Back before the curries came,
We knew just what was right –
Meat pies, beer by midday,
And brawls on Friday night.
A country built on “fair go,”
Well, only for a few;
If your last name wasn’t Smith
There wasn’t much to do.
The pubs were full of wisdom,
So long as you were male;
A woman’s place was “seen, not heard,”
Their dreams small, and pale.
We worshipped sand and beaches,
Bronzed bodies baking in the sun,
Coconut oil slicked on thick,
Thinking damage couldn’t be done.
With zinc on noses, boards in hand,
We rode the waves of chance,
Years later finding evidence
Written on our skin’s expanse.
Family dearly cherished –
Patriarchy enforced, of course –
Dad at the table head,
Mum silent, or face the force.
And let’s not skip the dinner plate:
A slab of gristly, greying meat,
With carrots boiled to yellow mush,
Potatoes cold, and peas – defeat.
Saturday, we gathered round
With pie in hand – just barely beef –
Drowned in sauce to hide the taste,
A schooner near for quick relief.
We cheered our footy heroes,
Cricketers in white,
Hoping one day we’d escape
A future so airtight.
Behind closed doors the silence roared,
Broken by a slap or shout,
Bruises covered, shame ignored –
No questions asked, no helping out.
We loved a Holy Christmas,
And maybe Easter too;
That was the sum of Christian love,
The rest – not meant for you.
Some knew their place before us,
Blackfellas kept outside;
Spoken of in whispers,
Or with a joke that stung with pride.
Social outcasts, targets –
Of casual, biting scorn;
Their history not in textbooks,
Their hope, too often torn.
We toasted mateship loudly
While side-eyeing “the crowd”;
If you looked or prayed or loved
Differently – you weren’t allowed.
Progress meant a footy win,
And dressing up for race day,
Culture was a six-pack,
And not much else to say.
Policy set in stone,
Fear dressed up as pride;
We locked the doors, drew the blinds,
And drank the world outside.
Ah yes, the good old days,
Of legend, myth, and cheer –
Until you scratch the surface,
And find what’s buried here.
