The Mosquito Trap

In the far-off north of Queensland, a nostalgic, might-have-been’s land
There’s a wild ferocious creature roams the sultry tropic night
Making frequent depredation on each lonely outback station
And creating consternation by the fierceness of its bite.

Round the swamps in late December it can easily dismember
Any tourist that is fool enough to stumble in its way
And it’s not a crocogitter or the fabled bunyip critter
But the true Queensland moskeeter that you have to keep at bay.

When the cattle hear it coming with a sort of distant humming
They rush down to the river and they roll themselves in mud;
Through a rubber boot or blucher will the creature persecute ya
It will ruin your flamin’ future if it gets to suck your blood.

Now, one night when we were goin’ through the jungle east of Coen
We pitched our tent at twilight on a little grassy flat;
It was supper I was getting as the sun was quickly setting
And my wife put up the netting... for you must remember that.

I was writing at the table (just as well I was able,
For the page was damp and soggy and the pen was losing ink)
When my love discerned a bitee buzzing around her shortee nightee
And she thought in ghastly fright he might be looking for a drink.

Well, a trap to catch an otter her friend Gwen in Mudgee got her...
It was lying near the pillow, so she quickly set the teeth,
Latched the bar across to crank it, then she folded down the blanket
And with tender touch she sank it in the bedclothes underneath.

Let’s forget about the mozzie... he was just a dream (or was he?
Is he up there in the ceiling laughing off his rotten head?)
But just focus on the writer who’s a horny sort of blighter
And who shortly thought he mighter liked a snuggle-up in bed!

His passion made him bolder, so he taps a sleeping shoulder
And he moves a little closer lest his chances should escape
When there comes a crash like thunder and a crunching sound down under,
And his screams created wonder from the Fitzroy to the Cape!

The last pages of his journal fill with agony eternal
And his dictionary is plundered for superlatives of pain
Not of bruising or of swelling, or the leap from bed he’s telling,
But the hot tears slowly welling... when that trap ran out of chain!

Copyright; Written by Charlee Marshall
copyright 1989 © Outback Music Publishing
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