Inside the writers came and then others just the same
Then poets and all-they-know-its followed along
And the behind the writers, the back street fighters
All came along to join in and hear the song
They fell one after the other, like sister and like brother
Like a huge green Rube Goldberg machine
One connected to the next, the young and the over-sexed
All letting out their souls and coming clean.
And there on that Sydney Road, they let go their burdened load
For all of us to hear their hope and their fear
Their humour, any rumour of the life they lead
Their perfect little infections, their masterful imperfections
The people they need, the places they go to bleed.
We listened to the peoples chants, ignored the lunatic’s bad rants
We bent over in all our glory, for the young girl’s passionate story
We sullied up all our respect, for they who, far from perfect
Read in drone, black in tone and tragic allegory.
Then Coburg Lagers counted and the bar tab soundly mounted
And unadulterated exuberance and overwhelming desire to dance
Like a postman on his rounds and a gardener in his grounds
I set about to to meet them all and hear about their chance.
Now, sad the night is over, like cows upon the clover
We all frenzied in the fight and cheered the ones who write
I put out a mighty cheer, for more Coburg Lager beer
And tried to squeeze the last out of the night.
The journey home was long and I lingered on the song
Feeling quite absurd, trying to remember every word
But all that I could remember, was that one night near September
When I found the most Brunswick thing I’ve ever heard*.
Line taken from a story by Cathy Oddie “One Night in Brunswick”