Good Ol’ Boy

I’m a Good Ol Boy! Buy us a pint, ya cunt!
From Canterbury to Counties, Wongarei to Wockataine,
I’m the prop holdin up the province, backbone of the National Bank,

My milk keeps Kiwis plump. I slit the throats and squeeze the teats,
I’m a Good Ol Boy, my daughter Crystal wraps your fish ‘n chips
never mind the dung in the scabs of her crusty knuckles
A Good Ol Boy, and after milking, my freckled biceps hustle a muttering Masport across me perfect lawn,

A Good Ol Boy, inflexible, taut as a figure 8 knot
I corral brown brats with their sticks and sagging socks
out of Mrs Murray’s yarn store and put ’em in the pen
I call Pukekohe North.

A Good Ol Boy, wobbly as broken kerbside furniture, veteran of a rolling ATV quaddy, no helmet on me. Gimme any Kubota, New Holland, John Deere tractor & I'll mend 'er with nothin but a Port Royal rollie perched like communion in me lips.
See, us Good Ol Boys, we’re varnished by a hundred years of self-assurance, solid as a scrum, measured by our calloused crusty handshake crush.
A Good Ol Boy, in muddy boots and camo gears, I trail RD1 and Wrightsons aisles, and once a month might even treat the missus to a cuppa from a two KG tin of instant Nescafé.

A Good Ol Boy, potato-raiser, ears clotted with RoundUp. A hundred hectare horizon’s as much as I’ll stretch me vision.
Good Ol Boy, unsuited to a suit and tie, packin the after-match function, gettin in a punch-up with the Tribesmen in the parking lot outside the Drury Tavern.
Our First XV is on the fifty dollar bill. I ain’t hearda no espresso. Can’t pernounce no Te Reo.

I'm a Good Ol’ Boy. I’ve drove over more cliffs than you’ve had hot dinners, mate. You got no idea what life’s like southa them Bombays.
So you're a local, ya reckon, eh? Then whereabouts ya stay?
Mate: Leave ya ute unlocked. Wear ya best Bathurst shirt - show some respect, she's the RSA, and brainy cunts get served only elbows at our bar, so leave ya vocab at the door.

I'm a Good Ol Boy,
doin' thirty kays on a Case tractor on the motorway.
I'm a Good Ol Boy, Protestant,
And my name ends in a consonant.