Dear Auntie Ora

You know that poem that starts:

The Boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The little brat was clearly not
Quite right inside the head.
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?
  [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!