I’ve never run with you hard-men,
Southern paddlers of great renown.
But I’ve heard Mirage pilots from far and wide
Wet their pants when you’re in town.
Is it the hard-chined, rudderless kayaks
Or the massive bulge of socks
That fill the gap where normal blokes
Stand unadorned in their jocks.
Or the tales of daring exploits
In wild and stormy seas
Of groped whales, overpowered sails
And naked dancing amongst the trees.
Or shooting jagged gauntlets
Riding 5-metre barreling waves
And snapping off perfect one-hand rolls
in pitch black Beecroft sea caves.
When you’re flexing in your g-strings
And women swoon in ecstasy
Or oiled and tanned you slide
into your spandex PFDs…
Do you think of us mere mortals
Struggling through Sydney’s waterways
Seeking cafes with perfect lattes
To brighten up our dreary days?
Are you mighty water-gods and legends
From the shores of the mystical south?
Or just middle-aged public servants
Who love to shoot off at the mouth?
Coffee Cruisers rule!!!