Ode on a Grubby Technology

Dear reader, it has been too long,
You find my days of wand'ring gone,
I am return'd to lands Down Under
To live, for now, in rural splendour,
To work upon a dream I had
And spend some time with mum and dad.

The downside of this happy play
Is that I shan't e'er get laid,
For in this town it's best to check
'Fore winking at the wrong redneck,
For inspiration I did seek
Good friend K, and thus spake he:

“Where God provides technology
The Gays will use it to find thee,
Go online, you cannot fail
To find the queers in Armidale,
And tho' ye seekest near and far
There is no site to best 'Gaydar.'

Oh Gaydar! With its lovely racks
Of rounded buttocks and six-packs,
Of smould'ring snaps with iPhone apps
And gentlemen re-plumbing taps,
A flesh-toned smorgasbord for free,
Aye! Gaydar 'tis the one for thee.”

“But surely not!” I did protest,
“I look for love, and do suspect
That tho' they look like lots of fun,
Donkeydude and Bigboy1
Would not be into Keats and Chaucer
And watching sunsets o'er the water.”

“Sir!” quoth he, “'Tis to your shame
To so besmirch sweet Gaydar's name,
Yes, one-night stands are offered there
But so is love and cuddly bears,
You simply need to learn the trick
Of skipping o'er the torso pics.”

And so forewarned I did set forth
Upon my Quest, sans cyber horse,
I wove a web of shining words
That describ-ed me in glowing terms,
And set it 'mongst a gallery
Of photos free from nudity.

With hallow'd ping! and pop-up message
My membership it was accepted,
Thence in inner sanctum, cold and pale,
Lady Gaydar pulled back the veil...
T'were sixty homos in my town!
Hangin' out and bummin' round.

Three score gayer deviants?
In Armidale? The world did tilt,
Good God! The butcher's love of meat!
The baker sweats from more than heat!
And candlesticks made long and bent
Are suddenly advertisement!

Those sixty I did whittle down
To a shortlist of, well, ah, none,
For Our Dear Lord did not them bless
With gentle smile and golden tress
But rather took a bag of crabs
And smashed it up to make these lads.

Dispirited, I did abandon
My Quest for days, where upon
A gentleman from Sydney Town
Wrote to say were e'er I down
My acquaintance he would like to make,
To talk of Keats and postulate.

Wond'rous news! Ye, I did reply,
He spoke in turn of my sweet smile
And flowing locks of burnished gold
That he would like so much to hold
And stroke, and smell, and lick caresses
He was a follicle obsessive!

Out freaks! Out! Cast them out!
I knew they lurk-ed hereabouts,
Henceforth from Gaydar shall I flee
Lest I too a hairlicker be,
I will be strong, I shall not fail,
Oh! What's this? Another 'mail.

A missive from a simple farmer,
A soul of earth and good endeavour,
With photos too, so I might see
The calibre of man he be,
No snuffling hair from this fine spirit
Who tills the earth as Adam did.

The first portrait didst show him flinging
Straw from a ute with tackle swinging,
Then lying 'side a billabong
In birthday suit with trim too long,
But best of all was saved for last;
Full frontal of his captain's mast.

It filled the screen! 'Twas quite the shock
To be so overwhelm-ed by a cock,
It had an air of wrinkled prune
Found behind the 'fridge at noon,
Or hairless dormouse that you see
Emerging from a knotted tree.

Now 'tis a wisdom widely held
In village, meadow, glade and dell,
That 'tis not ideal to receive
A flaccid penis o'er morning tea,
So reader, pause awhile for me,
And think of cock with museli.

What does one do when so presented?
What rules of phallic etiquette?
As men of ladies do times request
“Show us your heaving lily breasts!”
Was I supposed to be impressed
And rush to the see it at its best?

What e'er the answer I did not stay
To be be-cocked another day,
But said goodbye to friend Gaydar
And resolved to follow yonder star,
To wait with patience here outback
For Colin Firth in Stetson hat.