The Barbeque

By Len Newey

There is an old Australian custom,
Handed down through generations…
Mainly used when tribes all gather,
For festive celebrations…

A ceremony of sorts takes place,
As the elder makes a call…
When he decides to prepare a feast,
In his outback dining hall…

This aussie bred tradition,
Which is called the Barbeque…
Is attempted by the masses,
But only perfected by the few…

The selection of the menu,
Is not an easy skill…
As the master forages through the freezer,
To select the perfect meat to grill…

So many options,
From the outback to the reef…
Chicken fish and pork,
Seafood lamb or beef…

When the decision’s finally made,
And he’s satisfied of course
He makes his way outside,
To his blackened steel workhorse…

This contraption is called the barbeque,
It is where the meal prepared…
Grilling, smoking, roasting,
No effort will be spared…

After a few symbolic gestures,
The festivities will begin…
As you don’t want to anger the gods,
This would be a mortal sin…

You must partake in the cleansing ritual,
Best done with ice cold beer…
As you gather all your equipment,
To become the cooking cavalier…

After downing several of these brews,
The lighting of the barbeque is done…
As the elder of the clan,
Prepares to the cook the meat for everyone…

The mob start to gather in a frenzy,
As a smoky aroma fills the air,
Which then starts a procession,
From the table to the chair…

They wait patiently in line,
With their paper plate and fork…
For a taste of what’s on offer,
Whether it be chicken steak or pork…

And when the grazing’s done
This campaign is not complete,
Without a taste of mum’s pavlova,
Or a slice of something sweet…

The ritual comes to an end,
As the mob scatters from where they came…
And the elder has earned their respect
He is keeper of the flame…