Getting 14 stanzas done this November is going to be hard: moving house gets in the way of rhyme, and we’ve been very busy getting ready for the big move, which happens tomorrow. In the meantime, though, the corner of my brain that still can scan (almost) and rhyme (just) has managed this:
November verse 6:
My Twitter feed was full of Bunnings’
sausage sizzle safety scare,
of mock alarm and gleeful punning.
I’ve never bought a sausage there
or been assaulted by fried onions.
Bunnings is the place that summons
me when I need pipes or screws,
drill bits, mulch or kangaroos’
paws. Temple of the DIYers,
initiates there wear high viz
or paint-streaked shorts. The glad fact is
I don’t go there for silk-clad choirs
or poetry, or barbied snags,
Who asked Ikea for hot dogs?
Me fail? I fly! 
I like this, but #WagsFinger I think you are selling Bunnings short. As my French class tried to explain to our new teacher, fresh from southern France, Bunnings is not just a hardware store, it is a cultural experience!
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You’re completely right, Lisa. That’s what I set out to write, and possibly would have if my time wasn’t so limited. I’ve been there nearly every day these last couple fo weeks, and what I love is the muted carnival atmosphere, and the definitely non-toxic masculinity on display
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