I dream about becoming a Beach Bum,

And living at Byron Bay,

To go fishing, swimming, surfing,

Or just lie in the Sun all day,

I’d get a broad brimmed straw hat,

A pair of rubber thongs,

A deep dark tan … bleached blonde hair,

And smoke my Dope through an “ORCHY” bottle bong,

I’d get a part time job that paid me cash,

So that it wouldn’t effect my Dole,

Live in a Caravan Park or share house,

And disappear from the Electoral Roll,


My dogs would become free spirits,

Everyday vanishing early to run and play,

Being fed by tourists who kenneled their pets,

Before coming to Byron Bay.

I’d party hard with foreign Back Packers,

Becoming close friends with everyone I meet,

Eat fresh seafood, tappas and noodles,

Drink coffee at trendy Cafes along Jonson Street,

I’d cavort with whales and dolphins,

While swimming around the Cape,

To Watego’s or Main Beach,

Whatever … I’d be in fantastic shape!


I reckon I’d make a fabulous Beach Bum,

A Goddess basking in the Sun,

Until the weather became wet and miserable,

And then what do Beach Bums do for fun?

I suppose that I could compose Poetry,

And perform it at “The Rails”,

I could get a book of my Poems published,

And become stinking rich from the profits from sales,

But … then I wouldn’t be a Beach Bum,

I’d be just another celebrity at “The Bay”,

Overwhelmed by money, fame and lifestyle,

Inclement weather … washing my dream away.



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