The Fightin' Johns Poem by Colleen OGrady

The Fighting Johns that's what they were so-called
In the Murchison region the population they appalled
For the population fled when a stoush was on
And the barfly and the bum would yell ‘I'm gone! '

Dad often told these tales of the past
Watching these two fighters was a real blast
There would be bloodied noses and lacerations
And followed at times with jail incarcerations

Down to the Magnet the Johns would travel
The stage was set as they galloped over gravel
Or decision stay at home in the pubs of Cue
But no matter where, a fight would ensue

Sometimes it was further north up in Meeka
Where Dad as a drover was a frequent visitor
And Tuckanurra was listed also for a swill
Thus out these doors the fighters would spill

But the best fight of all Dad would often say
Was after swimming the Ashburton without any pay
A depression was responsible for a raging river
And the regular mail man had turned all a-quiver

The Fightin' Johns in Cue said they would go
And swim this flood carrying the mail so
But to their chagrin from Meeka Dad had gone
Leaving the Johns fuming thus a stoush was planned on

Fame greeted Dad when he safely returned
Beaming with all the publicity he had earned
Bragging of his picture in state's newspaper
He really did cut up a cavorting caper

The infuriated Johns rode for the town of Meeka
To put down this usurper and to roar ‘Eureka! '
But they found had Dad gone from the droving yards
Had gone riding to Cue for a game of cards

Still raging the Johns headed back south
To find this New Zealander with the big mouth
In the Club Hotel Dad was winning a pile
When in walked the Johns filled with angry bile

The bar tender yelled ‘Get out in the street!
You're not wrecking my pub with you flying feet! '
Dad's fists were flailing his honour was at stake
He was fighting the two Johns without an even break

The barfly fled and the bum hid behind a door
The regular drinkers scattered from the flying gore
Punches and whacks and whams was the noise
From these silly fighters who were no longer boys

Wearing pretty bonnets ladies scampered for home
Slamming their doors, it no place for a roam
Standing at their windows and watching the fun
And munching on orange peel cake laced with rum

Fighting Dad knew about as a matter of course
For it was he in 1942 that trained the Z Force
Unarmed combat was the exceptional thrill
And only the Cue Sarge was aware of his skill.

Good ole Sarge remained closeted in his police station
No time for him for fighter incarceration
He patiently waited as the fight raged down the street
And tumbled through the rotunda with flying fists and feet

Battered, bruised, bloodied they reached the railway station
And a piercing whistle halted the fighters in frustration
The engine let out a cloud of steam to smother the men
Who then decided that this fight had been a real gem

They shook hands and arm in arm staggered back to the pub
The Sarge wasn't needed and they headed for the tub
They were three rough bushmen tall and sun-bronzed
But honour was held when Dad fought the Fightin' Johns