Down By Mavers Hill
So down by Mavers Hill
There’s a backward kind of place.
A tiny forgotten blemish
Upon Melbourne’s glamorous face.
It’s a quaint little pub
Serviced by a single bloke.
And its people are the used up,
The down-on-their-luck kind of folk.
Taking a seat at the bar
Is a man who hopes this joint,
Will wrench him from his misery,
Though it never ceases to disappoint.
He dreams it will gift him another shot
At that insurance-vending game,
Which left him devoid of his children
And with an eighty grand debt to his name.
He comes here in hope it will change things,
But deep down he knows it never will.
So he takes a seat at the bar,
And hands over another bill...
Taking aim at a few trebles
Upon a dartboard across the room,
Is a footballer who’d made it,
Before his knee brought about his doom.
At merely twenty-four what has he now
But the memories of his glory days?
So he languishes around this deadbeat bar,
Recalling his coach’s old plays.
And he believes this place will change things,
Set them right, though it never will.
He’s just a torn-apart, burnt out star
Clinging on to those treasured days still.
These men are far from a few
Who call this rotten pub home,
Who’ve lost it all and wasted away
Over frothy lagers and spilt foam.
Because they come here in hope it will change things,
But deep down they know it never will.
Though they find a rare bizarre solace
In the pub down by Mavers Hill...
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