Easter Eggcess

Chocolate fairies on Christmas trees, ushering Easter in.
There’s bunnies with trollies of chockies and lollies; packets, a box and a tin.
Bundles of dollars, the ringing of tills, take out a loan for lent.
Mummies are spending, it seems never ending, but Easter is heaven sent.

Bunnies and bilbies and chickens and eggs; beer and hot cross buns.
Tighten the shackle and throw in the tackle, with blow-ups, gidgies and guns.
Chuck all the kids in the back of the car; off on a four day break.
Throw in the packets of eggs with the racquets, the footy and chocolate cake.

A serpentine queue for Easterland, heading off after school,
To follow Toyotas with whopping big motors, on boats that’d make you drool.
Pull off the side of the road for a leak – bog for an hour on a track.
You drive through the night n the kids are all fight’n; till each of them gets a smack.

Finally you’re at the camping ground, fighting a spinnaker tent.
It’s suddenly hailing; hollering, wailing; shouldn’t have come but you went.
Midnight arrives as the circus abates in a tent that is upside down.
There’s choc’late and port and utensils to sort and a vote for the champion clown.

Who left the grog on the letterbox; the cat and the rabbit inside,
the bait on the floor with the key in the door? Mother had better decide.
Mother imposes her martial law; the conflict has entered a lull.
You must make amends, but a slumber descends, till you wake to a shrieking gull.

Morning is dawning in Easterland; it’s all about sacrifice.
Unholy commotion, the rats are in motion, and into the chocolate mice.
“We wanna play in the sand hills, and we all wanna climb up the trees.
We been layin’ here prayin’ that you’ll let us play in the ocean, Oh Daddy, please?”

So that you don’t get crucified, you let ’em all out of the cage.
The wind has abated; the kids are elated. The world is their oyster and stage.
Four days of “Gimme an ice cream, and I wanna Easter egg.
We wanna go fishing, the fish are all missing, and I got stung on the leg.”

The beach is like Mecca at Christmas time, on Easter Sunday morn.
“We both want to read, so be quiet,” you plead. “Buzz off and play on the lawn.”
You’re getting some order by Monday, then pack up and have to vacate.
“Us kids wanna stay; can we have one more day?” The sulking begins at the gate.

Yassar, Osama and Idi Amin, are in shackles and heading for home.
There’s peace as they sleep, you pray it will keep; a respite from the Thunderdome.
You carry the cute little darlings to bed, and none of them makes a sound.
Sure as eggs, next year, there’ll be mayhem and fear, in Easterland camping ground.

© Wayne Pantall 7/4/04