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The Club

By Gary Blinco


There’s a plume of dust down an old bush lane,
As the vans go creeping past,
Coromals all, for we trust the name,
Of the ones that are built to last.

They hit the road any time of year,
To the hills, or beach, or scrub,
Where there might be sun and there will be beer,
For this lot are a roving pub.

And the leader rules with an iron fist,
This diverse, motley crew,
Even late at night when he’s three parts pissed,
(For he likes to have a few).

But if it gets too much every now and then,
At helm of this ship of fun,
He can hand the wheel to the trusty Ben,
Who will lead ‘till the job is done.

There are girls with zeal, and men of steel,
Who go where the brave but go,
And the one they watch is Treasurer Weal,
He’s the bloke who holds the dough.

And the records are kept by a gal named Sue,
We’re amazed at the shots she took,
And Elizabeth, as we all soon knew,
Is a walking history book.

Now the rally man is a bloke called Bruce,
And he likes to imbibe a few,
In the cold or heat, he needs no excuse,
But we’ve never seen him spew.

So if you look at the maps of this land and dream,
Of the endless roads and scrub,
Take the plunge, act now, come and join the team,
Of the Coromal Caravan Club.