Steeplechase Donkey

Godfrey chose charity fundraising over welfare.
Now he was working for the privilege
of being labelled a parasite.
On his first day as navigator,
he wore a T-Shirt advertizing
his jazz and disco fusion quartet,
Steeplechase Donkey.

The leafy suburb of Eltoro Gardens loomed.
May the force be with you,
Godfrey encouraged old Jimmy Wallace
as he handed him his paper map.
Retirement was a luxury Jimmy couldn’t afford.

Godfrey paired sixteen year old Summer Winterton,
with former bouncer Kelvin the Keg Kensington,
just in case predators were lurking
behind the Elysian exterior of Eltoro Gardens.
Former archaeologist Zachary Stafford
looked as determined as an Everest Sherpa,
as he approached a series of palatial homes.

Godfrey’s opening hours
made his stint as a telemarketer,
for a toilet paper company, seem as fascinating
as astral travelling to distant galaxies.
His area encompassed the shrinking fibro share house
section of Eltoro gardens.
Underemployed teenage labourers
peppered him with empty beer cans.

Is that all the I.D you’ve got,
an elderly garden gnome collector enquired.
‘That’s not you’ he claimed
as he examined Godfrey’s licence and passport.
Godfrey eroded the cautious codger’s skepticism
with his birth certificate, tax returns,
bank statements and school reports,
until he begrudgingly dipped into a jar of five cent pieces.
Negotiations stalled
once he realized the pre-printed receipt
wouldn’t cover precisely forty five cents. 

Business improved among the mansions,
as mums arrived home
with computer game obsessed brats.
Godfrey approached an automatic gate,
as enthusiastically as an apartment block puppy
let loose on a farm.
he olive complexioned Goddess,
emerging from her Mercedes,
weighed down with shopping bags
had visited the supermarket
in a bikini.
Her little girl shut the gate on Godfrey twice.
There was no cash for calendars
or inspirational fridge magnets,
in Grace Senior’s handcrafted leather purse.

“No pilot focuses as intently on landing strips
as Grace Junior does on
Peppa Pig episodes.
Let’s go upstairs so I can apologize properly.
I see you’ve pitched a tent for me Godfrey.
Is there a dwarf living in your shorts?”

“They prefer to be called short statured people,
Mrs Elkington,” Godfrey chastised,
as he lashed her quivering derriere.
“Yes Sir Godfrey” Grace agreed between groans.
He swung her riding crop
to the rhythm of a Steeplechase Donkey Original,
Lochness Monster Rodeo,
before bending her over the balustrade.  

Mrs Elkington transferred ten thousand dollars
to Fundraising International,
as her conqueror sipped champagne from a crystal glass.
‘Say hello to Chad for me’ Mrs Elkington said,
as her mystified playmate departed.

“Get the fuck off my lawn you lowly peasant cunt”
Grace’s elegantly dressed next door neighbor
snarled in a north shore accent.
“You don’t wish to peruse the products on offer?
think of the dying children?”
“I’ll call the police”
“Splendid, they usually buy a calendar or two”
As Godfrey retreated from the aristocratic bogan’s
perfectly manicured lawn,
he casually ducked a bottle of chardonnay
worth more than his laptop.

Chad Randall, C.E.O of Fundraising International,
called Godfrey from his golf course
to offer Steeplechase Donkey a gig
at a fundraising picnic.

Mrs Elkington was front row and centre,
in a translucent white dress and lace lingerie
more colourful than a Rainbow Lorikeet.
She bought two boxes of Steeplechase Donkey’s latest album,
Surf the Tsunami.
Her record producer husband Bruce,
studied the lyrics of Salesman Casanova.

“How’s my favourite talent scout” Mr Elkington asked
as the corporate couple watched a video
of their latest signings finest performance.
Godfrey’s appearance on their radar
was like a gold centred meteorite
blasting a crater the size and shape
of their future swimming pool.
“Bruce darling, start practising your angry face,
this adulterous triumph will go viral.
The scandal will thrust Steeplechase Donkey’s
stratospheric sales into orbit.

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