The men at Parks are well taught men,
To sit in the office and just say when.
They’ve studied at Monash to care for our bush,
It’s time to make the initial push.
They High Country’s freezing for the pigs this year,
To send our hunters who have no fear.
They look for snorters who hate the cold,
To catch a few is like looking for gold.
They look up maps and say “search high”,
With autumn gone our times to fly.
The New Yard Flats, you’ll find them there,
We send the trappers without a care.
The teams made up of Horse and Hammer,
And usually with JB and Yakka.
They look for tracks is their main trick,
To smell of poo can make one sick.
Learning the art of what pigs eat,
To set the traps with smelly meat.
Night after night, is a challenge for all,
To wait for the swine with the honker’s call.
They seem so cunning, you may ask why?
It’s a new full moon in our bright lit sky.
We ask one another of our life ahead,
Will we survive or end up dead?
We check the traps at the morning light,
And found the office not quite right.
Wombago Mount is the place to go,
So pack our gear for another show.
We do hope now to find our fray,
Prepared to fight another day.
This time now we’ll use fermented wheat,
Mixed with barley a real treat.
Salt lick flavour to sweeten the taste,
Spring fresh onions are never a waste.
The catch of 11 is cheers for all,
We’ll wait on the office for another call.
By Ray McCamley
