There came a man from Wabag, who had hit Port Moresby town,

His eyes were dull, his head was flat, his skin a murky brown;

He wore a fancy phallocrypt, much like a huge cigar,

And dressed this way he strode into a well-known public bar.

Some Orokaiva youths were there, drinking liquor down,

Their eyes were just as dull as his, each face a puzzled frown,

They looked the Wabag up and down, and tipped each other winks,

“Let’s stick around and see how well this bushman holds his drinks.”

The barman was a Papuan, as barmen mostly are,

His eyes were dull, his head was flat, he toiled behind the bar;

And as the Wabag came up close he cracked a tasteless joke:

“I’ve heard you Chimbus can’t drink beer - I’ll fix you up a coke!”

A grunt was the reply he got, so pulled down from behind,

A dozen different bottles of a dozen different kinds:

Rum, tequila, crème de menthe, he poured the whole lot in,

Then added vintage cognac, some whisky and some gin.

He poured in Benedictine, at schnapps he did not baulk,

He put the cauldron on the stove, and stirred it with a fork;

He made the mixture boiling hot, then paused a while to gloat,

Then flung the bubbling bucketful straight down his victim’s throat!

The Wabag gave a mighty roar, and dropped the steaming cup,

He grabbed an Orokaiva youth and almost woke him up!

With tooth and nail he set about, and as he wrecked the bar,

“Wantoks, where’s me wantoks?” roared the man from Wabag – ahhh!

He grabbed the barman by the neck, and threw him through the wall,

He bashed an Orokaiva youth, and then he bashed them all;

His bush-knife clove the bar in two – “Take that!” the bushman roared,

As he beat a meri’s skull in with his twelve-inch penis gourd.

A passing Sepik cop came by, his duty for to do,

His eyes were dull, his head was flat, his skin was clad in blue,

He grabbed the bushman by the throat, to run him out the door,

The Wabag would have none of it, and threw him to the floor.

Then he smashed the windows in, was such a sight to see,

He gave a yell and raced outside, and rolled a P.M.V.

And as the Riot Squad turned up to even up the score,

The Wabag vanished, in the bush, the bushman was no more.

And now, upon the haus-lain floor, the listening wantoks blink,

Their eyes are dull, their heads are flat, their skins are full of drink,

For every time they here it’s on they come from near and far,

“Koki Cocktail’s” all the go, up there in Wabag – ahhh!

More of my FUNNY POEMS here