New Year clocks on over fog valley,

temperate Tibetans account for contributions.
Suburbs struggle and sweat through a summer

scented with mumbles and deceptions.
Fat detractors and software spruikers expire,

the paddockbashers steam from the load.
The thin mechanic massages a cigarette:

“Could ship ‘er off, up the road –
get the Billinudgel Boys to take a look,

but a cracked head is a cracked head.”
The skyline oils in the mercury ascent,

from mosquitoes and humidity exiles fled.
The boss does the Coco cabaña in Caloundra,

Jim Wage sneaks off for a lunchtime splash
loosens his tie, stuck jaw wide, at his wife

and her lover coitus interruptus confabulation.
The advice at the lectures is dorothy dixed,

VB addle cognition until everything is fixed.