Fully Sick Mate!

Fully Sick Mate!
© Gregory North, 2005

My ute is fully sick mate,
   take a ride; you'll feel it's hot!
Your pupils they will dilate,
   from two-sixty kilowatt.

I used to have a Lexus,
   and a Honda before that,
But bumps here they're like Texas –
   outback roads they're not so flat.

The spoiler kept on breaking,
   and the thing would bottom out.
My body it was aching,
    just from being chucked about.

The Lexus it got traded,
   for my filthy wicked ute.
Suburban life had faded –
   there was no need for a boot.

Out here you need a tray-back,
   and a 'roo bar with some lights.
The custom it goes way back,
   blokes without utes got no rights.

I had to draw a base line,
   'cause I ain't no westie dag,
my new ute had to look fine,
   and perform well in a drag.

So it don't look as rural
   as the cockies' utes out here –
it's got a full-on mural,
   of a Leb bloke on a steer!

It's got a full tray liner,
   to protect its purple paint.
There's really nothing finer –
   all the chicks see it and faint.

The homies that I hang with,
   oh my God those guys are weird!
The country hick is no myth.
   Mate, their brains aren't prop'ly geared.

They perve around on cruise nights,
   seeing chicks as would-be wives!
They use bare fists in street fights,
   without trace of guns or knives!

They even don't have gangs here.
   Just big groups of blokes in utes.
They dress in flannel farm gear –
   there's no shiny night club suits.

It's no suburban life style
   way out here among the sticks,
At least they still go off while
   dragging, as the stopwatch ticks.

So some things are the same here –
   like high speed and mad wheel spin.
Burnt rubber gets the same cheer,
   and all drivers drive to win.

We cruise to B and S balls,
   just to find the country chicks
that dance in sheds and town halls,
   way out, sev'ral hundred clicks.

In car parks we lay donuts,
   and smoke burnouts down the street.
The outback chicks just go nuts –
   blokes in utes they want to meet.

So rarely we get rain here,
   we can park beneath the stars.
There's no struggle with chick gear –
   'cause there's no back seat, like cars.

You just chuck in a mattress
   and make sure that it don't stink!
And I have from learned from practice –
   take an esky for the drink.

You need to take some covers,
   'cause it can get pretty cold.
But waking up with lovers,
   on this ute thing you'll be sold!

I never thought I'd say it,
   but I feel I'm settling in.
My coolness was a big hit,
   but my ute's made me like kin.

So now I've got ute passion,
   but I have to tell you that
I can't wear westie fashion –
   flannel shirt and cowboy hat!

This Gangsta street wear's my pick
   and there's something else I've found –
I still need doof doof music,
   not that country western sound!

Although I have to live in
   a fast food forsaken place,
to pressures I won't give in,
   I will still turn up the pace.

They're starting to accept me
   and they say that I'm a hoot!
I think though, 'cause they all see,
   I've now got this hectic ute.

This outback life is first rate,
   but I ain't no country hick.
Although I own a ute, mate –
   it's a ute that's fully sick!

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© Gregory North 2010. Photos by Andrew Bosman and Gregory North. Updated February 2012