There are quite a few versions of "The barrel of bricks" originally by Gerard Hoffnung, some spoken and some in song form. That always goes down well.

In Australia, there is a very active "bush poetry" scene, and many writers, as well as performers, of this. These include Blue the Shearer, Murray Hartin, Mark Gliori, Warren (Arch) Bishop, Rhymin' Simon and Campbell the Swaggie, to name just a few. Campbell's performances have to be seen to be believed! At every folk festival there are "poets' breakfasts" where anyone is invited to perform their favourite piece. There are also competitions which attract a huge interest, not just for poetry, but for storytelling (woolly yarns). I have performed a fair bit at poets' breakfasts, even written a few, but one of my favourites, which always works well, is this:

            "FAIR CRACK OF THE WHIP" - by Murray Hartin.

Mick he was a bushman, he was up there with the best,
He'd been in the saddle nearly all his life,
But lately things had changed, his thoughts had rearranged,
Yes, it was time that Michael found himself a wife.

So he was givin' up the one-night stands and givin' up the booze,
He'd settle down and get himself employed
And with a sad touch of remorse he sold his faithful horse,
No more the saddle life would he enjoy.

Now the object of his fancy was the local schoolgirl miss,
She was pretty, she was delicate and frail.
Mick fell in head-first,
The kind of love? It was the worst
That womenfolk can foster in a male.

He wasn't takin' any chances, he was playin' all his cards
And Elizabeth McGee she was the stake,
He did all he could to win her,
He would take her out to dinner
And on Sundays they'd go walkin' by the lake.

Then finally the night arrived that Mick had waited for
When Elizabeth invited him to tea.
He showered, combed his hair, and he had this speech prepared,
"Elizabeth, will you marry me?"

You see he knew he had to marry this young girl from the south,
She was cute and kind and every mother's dream,
Her hands were soft and gentle, she was sweet and sentimental
And her eyes they sparkled with a magic gleam.

So they shared a lovely dinner and Mick was most polite,
Although thoughts of marriage occupied his head,
So he was very much inspired when she casually enquired
"Would you like to see the etchings by my bed?"

"I'll slip into something comfortable, you go into the room,
Take your drink and why not lie down for awhile."
And while she didn't look satanic, young Mick began to panic
When he saw the wicked nature of her smile.

Then she burst back through the door! Wearing leather head to toe!
She had stilettoes on and pistols at her hip!
Towards Michael she was prowling,
She was grunting! She was growling!
And in her hand she held a nine-foot whip!

For Elizabeth McGee was different you see,
By day she was an angel from above,
But by night she was a witch, an evil, nasty ... person
Who substituted punishment for love.

Well she chased him 'round the house
With her whips and chains and spikes,
She tortured him until his hide was raw
And being realistic, Mick was somewhat masochistic
For all that he could say to her was "More!"

She kept him there for days but Mick had finally had enough,
He busted free and bolted for his life,
He couldn't see for quids how he could think of raisin' kids
With this schizophrenic creature as his wife.

So he sold his city clothes, went and got his horse,
Packed his swag and headed for the scrub,
But his tale of woe got out when he'd had one too many shouts
And he told his mates about it at the pub.

Now the boys all get a laugh when they see their old mate, Mick,
Chasin' cattle through the saltbush and the bracken,
They can see his face for miles, how he flinches - then he smiles
Every time the whips they start a-crackin'!