The Man From Ferntree Gully

(apologies to A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson)

There was horror in the restaurant
when the booking passed around,
for the man from Ferntree Gully
was coming down to town.
From concierge to waiter
from chef to kitchen hand,
despair and consternation for
without exaggeration he weighed 500 pounds.

As he eased his heaving bulk
into a puny creaking chair,
the chef tore up his diploma,
a waiter whispered a prayer,
the owner collapsed into a coma,
well heeled patrons sat and stared,
for the rumble of his stomach
could be heard down Lygon street,
he was starvin' for the nose bag,
hungry as a mare on heat.

He said "I like my steak charcoal black
with lots of spud for filler,
so send me in a slab of beer
and fire up your griller."
They served him this,
they served him that,
waiters staggered under the load,
but the man from Ferntree gully
just chomped 'n chewed 'n swallowed.

The finale came suddenly like
an intestinal flash flood,
one foundation shaking fart and
he sat contentedly chewing his cud.
A shell-shocked waiter presented the bill,
a figure just short of the national debt,
but the man from Ferntree Gully said
"hang on mate, I haven't had dessert yet."