Song of the Seagull

Twilight-time, the MCG,

seagulls now are flying free,

as old men clean the littered stands,

the seagulls spy the fertile land,

the hordes have left in trams and trains,

only corporate men remain,

and while they sip their cold champagne

the seagulls sing in joyful strains:

“When you leave the footy ground,

we fly in from coastal towns,

what you have lost, we have found,

listen to our screeching sound!

now don’t complain, or ask us why;

this land is ours ’cos we can fly,

possessing not a shred of skill

we feast until we’ve had our fill,

then once again we’re homeward bound,

returning where the breakers pound.”