The Price of Eggs

Whaaamp....... wwaahh._____________________.


cars in the streets

half a world away

fly flags & scarves

scream warcries & play techno music

doof doof doof doof doof doof doof doof

riots for victory

death march for defeat



at the brunswick st fish & chippery

the short-order-cook

smiles a sly turkish grin

downplays their chances



I say:- "I don't care who wins!

Australia's not even in it

& the whole country's gone mad

over a game!"



the streets are awash with revellers

because a scandinavian team

just knocked out a south american heavyweight


behind me the door swings open

admitting a busker with a pocketful of silver

he doesn't give a fuck about the world cup

just came in to escape the madness

threatening to consume ethnic melbourne



I go back to reading yesterday's paper

behind me the door swings open again

& I say:-

"david beckham's a pussy!"

"SHUT YOUR FUCKEN MOUTH!"

I swivel toward the challenge

insanity contorts the blue & white

war-painted face of the argentine fanatic

his cronies glare menacingly

"If you say one more word,


I'll tear your english fucken head off,


you white cunt."

the fish burger goes dry in my mouth

I can't swallow let alone fight

what have I said?

how did I get into this situation?

"That's it step outside,


you white aussie bag of shit.


I'm gonna kill you!"

his australian accent puts hypocrisy to the words

the busker growls from the corner

the cook brandishes a broom

the three argentines stand shouting in the street



across the planet

russians are rioting & killing each other

french poets are slashing their wrists

italians & croatians are brawling in parks

witch-doctors in cameroon are in hiding

in corea the government is pleased

millions of american dollars go to each player

hyundais all round



4 billion televisions broadcast live

failing to mention that the world cup

is suspended when the world goes to war



newspaper editors rub their hands in greed

awaiting the first assassination



in lygon st youths cry for blood

while older men smile

& remember days of glory for the azzurri



in sydney road car horns get jammed

echoes pervade the brunswick night

as every dogs barks

for another turkish victory



in brunswick st old fitzroy

I wipe my mouth on a white flag napkin

& decide to keep quiet about the brissie lions

the length of dole-queues

& the price of eggs in argentina