The writers

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*.