On A Suburban Corner Stood......

 

On a suburban corner stood; 

Back in a past

Of a moment in time,

An old wooden building

Called back then a Drill Hall, 

Where monthly Toy Soldiers got to play,

Transported to a then vacant block

From a neighbouring suburb.

 

All work to get it here; 

Strictly done by volunteers, 

And with the passing of the years,

Wooden slats on outside walls, 

Could urgently do

With a lick of paint.

Would be a volunteer’s job

When on roster for the coming month.

 

Above the entrance door; 

It said for all to see

R.S.L. of the suburb, 

Where members, mates and visitors too; 

Cordially invited in, 

But don’t forget to sign, 

The Visitor’s

Or our Member’s book.

 

Back in them ‘good old days’

There was nothing really flash

About this old place.

Where high on walls

Memorials to fallen local comrades

Had taken their pride of place.

Past Presidents; 

And all the other office bearing crews, 

​Their names in gold leaf inscribed

Up there on lacquered boards.

 

A reminder; 

Each of the time, 

When they all did their bit

Helping mates remember

The times they served,

Making their country proud.

Scattered,

On walls in no particular order,

Or significance,

Or service structure,

A picture here,

A picture there,

One a Navy Frigate

Which did its time sailing the Korean seas.

A Wirraway proudly flying, 

Up, up and away in the clouds.

 

 Uniformed Diggers

From the local battalion

Proudly to attention stood in the pictures took, 

As Elizabeth E.R.

Also had her pride of place

Her photo central to the scheme of things.

​

Built as an afterthought; 

Local RSL’s catering kitchen, 

Where snacks,

And pies, 

And sangers too,

Dispensed to a hungry horde.

And next to the galley

Was where you found the dunnies.

Out front

Of Old Drill hall,

A gravely patch of ground,

Jus the place to park

Your Holden Ute or Falcon G400.

 

Where even old flagpole; 

Had its pride of place

And what's more, 

That on most days

It stood swaying back and forth,

As ropes to the mast head tightened, 

Stopping Union Jacks, 

And White Ensigns, 

Bending with a force in the breeze.

 

Times of not that long ago

When our local R.S.L.

Personally meant much more.

But moment in time has passed,

And with time over and done,

For there on same suburban corner, 

Old building now replaced

With a monolith, 

Of three floors high, 

And room for more expansion.

 

This monstrosity has now grown

With tentacles devouring; 

Family homes in close proximity,

And for what you may ask? 

The answer simply; 

​And without refinement given

More and more car parks, 

Of course

For the pokie playing set.

 

So I dare! 

Ask the very question,

Why have some RSL Clubs become

Not what I believe, 

They were originally intended for,

As social clubs of a district. 

Now, with their money-making machines;

And in their haste

To get the public through their doors, 

And a hold onto their patron’s purses,

By offering another chook raffle,

A car,

A discounted birthday present, 

So someone can strike it rich.

 

Now in special rooms;

​Brightly lit machines, 

Row upon row, 

In format blending

Almost as far as the eye can see, 

Gobbling up the dollars.

 

My father fought; 

And brother Harry too,

Both olde sailor men

As I turned out to be,

My Granddad from my mother’s side; 

Fought the Hun! 

In the fields of Flanders,

 

During what they called

“The Great War!”

 

Its men like me dad

And Uncle Harry

Along with Pop Francis too,

And furthermore

My brother Kenn and I,

Did our time in ‘Nam,

But it’s those who went before; 

I believe

Would turn in their collective graves, 

At the situation of today, 

Where once stood proud

An old Drill hall, 

Now replaced by opulence; 

And those who greedily seek

The all mighty dollar.

 

I know I tell a story; 

From a different point of view, 

‘Cause out there

In the larger scheme of things,

A mate of mine, 

In fact he is a 'Ginger Beer Digger,' 

Who tirelessly helps to keep the tradition, 

Alive and well, 

“Cause his mates and he, 

Meet first Sunday of the month, 

At his local memorial hall, 

10.00am sharp is the call

At what some would describe, 

The Big Old Barn on the corner.

 

 

Still clad in existing wooden planks, 

A tin roof for a hat,

You know it’s served the district well, 

For over fifty years.

Where out front

Two flagpoles stand proudly, 

As flag bearers for the arch,

With names inscribed

Memorial for the fallen locals, 

And there accompanying for prosperity, 

A pyramid shaped sand stone monument,

With bronze plaques adorned, 

Honouring those who served

In all the different wars.

​

So on a suburban corner

An old wooden building stood….

 

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