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