To the people of Australia

especially those scientists and engineers

who keep things humming

at the big radio telescope near Parkes

I send you greetings

that I pray you will discern

from all the intergalactic advertising

that you wrongly read

as the random background

scratchings of the stars.

To all conspiracy theorists

I offer my apologies

for the disappointment you'll experience

when you learn no midget submarine

came to shore to snatch

your buff Prime Minister

away to join a secret think tank

of valued Australian expatriates

feasting in the dark on cockroaches

in a jungle pit outside Phnom Penh.
Nor (and I anticipate your chagrin)

was I simply taken by a shark

as I bathed that morning

panting out my last draft

of dawn fresh Portsea air

in an agonising gasp.

I was not crunched

between the jaws of death.

They'd only try this tough old flesh

if no one else would come to brunch.

To all alien abductionists

I say:  Take heart!

You were none of you so wrong

except that when the strange craft came

and hovered low just out beyond

where the waves break

I swam relentlessly towards

the beam that welcomed my ascension

into that giant egg

I now call home.
But to the resurrectionists

I say:  Give up!

I go ahead to make a place for you

said Jesus Christ.  I shall return.

Doug MacArthur kept his word.

Christ is expected to deliver

but Holt sends this short message home:

The beer is clear.  Wish you were here.

I dropped a line.  Take up the slack.

The weather's fine.  I'm never coming back!