Farewell, we bid thee, piece of turf three metres by one,
As thou travelleth up the Hume, the truck that transports thee, we cannot outrun.
For as long as the sun has risen in the east, thou hast glistened with morning dew,
Now, as thou truckest, may thou receive the care that is thy due.
May thou be tended with waters and fertilisers, to ease thy weary load,
And heaven help the driver should he fail to avoid any bump in the road.
Oh turf, oh turf, our Melbourne soil, thou art so good, so great!
The more for having tolerated imposter feet from interstate.
And though the quest thou now pursueth be imbued with virtue and grace,
Forsooth, to remind the northern people of their rightful place,
Knowest as thou leavest, your departure is a killer,
With holes in Melbourne hearts that cannot be fixed with poly filler,
And though your holy house be made only of bricks and mortar,
We worship thee, and it, forever as we oughta.
Craig Pett 