I hated school. The kids were cruel. The teachers even meaner.
Most days they'd keep me in at lunch, or make me be the cleaner.
In lunchtime games they called me names, and often stole my money.
They'd laugh and tease and aggravate, and think it all so funny.
And as we grew up, in the bush, nicknames were all the go.
In cricket, clumsy Clancy - "Clancy of the overthrow".
He was such a clumsy fielder, and by far the school's worse chucker.
He was even worse than infants kids, like little Thomas Tucker.
Now Thomas was your classic goodie-two-shoes type of kid,
who dobbed on other students if he witnessed what they did.
And out of bounds in our school grounds: the agricultural digs:
Beside the shack, right down the back, there grew a tree of figs.
One afternoon, during the Spring, it happened after lunchtime.
The Headmistress came to our class, I knew that this was crunchtime.
"Where is Andrew Patter?", she demanded of the teacher.
"Whatever is the matter?", I enquired of the creature.
"You've been down the back, I hear. You know that's out of bounds.
The agricultural area, at the far end of the grounds.
Don't even bother saying a word. Young Thomas saw you there.
Plucking figs! Come here, young man!" (Then grabbed me by the hair).
She marched me to her office, where she read the riot act.
I hadn't had a chance to speak. I knew it wasn't fact.
I wasn't plucking figs, but she still showered me with shame.
And thanks to her, thats how I got stuck with my dumb nickname.
"Andy - The fig plucker" was my school nickname thereafter.
It made me mad to think it caused the children so much laughter.
Names are cruel, like Clancy's, who was clumsy all the time.
But mine was simply wrong; I hadn't even done the crime.
The years rolled by, decades have passed, yet some things never change.
Just now I thought about my life, and something struck as strange.
At fourteen I left school and worked for 10 years shearing sheep.
I did the rounds of all the sheds. But something irks me, deep.
Despite some years to think it through, the picture isn't clearer;
No one has ever called me, even once, "Andy - The shearer."
And after that I had a go at following my heart.
To be an entertainer, just to sing, or play a part.
12 years I sang in clubs and pubs, but damn it, here's the stinger;
In all that time, in all my life, not once "Andy - The singer".
I loved to sing, but here's the thing, I wasn't saving money.
Dreams are fine, when fully fed, but poverty's not funny.
So 9 more years of tending sheep, the credit less than tepid;
And once again in all that time, not once "Andy - The shepherd".
By now my life had turned for worse, my hopes were proven false.
So I hit the track with a rolled up pack, and let Matilda waltz.
A drifter I had found myself, a dirty 'tucker' bag man.
Despite my cheer, I'll never hear - "Andy - The jolly swagman".
To think it through, just makes me blue; less jolly by the second.
My jolly reputation stained. It wasn't how I'd reckoned.
To brand a man with nicknames is unfairness, and by golly
I'd jolly like to teach them about being jolly 'jolly'!
I see the folks and hear their jokes, to them I'm some enigma.
I didn't want the nickname, and I cannot stand the stigma.
I don't know if it's fate or of it's fortune, or hard luck.
But I jolly wish I hadn't bagged that one jolly jumbuck!
In one way I was lucky that they caught me when they did.
The troopers and the squatter would have flipped their flippin' lid
The RSPCA promotes great love and being kind,
well, how I loved Matilda as I waltzed her from behind.
But then again I'm grateful, my school nickname is forgotten.
Andy - The fig plucker, brings back mem'ries which are rotten.
It could be worse, as well I know. (My story now gets sexier).
The schoolground had a pig sty, and young Tom had speech-dyslexia!
(C) MrsMyth
