You know that poem that starts:
The Boy stood on the burning deck,Well, I've read it through and through, but I still can't find any mention of Humphrey Bogart or Ingrid Bergman. What's going on?
Whence all but him had fled;
The little brat was clearly not
Quite right inside the head.
| [SCENE:The bar, Steve's Place, Casablanca.] | ||
| Pythia: | Play it for me, Sam. | |
| Sam: | I don't know what you mean, Miss Pythia. | |
| Pythia: | Yes, you do. Play it, Sam. | |
| Sam: | I can't remember it, Miss Pythia. I'm a little rusty on it. | |
| Pythia: | Play the sodding song before I break your scrawny neck, Sam! | |
| Sam: | [singing] Once a jolly swagman camped in a billabong, Under the shade of a coolibah tree-- | |
| [Steve Irwin comes rushing into the bar.] | ||
| Steve: | Sam, I thought I told you niver to play-- | |
| [He stops as he sees Pythia.] | ||
| Pythia: | Hello, Steve. | |
| Steve: | Oh, er, hi, Pyth. G'day. | |
| Pythia: | It's been a long time, Steve. Remember the Great Barrier Reef? | |
| Steve: | I remimber it pirfectly. A wobby damn near bit me thumb off. | |
| Pythia: | And I stitched it back on for you. | |
| Steve: | I still keep that fishing line. What brings you to Casablanca? | |
| Pythia: | A mystery surrounding a poem we received at Delphic Research, Inc. You knew I was... working now, didn't you? | |
| Steve: | Yeah. Poems are for pooftas. | |
| Pythia: | You know how you sound, Steve? Like a man who's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart. Here, read it. | |
| Steve: | I stick my nick out for nobody. | |
| Pythia: | You stick your neck out at every available opportunity, all the time. | |
| Steve: | There is that. | |
| [Pythia extends a sheet of paper to Steve. He takes it.] | ||
| Steve: | [reading] "The Boy stood on the burning dick..." | |
| Pythia: | That says "deck", Steve. | |
| Steve: | That's what I sid. | |
| Pythia: | [flustered] Oh yes, of course. I thought you meant... well, never mind what I thought. | |
| Steve: | "Whince all but him had flid..." This poem doesn't amount to a hill of witchetty grubs, Pyth. | |
| Pythia: | You're saying this only to make me go. | |
| Steve: | [suddenly angry] Damn right! Till me, who was it you lift me for? Was it this Dilphic mob, or were there others in between? Or aren't you the kind that tills? | |
| Pythia: | Steve, I... I'm sorry. I guess I'm the kind that loses count. | |
| [They sit in sullen silence for a couple of beats.] | ||
| Steve: | A$0.02 for your thoughts. | |
| Pythia: | I was wondering... Steve, will you say it? For old times' sake? | |
| Steve: | You'll regrit it. Mibbe not today. Mibbe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rist of your life. | |
| Pythia: | I don't care! Say it. Say it as if it were the last time. | |
| Steve: | Diddly SNIKES! | |
| Pythia: | [choking] Oh... Steve! | |
| [She leaps to her feet and rushes out of the bar, hands covering her face.] | ||
| Steve: | Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world... [to Sam] Sheilas, eh? | |
| Sam: | As you say, Mister Steve. | |
| Steve: | Crack me a bluey, willya? | |
| [Sam opens a tin of Fosters and passes it to Steve.] | ||
| Steve: | Here's looking at you, kid. | |
| Sam: | What's a "ked", Mister Steve? | |
| Steve: | Not "kid". I sid "kid", you drongo! |