Somewhere across the Tasman, where the Maori maiden smiles,
There lies a tiny nation that they call The Shaky Isles
Now Captain Cook he was the first, to map the waters round it,
"'Twas only simple luck," he said, "I ever bloody found it!"

At census time they scratch around to find four million flat,
(And that includes ten Jersey cows, three budgies and a cat!)
But when it comes to Rugby League, they play above their station.
Tomorrow night, 'gainst 'Stralia's might, they'll give a demonstration.

The Kiwis never win this match, it's just a flamin' joke.
They take the park just for a lark, and then they go and choke!
Though Aussies don't wear Jandals, and they mock with 'fush and chups',
Remember where the trophies rest, EnZed holds all the cups!

Tri-Nations Trophy's in the bank, the World Cup's in there too,
Like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, is the cabinet Aussies view!
It's time the Kiwis cast a spell or tinkered with some voodoo
So Aussies fear this is the year to break the ANZAC hoodoo.

Australia has the world's best team; you'll note how I'm impartial,
The Kiwis have a trump card, though; it's Benji Bloody Marshall.
Just have a go at tackling him; you've got no bleedin' hope,
He's got more swerve than Nureyev, more speed than Let's Elope.

And Aussies all must get a grip and face the awful truth,
Their captain and best player is a tad long in the tooth.
Yes, Locky's getting on a bit, some say he is too old,
Just zoom the cameras in too close, there's silver 'midst the gold.

It's Friday night, the crowd pours in, the comment'ry team are toey,
Just tuning up their vocal cords are Fatty, Sterlo, Joey.
The anthems play, spectators hush, they know just what is coming.
The Kiwis strike a warrior pose, the haka gets them humming.

'Tis eight o'clock, the referee, he lets his whistle tweet,
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet.
When these big boys get rumbling, it's time to clear the road.
No quarter asked or given, no mercy is bestowed.

For they waddy one another, there's a bit of biffo too,
When the half time hooter's sounded, they will be a weary crew.
But now the battle rages on, no side can think defeat,
And Benji works his magic, but the Oz defence is sweet.

Billy Slater slices through, to score beneath the dot.
Hey, Ref, that pass was forward, you should all be blimmin' shot!
Fat lady's warming up to sing an ending to my rhyme,
Calloo, callay, a miracle play sends us to extra time!

Though you have stolen Phar Lap's heart and Lamingtons and Pavlova,
We'll scrap and scratch to save this match. No way is it all over.
The verdict's in, A Kiwi win, it must be my prediction,
Though fifty thousand Aussie fans will scream, "He's writing fiction!"

Though Christchurch town is tumbled down, and we all curse the weather,
Gallipoli's the common thread that binds us firm together.
No matter how the scorecard reads or what the papers say,
It's sure to be a battle royal on ANZAC Day in May.