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Poem
On Friday nights a melting pot,
descends upon the pub,
truck drivers, cockies, factory hands,
and workers from the scrub,
to mingle in the many shouts,
that see their glasses fill,
who leave before they’re entertained,
by workers from the mill.

The timber boys with blackened hands,
and sawdust through their hair,
throw their cheques upon the bar,
then drink without a care,
not one of them was impolite,
the opposite in fact,
but beer became their nemesis,
and quick they would react.

So, many leave the pub at night,
with blood upon their face,
while they who nurse a swollen hand,
rest at the coppers place,
‘mine host’ is left with his regrets,
knows what he’d like to do,
he’d like to ban the lot of them,
but they spend money too.

As one drifts on another comes,
to pull out from the saw,
the circuit is a common one,
for those who work and war,
this Friday night’s a first time here,
for one who’s name is Bob,
he’d like to celebrate with us,
his first week on the job.

“Whose is the dog outside?” was heard,
Bob quickly turned his head,
“It’s mine, the only friend I’ve got,
touch Cindy and you’re dead”,
there came no argument at all,
for the night was early yet,
but I thought it best I get on home,
before the ‘hour of regret’. 

Touch Cindy, touch Cindy,
touch Cindy and you’re dead.
Touch Cindy, touch Cindy,
keeps running through my head.

It was dark and after midnight,
when I heard the siren wail,
‘Hello,’ I thought, ‘It’s on again,
who’s ‘gunna’ need some bail’,
but then a sense of distance came,
they stopped out near the hill,
not the expectation of the pub,
more likely at the mill.

I saw a glow behind the blinds,
of course there was a fire,
then more sirens stirred the air,
there must be something dire,
I’m out of bed; back in my clothes,
and driving to the mill,
there’s lights of blue and lights of red,
plus further sirens still.

A pile of ash in smoke and steam,
is all that’s left to see,
with haggard faces looking on,
one cried hysterically,
she’s a witness to the scene,
when the caravan caught fire,
‘twas then I heard that it was Bob,
who perished in that pyre.

“He was safe,” she’s screaming out,
“Then frantically he cried,
as he rushed back into the van,
‘my mates back there inside!’
with his hand clasped to the collar...
I remember what Bob said,
when he warned us at the pub,
‘Touch Cindy and you’re dead’.

Touch Cindy, touch Cindy,
keeps running through my head.
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