I’m a Good Ol Boy: Buy us a pint, ya cunt!

From Canterbury to Counties, Wongarei to Wockatain

I’m the prop holdin up the province, backbone of the National Bank.

My milk keeps Kiwis plump. I slit the throats and squeeze the teats.


I’m a Good Ol Boy, and my daughter Krystal wraps your fish ‘n chips.

Never mind the dung in the scabs of her crusty knuckles.

I’m a Good Ol Boy, and after milking, my freckled biceps hustle my muttering Masport across my perfect lawn, pullin out California thistles as I go.


A Good Ol Boy, inflexible, taut, complicated as a figure 8 knot, and

I corral brown brats with their sticks and sagging socks out of Mrs Murray’s store

and back in the pen I call Pukekohe North.


A Good Ol Boy, wobbly as broken kerbside furniture, veteran of a rolling ATV,

Give us any Kubota, John Deere or New Holland tractor and I’ll mend ‘er

with nothin but a Port Royal rollie perched like communion in me lips.


See, us Good Ol Boys, we’re varnished by a hundred years of self-assurance, tight as a scrum, measured by our calloused crusty handshake crush.

In steel capped boots and camo gears, I trail muddy grass up RD1 and Wrightsons aisles and once a month I even treat the missus to a little sippa delicious from a two KG tin of instant Nescafe.


Yep, a Good Ol Boy. Potato-raiser, ears clotted with RoundUp ‘n phosphorus dust.

A hundred hectare horizon’s as much as I’ll stretch me vision.

I ain’t hearda no espresso and I won’t pronounce no Te Reo.


See, unsuited to a suit and tie, me ‘n the Good Ol Boys is packin the after-match function,

And I ain’t averse to gettin the punches in with some Tribesmen in the car park outside a Takanini tavern.


I’m a Good Ol boy, and I’ve drove over more cliffs than you’ve had hot dinners, mate.

You got no idea what life’s like southa them Bombays.

So you’re a local, ya reckon? Then whereabouts ya stay? Eh?


Mate: leave ya ute unlocked, but wear ya best Bathurst shirt, show some respect,

she’s the RSA. Ya writer gets served only elbows at our bar, so leave that vocab at the door. Don’t go bringin that brain in here.


I am a Good Ol Boy, staunch as a totara trunk stuck in mud.

A Good Ol Boy, Protestant, and my name

ends in a consonant.