Home town lower North Island

 
There's a gap in the fence where  
nails have parted company with wood  
and the fourbytwo is swinging in the breeze  
the wind slipping through; sometimes a gentle slither  
other times I know not how the bitch hangs together  
 
Then the wind turns, coming  
from the other direction  
like today; and closes the gap  
wood sitting on pressing on wood  
and I hear the train the traffic in the east  
and the punk with his big block V8  
 
He likes to floor that whore  
have her singing basso profundo  
he thinks it's a growling roar  
here, just a bark dancing on the wind  
 
as eight cylinders caress his balls.