Christine's Butter Cake with Lemon Icing

                                         Down ‘round Lake Macquarie,

                                    Where the breezes sweep and sway;

                                There’s a little bushfire station,

                                    Where they work and train and play.


                                A crazy bunch of misfits,

                                    With their big red bushfire tankers;

                                 They’re known both far and wide,

                                    As: the local ‘Arawankers!’


                                They’re wary of outsiders,

                                    - A lot are on the dole;

                                 But most of all they really hate,

                                    Those from Fire Control.


                                 The ‘white shirts’ are their enemies,

                                     Because of all the rules;

                                 They rant and rave and lecture,

                                     And treat them just like like fools!


                                 But the good old Arawankers,

                                     Do things a different way,

                                  And when the bushfires crest the hill,

                                     They always save the day!


                                  One day a sheila drifted in,

                                     To join their happy band;

                                  With a special typed up letter,

                                      Held in her skinny hand.


                                  She said she was at Uni,

                                      To help them she would try;

                                   But the hard-nosed Arawankers,

                                       Thought she was a spy!


                                   They were even more suspicious when,

                                        Up she turned one day;

                                   With a dirty great big lemon cake,

                                        Propped up on a tray.


                                 Now firies don’t eat lemon cake,

                                    They say its poofter food;

                                 To bring one is insulting and,

                                     At very least, quite rude.


                                  For them it’s chips and scallops,

                                     Chicko rolls and lots of booze,

                                  Buckets of your KFC;

                                     Followed by a snooze!


                                  “She’s gotta go,” the Captain said,

                                      “That tart is downright rude:”

                                   “How can we face the smoke and flames,

                                         “With a gutful of her food?”


                                    So Christine wrote her thesis,

                                       For the university,

                                    She got a gown, a funny hat,

                                        And a bushfire PhD.


                                    But down at Lake Macquarie, 

                                        It’s for sex and drugs they hanker;

                                    It’s always been that way;

                                        With the mob from Arawanker.


                                     One thing does however,

                                        Make them laugh and roll and shake;

                                     It’s when they talk of Christine,

                                         And her bloody lemon cake!