Rebel Tour

We lobbed into Darwin, hot wind blowin’,

Esky packed, plans already flowin’.

Red Mullet grinnin’, “Right boys, no fear,

We’re gunna make the Territory pay for our beer.”

Matt Wright’s camp — airboats and thunder,

Rain belting down, the sort that makes you wonder.

Croc eyes shining, beers goin’ missing,

Nelson laughing, “Bloody hell, this ain’t fishing!”

Dundee Beach, Red’s dusty domain,

Side-by-sides flying through salt and rain.

Then the chopper spun up, straight off the pad,

Andy gripping tight, swearin’ like mad.

Finniss River Station, Pete led the show,

Magpie geese thicker than flies at a rodeo.

Swamp crocs smiling, the wetlands wide,

Lux setup, cold tins, pure pride.

Then Tipperary Station, last stop on the trail,

Flash compound, more class than ale.

Down to Daly Crossing for a late-arvo crack,

Lines out, no bites, “Reckon barra’s slack.”

BBQ Boat, yeah right, not today,

No BBQ, no fish, dead halfway.

Craigo kicked the motor — one magic whack,

“She’s right boys,” he yelled, “We’re headed back!”

Rain hit hard on the homeward run,

1A gate duty — no bloody fun.

Only two gates, but wet to his bones,

Red laughin’ so hard he near lost control.

Pulled up back home, trip nearly through,

Good feed, good laughs, cold tins too.

Then Big Red, one last proud manoeuvre,

Backs into a mango — window in ruins.

I stood there howlin’, beer mid-flight,

Perfect ending to a cracker night.

No fish, no shame, just NT dirt,

Legends forever — ya pack of jerks!

Craig Power