,
jumped into the rover and started to move.
The diesel was clanking ,the smoke was a sight,
as the old 109 slowly disappeared from my sight.

I watched the lights blink, heard a cuss out of sight
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,
Sir Lucas you A&^hole
why can't you do anything right?

[digger]

and another, although it could refer to almost any series!


A Series III Eulogy

It coughs in the morning, and wheezes at night,
It rattles and creaks, and’s a TERRIBLE sight!
The lights are pathetic, the wipers a joke,
And following traffic is lost in dense smoke!

It leaks oil from the engine, and more from the ‘box,
Some on the drive, and more on your socks!
Turning the steering, needs plenty of might,
But it makes little difference if you turn left or right!

It goes where it wants, whether you want to or not,
And heaven help you, if you want it to stop!
It makes lots of noise, just finding the gears,
Hard to believe, they last so many years.

It bounces around on leaf springs so stiff,
They only just move, if you drive off a cliff!
The seats aren’t much better, too much soft foam,
Gives a numb bumb, by the time you get home.

Which will take quite a while, ‘cos it’s far from being fast,
Sports-cars to mopeds, they all seem to go past!
So what do we have? What is it we see?
Lurking within, and old Series Three?

Character? Charm? We love’em I’pose,
For some unknown reason, beyond mere prose.
They transcend mortal language, have REAL soul,
Like they’re alive, more than metal & oil.

A Trusty old friend, whatever the weather,
Wont let you down, well almost never.
Through thick and thin, they’ll give you their best,
And when it gets tough, they’ll just leave the rest.

They may be a pain, but they get better with time,
And, this one my friend, well this one is mine!

[Sleepy]

Loving the contributions, Would the mods please rename the thread "A Collection of Poems about Land Rovers"?