At night the boys go hunting buses,
Tight-lipped eyes
Loaded with anger,
Gun-barrel arms
Tattoed at the shoulder
And quarry-stone cocked in their hands.

The finger-high boys
Of corner-store cool,
Snarling boys,
Drinking the dark and unloved spaces,
The public places,
Where they have ****** both grog and girl.

They've flogged the stolen cars for fun
In third gear up Spit Hill
And disappeared in the Wallaby Grass
As the sirens wail
And the cars burn.

Footpath foul round cul-de-sacs
These branded boys
Have made their name,
And window panes
Have felt their bitter
Forceful curse.

And tonight the boys are hunting buses,
In tobacco-black suburban hollows
They're taking aim
And will sleep
Smiling
Once the **** is made.