A SUCKY LITTLE TOWN CALLED BUNBURY
There wasn’t much going on in the bar.
A few death metal bands setting up,
Playing a few songs,
and then taking down their equipment.
It wasn’t really my scene,
Circle pits and ear-bleeding music.
So I went outside and wandered down the street,
In search of some late night food.
I was always hungry in those days.
I walked along the sidewalks of Bunbury,
Passing groups of young, Aussie punk scenesters.
“hey, a fuckin’ communist!” one girl shouted,
As she passed me by.
I wondered what the hell,
Then remembered I was wearing my Vietnam shirt,
Red with a bright yellow star in the middle.
Some people didn’t get out that much.
I walked further and a few guys yelled something at me.
I nodded and raised my eyebrows and said, “sure.”
A few feet away one turned and said,
“oi, ya fuck! Ya don’t have to be antisocial!”
I ducked into a Chinese place,
Ordered a massive take away container of fried rice,
Drowning it in soy sauce
and eating it along the walk back.
Back in the bar, the bands were still at it,
And kids walked around booted each other in the ass,
Or pretended to punch each other in the face.
I looked around, chewed some more rice and thought,
“well, this is Bunbury. Hmm. This place really sucks.”