Murphyscreek for the Dragons...after wearing his 1977 Amco flared jeans to the ground in honour of classic midweek comps.
739 words between the stars (including an apology)
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The Rime Of The Modern Dragoner
When nights are long and days are cold,
And all the Saints fans,
Young and old,
Gather at Jubilee to cheer,
Watch the footy and have a beer.
Or two or three or four or more,
Chanting louder,
When we score,
But then we jeer and jeer and jeer,
All other teams from far and near.
Like the Broncos from the barmy north,
When we play there,
We all go forth,
To fill Lang Park with red and white,
And most the time we win that fight.
Across the land this tale repeats,
We flood all grounds,
And fill their seats,
For other supporters it cant be fun,
To be outnumbered two to one.
But now this story goes astray,
It all went wrong,
One winters day,
For the origin of this tragic joust,
We point the finger at Peter Proust.
He strolled about our grounds one day,
Admiring the crowd,
And skilful play,
Then all of a sudden there came a loud splat,
As upon his head a bird had shat.
And not just any old average bird,
That much was clear,
By the size of the turd,
He looked aloft and soaring across,
The clear blue sky was an albatross.
And now it arced in a sweeping bend,
To circle Jubilee,
For days on end,
It seemed as if that albatross,
Was there to haunt the Dragons boss.
For the very next time when Proust went out,
To inspect the grounds,
And throw some clout,
That albatross again let fly,
With perfect aim from way up high.
Prousty scowled and wiped his head,
Then swore to himself,
Hed see that bird dead,
But he knew he couldnt do it alone,
And after a think he pulled out his phone.
He rang his mate from days of old,
The one whod worn,
Olympic Gold,
An expert in bow and arrow and feather,
The Nations best archer
.Simon Fairweather.
Come here Simon Peter said,
Ive got a bird,
That should be dead.,
With your true aim the end is nigh,
For that albatross up in the sky..
So Simon did his good mate proud,
He aimed that bow,
Toward a cloud,
Then shot his arrow with a twang,
And killed the bird without a pang.
Now what an awful bloody sight,
A once proud bird,
Dropped from its flight,
As dead as dead as dead can be,
Plopped onto the field of Jubilee.
It lay on halfway a mangled mess,
And those that saw it,
Would have nightmares Id guess,
But what happened next will never make sense,
As the ghosts of past players appeared at the fence.
Then all those dead legends filed onto the ground,
Walked up to that bird,
And circled around,
They all bowed their heads as day turned to night,
Till the spirit of that bird rose up and took flight.
Then the ghosts of past players also drifted away,
Up to the moon,
As they faded away,
Apparitions that never again would be seen,
Except for that albatross looking quite mean.
And now we fast forward for seven stretched years,
To explain why Saints fans,
Are shedding mass tears,
Cos since the slaughter of that bird,
Their losing streak had become absurd.
For year after year at Jubilee,
Theres been no more cheering,
Or chants of glee,
And the grounds near empty when we play,
Since the albatross was slain that day.
The Dragon brand has become a bad joke,
A laughing stock,
And a club nearly broke,
This once fine team has just gone and passed,
Another full season positioned dead last.
The sad thing is who really cares,
If we play with Newtown,
And the Bears,
Because on game day well all still be blue,
As those second grade teams will be flogging us too.
And every time we lose a game,
Well all look skyward,
In agonised pain,
Where the ghost of that bird glides silently past,
As a few lingering flags are set at half mast.
And the Dragons ex-boss now sits in the Taj,
Drinking much liquor,
From glasses large,
He wondered how it all went so wrong,
For the faithful of Kogarah and Wollongong.
But its not hard to work it out,
Dont mess with nature,
Dont even shout,
At bird nor mammal nor spider nor bug,
For if you kill anything
you are a mug.
(With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
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-v-
