I had nothing to do so I went down 


and asked the cows if they knew


of any cows who could talk, and they said


there was this cow near Gulargambone

who could talk, so I got into this guy's car and set off for Gulargambone


but just out of Coutts Crossing I ran over this guy

who bore a (rapidly) passing resemblance to James Thomson, considered by some to

be the

sixth best poet of the 18th century.

 

I didn't know what to do, but looking

in the rear view mirror I could see that the guy was moving


so I thought he was probably okay


and I didn't want to go back and check up on him


because that would involve the police, who at that stage had a warrant


out for me, so feeling pretty lousy about the whole thing


I continued driving through the pastoral countryside

listening to a radio interview with the cricketer Bob Cowper

who, they say, is a descendant of the fifth best poet of the 18th century.

 

Just near the town of Warialda I got tired, as

I had never driven a car before


and I had been driving for many hours, 


so I pulled up next to a bridge and went


and slept under the bridge where it was dry 


and some kind of mouse-like creature

kept running back and forth over me, 


I didn't mind, it was company

but I slept fitfully, dreaming

that I was being pursued by a chainsaw-wielding Wililam Collins, the fourth

best poet of 
the 18th century.

 

In the morning I felt great, better

than for a long, long time 
because of this great dream that I'd had

just before waking, in which I was having sex with Susannah Myles

the newsreader. It was blissful, I can't


describe it, I lack the vocabulary 


of Jonathan Swift, the third best poet of the 18th century.

 

I got up and kept driving

in the sunshine, feeling great

the police stopped me once to breath-test me

I just smiled at them so they couldn't help

but like me, they didn't even ask to see my licence


I blew into the bag and the reading came out at zero,


and I said, in an attempt to make 


a feeble joke, 
'

Having bad breath isn't a crime is it officer?'


and the policeman said, 'My mother in law'd be behind bars if it was,

'
and I pulled away smiling, I was really 


getting the hang of driving now, I almost ran over a guy 
j

ust out of Narrabri but it wasn't my fault,


he was wearing clothes the same colour as the highway

the idiot.


The trick is just to keep watching everything

and not make the mistake of taking your hands off the wheel to fondle the

cover

of the complete works of Alexander Pope, the second best poet of the 18th 


century.

 

I drove through Coonabarabran, Biddon and Gilgandra

and around Gilgandra I could see these huge

purple mountains and I thought Shit!


There shouldn't be any mountains here!


(for I had studied that country 


by map, for a long time)

but it turned out it wasn't mountains


just very tall men, 
and I could almost smell Gulargambone by now, I was getting so close -

the hot sweet smell of a woman's 


you know what, I don't need to tell you officer -


and I came into town like an event,


a happening, and asked the sparrows 


of Gulargambone where the cow who could talk was,

but they said she had died 


the week before, I had just missed the funeral


(how typical of the rotten luck that has dogged my life!)


but all was not lost however; I did find this horse


who was a very good conversationalist 


and we had a long discussion about whether Thomas Gray was really

the best poet of the 18th century.