Was movement at the station, So wrote a famous man, But how did Banjo know this? Perhaps he towed a van
Perhaps banjo had been woken, In a van park in his sleep, Some two hours before sunrise. By strange noises from the deep.
All the erk, erk, erk of van legs, Being screwed up in the dark, As the first nocturnal traveller
Starts to wake the sleeping park.
Then just like the feral mating call, Some others answered back, With their erk, erk flaming chorus as the first start down the track
Everything they pack's metallic, As it clatters, bangs and dongs, As they bark out loud instructions and hollow clacks of thongs
Now its best to warm your motor, If you are leaving in the dark, Especially if it's diesel, That jackhammers all the park.
Because now its time to hook on, And you hear the circus start. More left - not right- I said this way
You pig headed deaf old fart!
And how dare you call me brainless, You ungrateful senile drone - If you don't want my instructions, do it on your bloody own!
And now the doors are slamming. Just to finish off the show. Are you sure you turned the gas off? You yell out, Just bloody go.
Because now its almost daylight, and the camp picks up the pace. As the generic old gypsies, all begin their race.
For the next park is their target, where like metal ants they flock, for the first in gets the best shade, and a close ablutions block.
But for us still vainly sleeping, We just toss and kick and turn. Who said the holidays are restful? Beauty sleep we yearn.
But there's miles and miles of zippers zinging, as the tents all fold and go, there's a campervan doors a grinding, as they whiz bang to and fro.
There's neighbours out there yelling, looks like another nice day Fred; And you think, it would be better, if you mob were still in bed.
You can't beat 'em so you join 'em, in this hyperactive spree. For the laundry's now in full swing, throbbing like a DC3.
To the bathroom men are walking, holding buckets with a lid. While discussing ageing prostrates, and comparing what they each did.
Then a rotten kid starts whingeing, and will not do what he's told. Bring back the lash; you'd yell out, it worked fine in my old day.
All this action makes you thirsty, so you start to lift the lid. Then he comes out of no where, the eternal outback kid.
He's a clone of Harry Butler, Malcolm Douglas rolled in one. He has fished and climbed and driven, every track under the sun.
And he brags about his conquests, twice round the bush and back. Thou you half suspect his tinny, is welded on his rack.
For this man is a fanatic, he has travelled everywhere. After half an hours earbashing, you sure wish he was still there.
Cause now in the park its showtime, magic moments all can share. You prepare for entertainment as you grab a beer and chair.
For here come the new arrivals, with wives all looking terse, you thought leaving was a hassle, well arriving's ten times worse!
"cause all the hand-waving female logic, with male thinking don't compute, So a jack knife on the van site, soon erupts a hot dispute.
It's as good as any circus, wife and husband on attack. As spectators in their deck chairs, watch the rigs shunt up and back.
For there's the trees and shrubs to back through, and a water tap to course, then the happy couple unhook, almost ending in divorce.
Then in come the tourist buses, with their worn out frazzled crew, and they bail out almost running, for they all have jobs to do.
Then a canvas city rises, built with hammer's echoed clacks, from the old girls driving tent pegs, like they're laying railroad tracks.
Then its 8pm, cheap phone calls, there's a rush to all get through, there's three phones for ninety people, and you're the last one on the queue.
With all the callers yelling, 'cause their homes are far away. Forcing half the park to eavesdrop, on each word they have to say.
Telling about the weather, and the adventures they've been through, then they swap and start repeating from the other's point of view.
Then the lights dim on the campground, and a gentle hush then falls. 'Cept the done of rasping snoring, through each caravan's thin walls.
As you drift in gentle slumber, as sweet dreams flit through your brain, till at 5am there's erk erk erk
Hell here we go again.