Perhaps Banjo had been woken in a van park from his sleep,
Some two hours before the 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 trav'ler starts to wake the sleeping park.

Then just like a feral mating call, some others answer back,
With their "erk erk" flaming chorus as the first start down the track.

Everything they pack's metallic and it clatters, bangs, and dongs,
As they bark out loud instructions amid hollow clacks of thongs.

Now it's best to warm your motor if you're leaving in the dark,
Especially if it's diesel and jackhammers all the park.

Because now it's 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 directions, do it on your bloody own!"

And by 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 it's almost daylight, and the camp picks up the pace,
As these geriatric gypsies all begin their morning 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 amenities block.

But for us still vainly sleeping, we just toss and kick and turn,
Who said holidays are restful, beauty sleep is what we yearn.

But there's miles of zippers zinging, as the tents all fold to go,
And there's campervan doors grinding, as they whiz bang to and fro.

And there's neighbours out there yelling, "Looks 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 aging prostates, and comparing what each did.

All this action makes you thirsty, so you start to lift a lid,
Then he comes from out of nowhere, the eternal Outback Kid.

He's a clone of Harry Butler and Malcolm Douglas rolled in one,
He has fished and climbed and driven every track under the sun.

And he brags about his conquests, twice around the bush and back,
Though you half-suspect his tinny has been welded on his rack.

For this man is a fanatic, he has travelled everywhere,
After half an hour's earbashing, you sure wish he was still there.

'Cause now in the park it's showtime, magic moments all can share,
You prepare for entertainment as you grab a beer and chair.

For here come the new arrivals with the wives all looking terse,
You thought leaving was a hassle, well arriving's ten times worse!

'Cause hand-waving female logic with male thinking won't compute,
So a jack-knife on the van site soon erupts in 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 trees and shrubs to back through, and a water tap of course,
Then the happy couple unhook, nearly 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.

And a canvas city rises, built with hammers' echoed clacks,
From the old girls driving tent pegs like they're laying railway tracks.

Then it's 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 in the queue.

With the callers always yelling 'cause their homes are far away,
Forcing half the park to eavesdrop on each word they have to say.

Telling all about the weather and adventures they've been through,
Then they swap and start repeating from their partners' point of view.

Then the lights dim on the campground and a gentle hush then falls,
'Cept the drone of rasping snoring, through each caravan's thin walls.

And you drift in gentle slumber as sweet dreams flit through your brain,
'Til at 5am there's "erk erk erk", and here we go again!