Poem Hunter
Grand Cherokee 5.7 Hemi V-8
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Grand Cherokee 5.7 Hemi V-8

And there he hung, far up the tree,
he had been looking for the eggs
of the Australian Kolibree.
They'd finished both the VB kegs
and he'd commenced his expedition,
by piggy-backing with his mate.
It was a long standing ambition,
though, unbeknownst now tempting fate.
The local experts had suggested
that hatching out those eggs would bring
a princely sum, that, if invested,
would make them richer than a king.

So here they were, replacing fear
inside their country boys' small brains,
with gallons of the local beer,
which sends adrenalin through veins.
And just when Cecil had decided
that he was ready to proceed,
his mate, who swayed a bit one-sided,
remarked, but matey, how indeed
will we be celebrating this,
when, as I noticed right this second:
We're OUT of beer, which truly is
a great disaster, as I'd reckoned
we'd have enough to see us through!
So what you say, I'll drive to town
and get some of that lifeblood brew?
When I get back you'll be back down.
So, see you in a bit, my friend.
And he had started the old Rover
and disappeared around the bend.

As happens in the Aussie Bush,
one situation does get tired,
sick of itself for various reasons,
so it retreats as fate has sired
a small distraction of the season,
with lightning-fast and deafening whooosh,
a flash flood now appeared so quick,
that Dundee felt his bowels calling.
A wall of water came, and sick
he felt, what was appalling,
is that he still had Wombat Hill
in front of him, a steep incline.
And so he floored her for the kill,
the Rover's differential whine
gave him the mental lift he needed.
And up he went at eighty clicks.
He could not wait 'til floods receded
or he'd be buried in these sticks.

At first it looked like he was winning,
the turbodiesel soon protested,
it changed his face from one of grinning
to features that had been arrested
in mental journeys to Canossa.

He yelled now 'Bloody British Sucker'
just hold together a bit longer! ',
just then the truck became a 'fucker',
judged by the language, which got stronger.
Four metres from the summit then
all sound expired and he was,
like others, long before him, men,
whose vehicles also had flaws,
at Nature's mercy here for sure.
He set the brake, engaged first gear
in an attempt to stop a tour
back down by forces of his fear,
as he would likely perish there
in twenty feet of hostile mud.
But, in his fast-erupting rage
he noticed that he'd started sliding,
all he could do now at this stage,
is sit and try to pray while riding
into his doom, so soon ordained.

When his keen ear heard a V-8,
the sound was bag balm for the soul,
he craned his neck in the direction
above the crest, and there she stood:
A silver Jeep, with chrome reflection
of storm clouds. Dundee thought he could
now jump to safety, hitch a ride,
as his just cause was truly over.
And when the driver did alight
and rolled the cable to the Rover
attached it to the left cross member,
got back inside and gave the wave.
It's steaming hot here in December,
the heat just zaps from men so brave
all latent energy so fast,
that optimistic mind-set freezes,
and now you know that least and last
depressed capitulation seizes
your mind and body. It's the end.

But here was hope, this five point seven,
a Chrysler Hemi, as your friend,
orgastic sounds, all dipples revving,
Dundee held on and prayed to God.
But he forgot the heavy brake,
on Rovers they hump the transmission,
it is no easy piece of cake
to move beyond your field of vision,
with brake so locked and truck so mired.
So Dundee's heart sank once again.
Now that the Cherokee had fired
into three thousand RPM,
you'd HAVE to be there, only men
can understand this power gem.

He moved two vehicles with ease,
four thousand kilos altogether,
the engine drowning out the breeze
that had replaced the stormy weather.
And pulled him up the next incline
and into town through sand so deep,
then left the Rover at the sign:
'We Fix Things British - Prices STEEP '.

The Yanks were helpful and they bought
a couple cartons of the best,
while Dundee still appeared distraught,
and he was silent all the rest
of the way back to get his friend.
He thought perhaps the treasure chest,
those eggs would build them, in the end
could buy a vehicle, the best.
And he was watching as they powered
through unbelievable terrain,
the monster truck simply devoured
all obstacles, it seemed insane.

With river crossings, where they swam
well under water, windscreen under.
This sporty ute from Uncle Sam,
it sounded similar to thunder,
when to the surface it returned.
And all the while the stereo blasted
the latest CD they had burned
the night before, this was the fastest,
and wildest, strongest, handsome beast,
twohundredfifty kilowatts
of power, yeah, to say the least,
all others were just little mutts.

But time had gone while they were busy.
They found old Cecil on the ground,
with half his arm attached, and dizzy
from loss of blood, so he was found.
He'd reached into the hollow nest
up on the tree, and then it broke,
the branch whose strength was not the best,
at first he'd thought 'Oh, what a joke! '
It soon became apparent though
that there was nothing he could do,
the only way to get below
was get his arm, it stuck like glue
out of the hole, he'd tried for ages
to get extracted from this mess.
He gladly would have given wages
of twenty years in his distress
to anyone who could have helped.
But all he saw was angry birds
and dingoes that observed and yelped,
when God came, whispered those few words
and gave him courage to proceed.
He'd brought from Zurich a Swiss knife
and always carried it, indeed
inside his pocket, now his life
depended on what those Swiss crafters
had built with stubborn, clever hands,
to get out from this tree's tall rafters
and kiss the lovely desert sands.

He cut, left-handed, through his arm
and clamped two arteries with tweezers,
thus keeping down his mind's alarm,
then sawed the bones and took some breathers.
At last, when free, he shimmied down
and landed hard, but still intact,
with face smeared red, a tragic clown,
he was alive, that was a fact!

And Cecil and his Dundee mate
decided in the desert heat,
that they would never trust their fate
to British vehicles, indeed........


The Yanks had meanwhile hooked the winch
with one inch cable to the tree,
just halfway up, and in a cinch
they put the gear in low range-3
accelerated now a trifle,
while snatchblock was attached below
to slow things down, securely stifle
rate of descent. BOY WHAT A SHOW!
The tree came down, all eggs were sound,
they earned much money, tipped the Yanks,
went to the city where they found,
a fivepointseven, many thanks!

Note: There are many hollows in outback trees in Australia and the locals will gladly point out the one where 'it' happened.
This bushlore does have a true origin as it happened not far from Alice Springs, although there was no VB beer involved and the Grand Cherokee 5.7 had not been conceived.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 3

Comments (3)

Great story Herbert...your right I did enjoy it! You do tell a good story...I do like your long ones too....lol!
You tell a great story; this one had me eagerly scrolling down to find out what would happen. I happen to enjoy narrative poetry, and you tell a story in verse as well as anyone.
so i tried to read how you write.. (to learnabout poetry) but this is too long herbert.. sorry.. good luck.. keep up the good work!