Law of the Land by Neil McArthur is a rollicking bush yarn about a father attempting to teach his young son a hard country lesson—only for fate to turn that lesson squarely back on him.
What begins as a grim duty beside an ailing horse becomes an escalating run of bush calamities, carried by McArthur’s sharp timing, larger-than-life imagery and wicked sense of humour.
Law of the Land
By Neil McArthur
The charcoal clouds in the morning sky, shed tears that some call rain;
Below stood a father and son standing over their horse lying wracked with pain.
A horse that was older by two human years than the boy, yet they’d grown to be friends;
But now with the pain that inflicted the horse, the bond must come to an end.
“A horse in such pain must be put down”, the father explained to the son;
“Sometimes we have to be cruel to be kind”, then he quietly loaded the gun.
The boy wept up to the heavens, “Why does God play such a cruel hand?”
“Now, don’t blame God!”, The father replied, “for this is the Law of the Land.
And this Law of the Land has been passed down from my father and his beforehand
The Bush has rules that City folk will never quite understand,
And I think it’s time you proved to me that you’re growing to be a man;
You must take your friend from the pain.” and he placed the gun in his hand.
With trembling hands and tear filled eyes, the boy could not take aim
Then he fell to the ground, cradled that horse and wept into its mane.
“It must be done!!” the father roared “I’ll do it myself, you sook!!”
He grabbed the gun, but bumped the trigger and shot himself straight through the foot.
Then hopping ‘round swearing, and holding his foot, he lost all direction and sense
And staggered backwards down the slope, straight into the electric fence.
Which he’d meant to have fixed some time ago, as ten thousand volts shot through his arse
And he was launched like a rocket over the boy, to the town bypass;
With his hair sticking up and his bum blowing smoke, he heard the truck come rollin’
Over the hill, and over his foot, yep, the one with the bloody hole in.
It flipped him up and over the bank, where he rolled with a terrible shriek
Right through the prickle bushes into a crocodile infested creek;
He was fighting ‘em off with a hunk of wood, as the crocs moved in for the kill
And he screamed, “I’d give my left knacker, for that bloody gun on the hill!
I’m an honest man, God. A holy man, God. Why are you being so cruel?”
Well God didn’t answer but a yabbie did and latched on to his family jewels
At a million miles an hour, towards the bank he swam
And I’m telling you now, that Ian bloody Thorpe could not have caught that man!
As he finally reached the side he safely crawled up onto the land
He grabbed at the branch of a tree for support, and had a Tiger Snake in his hand
So with a snake in his left hand, a croc on his right and a yabbie latched on to his jewels
He sprinted, screaming, through the bush like a rover in Aussie Rules
He jumped round like a fart in a bottle, trying to shake them all off
When the creatures dropped and disappeared, as his head hit a nest full of wasps
And a million paper wasps came out, to see what caused the racket
Saw the beat up, bleeding, pulp of a man; formed a squadron and set to attack it!
The father accepted the fact he would die, he’d never seen nothing so frightening
But the wasps disappeared, and he slumped on the tree which was struck by a bolt of lightning;
His hair was on fire, his eyes popping out, and the blast threw him down on his chest
He crawled through the blood, crawled through the pain and he crawled through a BullAnts nest.
Well you ain’t seen a man run so fast as he leapt over logs and rocks
If you want an athlete to win a Gold Medal, put Bull Ants down their jocks!
He screamed like a wounded Magpie, as the BullAnts bit into his crutch
That’s when he leapt the barbed wire fence, which he only missed by – that much
It tore off his jocks and half of his skin, but he kept crawling up that hill
And all he could picture was sheer bloody joy at that horse he was gunna kill!!
As he reached the top, he saw his son – and the horse in a frolic
“I called the Vet” the son said to his Dad, “and three tablets cured his colic!
We almost killed a healthy horse, gee, we’re lucky Dad”. said the son
“But, Dad you look in terrible pain” said the boy slowly raised the gun
“I must respect the Law of the Land” said the son to his Dad’s frozen horror
“Bugger them Laws!” his Father screamed, “I’ll have the bastards changed by tomorrow!!”
His pleading, bleeding pulp of a father screamed “Don’t shoot me, I’m not really sick!!”
“But you look in such pain” said the son to his Dad, pulled the trigger – the gun went ‘click.’
But too late, the old man had shat himself, and near had a heart attack
So the son pulled him up to the top of the hill, and onto the horse’s back
There was no pain that fate had forgot, but he’d lived through it, sure as eggs
But Fate hadn’t finished as he slid off the horse and broke both his bloody legs
Yes the Law of the Land that he’d try to pass on had blown up right in his face
So naked and battered, a broken man, he headed for home in disgrace
He was saved by the horse he had sentenced to death, and his son, who was barely eleven
And as they got near home, he still swears he heard, God laugh his guts out in Heaven!
Hear Neil McArthur Recite Law of the Land
Bush poetry is made to be heard. Listen to Neil McArthur bring Law of the Land to life in his own voice on the Bush Poetry Podcast.
Keeping The Verse Alive
Law of the Land is shared with permission from Neil McArthur through Keeping The Verse Alive, Country Campfire’s bush poetry preservation project.
By preserving poems like this, we’re helping ensure the stories, humour and characters of country Australia continue to be enjoyed for generations to come.
Neil McArthur
Bush Poet • Yarnspinner • Performer • MC • ABPA Magazine Editor
Known as The Ratbag of Rhyme, Neil McArthur is an Australian bush poet, yarnspinner and festival MC with more than 30 years on stage. Alongside performing at major festivals and country gatherings, Neil has served for many years as editor of the Australian Bush Poets Association Magazine.
Poems, recitals, photographs, stories and original works remain the property of their original creator and are shared by Country Campfire with permission.
