Vanilla Sunday

Copyright; Charlee Marshall
copyright 1989 © Outback Music Publishing
rimmusic@fan.net.au
All rights reserved. International copyrights secured.

The day old Job Martin died
Was cold beyond belief
The grey gums on the mountainside
Were stricken dumb with grief
The she-oaks by the swamps again
Dispelled a dismal tune
And dingoes in their dusky den
Bewailed the fading moon.

The hearse drove out from Gungadoo
The eulogy was fine
The preacher said, as best he knew,
Old Job was ninety-nine
The widow brushed her staggering locks
And said she didn’t know...
They had no calendars or clocks
T.V. or radio.

“We kept no count of month or year
He didn’t drink or smoke...”
A stranger, who was standing near,
Walked up to her and spoke:
“Perhaps you think it wise” he said
“A precept here to see
The hard, abstentious life he led
Caused his longevity?”

The widow made her genuflects
And sadly did she state
“Alas, he always looked for sex
On Sundays, right on eight”
“Hold hard!” the stranger cried in shock.
“If things were as you claim,
How did you know when eight o’clock
Or even Sunday, came?”

“That little church just down the track
Has bells that proudly chime...
These were his aphrodisiac
He tried to keep time;
In fact, I’m sure this claim is true
I’d still be with my man
But for that bloke from Gungadoo
And his Mr Whippy van!”

Copyright; Written by Charlee Marshall