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Who will speak up for a hospitality industry

buried deep in the place called Apollo Bay, Victoria

vibrant hard workers serving the Great Ocean Road 

it staggered crashed and died 

the day Asian tourists swiftly obediently evaporated

amid gleeful rants, deeply held filthy racist slurs 

nobody bans crazy cruisers sliming along the globe

lobster (cray fishing) gamers play it well

a harbour resting on seams of rock, streams of funds

not many hide behind that co-op; that corny facade

with Melbourne yachties wisely nodding 

“mothers’” empty beach, the cold wind howling

a whale watching platform– but no suicidal mothers 

with grey fat shiny calves swim by; none ever will 

a powerful dirty red tugboat grunts thru the Otways

red baulk waiting to suck sand from the entrance 

black pipes laid in lines ready to rewrite the map

Australia’s coastline swallows the rolling sand dunes

laid by the winds and pirates of the Southern Seas 

where a tiny bridge once stood up against the sky

really we don’t care so much any more, 

the virus carves out our future, sputtering our lungs

worried Daniel Andrews speaks croaks a few lines 

two or three shop keepers battle on, feeding us 

paying bitter dues without flinching

COLAC’s council lies, says we threaten their lives

failing us most miserably, shamefully, blatantly