couldn't think of a witty reply, and I don't have the vast supply of aboriginal soft core that Dale does, so I came up with this crappy poem, a thousand pardons:
gangs of dopples roam the streets,
suvs hauling bags of meat,
to be a pygmy laid out in the brush,
never to worry over Kerry or Bush,
me and my brush mate, a sweet little tart,
thinking of naught, but my pygmy blowdart.
