What's that noise, I sit and wonder,
A funny sound, as loud as thunder,
I think it's coming from abroad...
Oh blow me down mate. It's a wobble board.
Here comes Rolf from out the bush,
Half a lemmington in his mush,
Riding on a kangaroo,
Blowing on a didgeridoo.
And who is this? I beg your pardon?
You actually called your band Savage Garden?
Your music sounds like savage shit,
No! I will not listen to it!
Oh God, I think I'm having a haemmorage -
Oh no. It's just Dame Edna Everidge,
Fingering the fluffy possum,
That she's got shoved up her bottom.
"I must be leaving," I mutter shyly,
But then I spot her "Strewth! It's Kylie!"
Her music sucks, she has no hits,
But we forgive her cos she's got great tits.
So on with my poetic labours -
And here comes Harold! Straight from neighbours!
Oh Harold, tell me, is it right?
Do we see your bum tonight?
Oh, Oz is truly very scary,
The bush is thick and very hairy,
Not like mine, which is quite sparse,
And stops before it hits my arse.
I'm glad that I don't live there,
In your antipodean nighmare
Where Savage Garden are allowed,
To roam the streets, hidden in the crowd.
And crocodiles roam the streets,
Looking for a nice Australian to eat,
And psychos take immense delight,
At setting British backpackers alight.