Dimboolas

Who are these doofing savants screaming infantile words?

Who spurt carburettor insults, calamities in thumping cars,

And they, endangered ones, multiply with predatory ease,

By molesting each other’s egos with curt and baggy sneers,

Who are these Vale boys with their manufacturer’s names?

Them, like midnight runners hooning around possibility mile,

Imitating the Mount Panoramas, emboldened by easy years,

For in between the destroyed gears, the automatic sludge,

Their machismo a skin graft held together by alcohol,

Their testosterone impulses pawned by silly-sorry reportage.

Behind the eyes inhabits minds, disabled by a feral freeze,

Insulting bugs behind their mouths that spew forth keen abuse,

But when reasoning arrives, when it comes to common sense,

A coliseum of ill direction manages to mess things up anyway.

At times the reasonable ones hold back their insurgent stares,

For the passing elderly bird, or the ill kid in strolling callipers,

Thinking of the twenty seconds to a tree by reckless intervals,

Or the blue caps in waiting congress, who blitz them unsurprised.

Hoon boys hug their syringed tyres for an orc-infected mist,

Twin-cam wheelie boys in snap shot burnouts making weather,

At the blind side of an empty servo, expecting a totalled recall,

Checking out the figure eights burned into tyre-black bitumen,

Bogan residents curious to decipher their uncomplicated lives,

The local serfs, the petrol masterminds, the stupendous of them all,

Great goons of germinals flossing forth between the violent edge,

Testing the authors of mindful civility, searching for hypocrisy,

In the undistinguished dimboola, burned into suburban Saturdays.