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A poem written by Daniel Jeffries
Near the beating heart of Brisbane, where a song was blaring on;
A brood of rich, drunk students, conducted a marathon.
In their untied bow ties, with their partners by their side –
the race was on, to wet their whistle, or to be red-eyed.
These men were full of youth; slicked hair was pulled right back,
and they donned their suit of armour, looking noble when they’d yack.
Men whose parents own this city, and boy they’d make it known;
their silver spoon would taste so sweet, upon an ivory throne.
But by their own admission, through hard work they would insist,
the best schools they’d all go to; though none of them be missed!
Yet they were still exclusive, scowling time and time again;
They were dangerous, were the troop, of elite-young-drunken-men.
Encroaching lively Brisbane, where a song was blaring on,
a similar class of fellows – had the same goal set upon.
They were exact in every aspect; there was nothing to denote,
except their schools just didn’t match, so they were at each other’s throats.
A long, hot-blooded rivalry; an ancient feud to be inspired,
which the grandsons of whom involved, have now long since expired.
Yet when the men who repped their purple, learnt of who was drawing near,
they cracked some jokes while blotto – so now gleaming was the spear.
They had hardly ever crossed – many paths amongst their packs,
yet their ladies were involved – so they were ought to pay the tax.
These green men, and these purple; who hardly spoke a word,
brought their fair dames with them, bracing for what must occur.
Now my readers can imagine, about these huge exchange of blows;
How many blokes were there involved? I reckon God now only knows.
The timebomb was quick-ticking, as this fight would take a dive,
bystanders radiated fear; Uranium two-three-five.
This battle was so fierce, you could compare it to the Somme;
a nightlife chaplain spewed, just from merely looking on!
The grotty sight – a horror – a green and purple mess.
Old boys fought so dirty; staining their darling’s dress.
The screams were so apparent, that these men were in a war,
the crowd of people were too thick; being hit when glass would soar.
On the ground, a scarlet glitter; that smelt too much of metal.
Partners in trepidation – just praying for it to settle!
And on the cold wet road, laid a street now strewn with dead,
there was nothing brave about such cowards, punching to the head.
The winner was drawing near – the agitator of the greens –
wiped the blood, from off his lip, as if in an action scene.
But as he gazed upon his babe; who stood paralysed with fear,
who watched a glass meet his skull, thus ending his career.
Suppose the war was over, when purple men picked up their mates,
their leaders’ wounds were fatal – was this worth the pearly gates?
That sea of green and purple, had started to trickle out;
As one-by-one – they all saw black – thus ending their little bout.
When their mothers were informed, of the horrors that transgressed –
they pointed blame at these men’s dads; a trait both sides possessed!
Yet near Brisbane’s beating heart, where there’s music blaring on:
Are the graves of two foundations, and the war that neither won.
They were exact in every way; the epitome of higher class,
but near Brisbane’s beating heart, is where their girlfriends never pass.
If you listen very closely, on that eerie city street.
You may hear the old boys chanting, with war-cries and stomping feet.
The sounds of bellowed laughter, arm in arm with one another,
spirits of purple and green, have found their ghostly brother.
When young students walk that road, after a tiring day at school,
they feel a chill – creep down their spine; their faces wan and cool.
Boys will scatter from that street, with the haunted thoughts of ‘them’,
but these immortal phantoms can only sing, as elite young-drunken-men.
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