I still think of you Ned,
when the fog wraps its fingers around the moon
and the Barber cuts down the valley.
Greymouth to Dobson, three-up on a 50,
and stolen cat-boxes for helmets.
The cops weren’t amused; we were legless with laughter,
got kicked up the arse and sent on our way.
Things sure were different then.
And I think of you Ned,
on a slow Sunday night
with the wreck of the weekend behind me,
and work to look forward to.
Sunday Horrors on telly – giant ants eating Yanks –
and the usual crew over to watch it.
You’d peed in my bath so I Black Flagged your beer
and the boys joked and laughed as you sculled it.
Life sure was different then.
Yeah, I think of you Ned,
when the westerly blows
and the storms settle in,
and the grey days go on forever.
You snorted tequila to wash down the worm
found green in the bush after DOC dropped 1080
smoked it with Muzza and then did datura
Max-Factored the chemist – the judge didn’t laugh –