Bernie the Bull
The Southern Rhodesian Stud Bull
Was the name Fred gave to him
That mountain of blubber from Africa
With an outlook so simple and dim
He had been used to the ways of a master
Which never ‘cut the mustard�?with us
So while he roared and raved to the boss
We turned our backs on his cuss
For a man not so old he had the fitness
Of an Amazon sloth half asleep
So while he fixed a display in the window
Through the grease bay door we did peep
Two forty-four gallon drums and a plank
Was the platform for him to stand
But the way he climbed up to get there
Gave us all a laugh that was grand
The next step down was a twelve gallon drum
The third a four gallon tin
And on the floor was a block of wood
To climb up there he did begin
He roared at me to take the drum from the boot
Of his oil company representative car
The boss said carry on with your job, Bill
You are not the lackey of this lazy African Czar
At a place down the road called Church Corner
A butcher boy was primed to meet the Bull
So he palmed in his hand some mince meet
And the hand of the Bull he squeezed full
Bernard the Bull never liked it
But the butchers all thought it was great
That this parasite from Rhodesian pastures
Had at last met a superior mate.
Mark Thrice
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