SIXTY HOURS
Owing to the referendum the hotels will have been closed 60
continuous hours by 8 a.m. to-morrow, having shut at 9 p.m. on Friday.
In ancient days the Spartans met
The shock of battle unafraid ;
They took the trident and the net
As weapons of the warrior's trade.
The gladiators, too, who died
Within the walls of pagan Rome
A brave farewell to Caesar cried
Before the steel was driven home.
But tales of Greece and ancient Troy,
And other places of the earth,
Our patriotic palates cloy
Compared with dry and parching Perth ;
And even on Gallipoli,
Where spat the Maxims' murd'rous showers.
They did not face that dread decree
Sixty beerless, cheerless hours !
The fiat's flung ; the pubs are closed ;
The pumps are rusting in the bars ;
Never so long has perk reposed
Amongst concomitant cigars.
We've had our Christmas Saturday,
But on the Monday morn at six
The barman came our throats to spray
With legal, well-assorted shicks.
Good Friday we have suffered, too,
But Saturday came in between
The Sabbath, when but very few
I Could put a pint their lips between,
But he who now would take a beer
Must face constabulary glow'rs,
Or suffer with a soul sincere--
Sixty thirsty, curse-ty hours !
To-day and yesterday as well
The corkscrew lay upon the shelf.
While where the tannic tea they sell
There ran the sound of busy delf.
While Berry, Bell, and Epstein snared
The tray, the tanner, and the bob,
Bill Grenike and Ryan stared
Through keyholes at the maltless mob.
Eftsoons a shickster wandered in
To moist a corner of his clay,
Where soldiers sit with cousin-kin.
And tea-and-cake musicians play,
But Pekoe can't the pint replace,
And as his soul from coffee cowers
They see reflected in his face
The anguish of these sixty hours !
O men who make our liquor laws.
Uncaring for the why and when.
Why do you place impious paws
Upon the rights of fellow-men ?
The rack and thumb-screw long ago
Were banished for the common good.
Yet here a cruelty you show
As when the stocks in public stood.
The martyr of the olden time
Died singing Sankey at the stake.
But who shall write a ringing rhyme
To suffrers who to-morrow wake ?
Till nine shall strike to-morrow morn,
When Hebe opes her beery bow'rs,
Sahara-thirsty and forlorn
You'll pass the potless, spotless hours.
--DRYBLOWER.
Notes
From the West Australian Newspaper The Sunday Times 29 Oct 1916 p. 4.
Top