COME GET MY CHERRIES, DWIGHT-a Tasmanian road song- from Worzel

Soon I’ll tell the story of how I, Worzel met up with Godfrey, became his friend and learned of his many quirks.

He loved to sleep during the day, telling me gravely that he did not want to miss  out on life. He was never work shy, yet had little regard for money. Godfrey was a “clever boots” I called him, he built for us a combination Sauna/outhouse, he built a chicken house , rancher style on the wrong side of a stout fence.

We gathered a strong crew to lift it over onto the grass. He designed  a  Compost-A- Pult using a Da Vinci like plan. He favoured outdoor work, picking fruit, cow and horse care. He enjoyed washing dishes, proud with his hairnet on, waitressed in a smock and sold manure from a roadside stand.

..twas a job at Morris Mountain  Berries and Cherries inspired this song he could be heard warbling as he peddeled  the lonely roads of Tasmania in 1972.

COME GET MY CHERRIES- DWIGHT, Hot wind brings the sweet  scent of fruit , cicadas at  end of day loud and ringing. Down the end of my block hear the Swedish pickers singing, high in the trees they sing all day. The roar of the tractor means that Dwight is coming, to take my days labor of beautiful cherries away.

Cherries red, oh so fine, cherries ripe, picked all mine, I to sang of cherries as up the ladder I climbed. Others laughed at my kilt in this small orchard town , but my pails are full as I gently set them down, early evening now I sit and wait for Dwight..

Go and work for Dwight I was told, he needs his fruit picked before the frost and cold. Wash neath the hose, use the long drop loo you can camp in the chicken yard, work hard,do not whinge, complain or fight. You will be paid  for every un bruised kilogram by Dwight..

.So here we sit with our fruit in the shade, try to guess how much money you have made. It is getting late Godfrey said I disilke beets, and the large bats that fly out here at night..so please come soon and get your cherries Dwight

He always maintained that his time in Tasmania was some of his happiest  of those years-only one co-worker, as a prank put a bundle of beets on a stick and chased Godfrey into an outhouse. Stuck in there most of the day he used his time sensibly  writing poetry and thinking kind thoughts of “Trevor”, of whom rude things had been written on the walls. This is how I like to envision Godfrey- on his pink bike, plaid suitcase strapped on behind, in his gumboots, kilt wrapped about double,losing sense of time in Tasmania.

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