Brian Kelly poem

Posted on Friday, 4 May, 2012 by [email protected]

THE GOOD OLD DAYS
By Brian Kelly

Saturday morning they’d assemble, a “Show Day” it would resemble,
When from all around the district they would make their way to town.
Their local town they’d shop in, most to the pub would drop in,
And in a friendly get together, a few glasses they would down.

I can see them in their places, all those old familiar faces,
As I slip back through the ages and those happy days recall.
There’s “old Bill” has pipe aglowing, his philosophy aflowing,
And Benny in some back room and “Tomsie” in his stall.

Athol, Tom and Walter, their routine would seldom alter,
For they’d slowly sip their “sevens” while to each other they’d confide.
And if someone whose thirst was hearty, should somehow join the party,
You’d see him sneak around the corner and down a schooner on the side.

And some would get quite vocal, down there at the local,
And all the town would hear them when Mick and Billy did “hold forth”.
Though some would try to “shush” them, there was no way you could “hush” them,
And I’m sure they’d hear them down at Toogong when the wind blew from the north.

Our limited resources, we would try to build up on the horses,
So we’d slip around the corner for a bob each way S.P.
And if we got a winner, we might be late for dinner,
But if we got a couple, we might be late for tea.

There was Ike and Snow and Breezy, throughout the day they’d take it easy,
But in the evening session to town they’d really go.
Then with movements most gymnastic, they would “trip the light fantastic”
And treat the other drinkers to a really good floor show.

Others would be singing, the rafters would be ringing,
They thought they were “Carusos” with voices oh so high.
While some with voices rusty, would try to imitate Slim Dusty,
Though some were rather pleasant, some were enough to make you cry.

When not dancing and not singing, their arms they would be swinging,
And acting like contestants in Sharman’s travelling show.
There were winners, there were losers, there were cuts and there were bruises,
But they didn’t seem to worry, they just loved to have a go.

There was young “Whopper” (and his Poppa), they set upon the copper,
When he came in to remove them and they refused to go.
It was lively while it lasted, “cop that you provost bastard”,
Was Whopper heard to mutter as they tumbled to and fro.

“Porridge” loved to box them, but he struck a snag in Moxham,
When he took him to the trucking yards his fighting skills to show.
He could handle him he reckoned, but he once again ran second,
But that was in the good old days some thirty years ago.

There were no clubs for us on Sunday, but we didn’t wait ‘till Monday,
For there was bound to be a session where you could get your fill.
And we had our ways of knowing, we knew the beer would be flowing,
When “Mostie” came from Gregra and the “tykes” came from the hill.

To the dances now they’re going with their cans and bottles showing,
Not planted in some doorway as they were in days of yore.
And to drink them now you’re able, whilst seated at a table,
As they watch the graceful couples gliding ’round the floor.