Jun '25 • Our Home
The boys they broke in
Hey beautiful souls, I had been working on this poem for a while after being inspired last year at a retreat with some Australian Bush poetry. It was requested that I post it here so people can read it
They rounded up the scrubby boys
with scabs across their knees,
The ones who’d swing from ironbarks
and wrestle in the breeze.
The type who’d spit to test the wind
and race the dogs for fun,
Who’d chase a footy through the dust
until the setting sun.
They rounded up their laughter,
their dirt, their skin and bone,
And told ‘em to behave themselves
stop bein’ wild, get grown.
“Sit still,” they said. “Speak proper now.
Don’t fight, and don’t ask why.”
Then called it “discipline” the day
they made a dreamer cry.
They took ‘em from the paddocks,
from the gullies, from the creeks.
They wiped away their stories
when they dared to try and speak.
They swapped their songs for silence,
their battles for a desk,
And taught ‘em how to tuck it in
and keep it all suppressed.
They gave ‘em medals just for manners,
shamed ‘em outta rage,
Told ‘em how a man should act
at every bloody age.
“Don’t cry, don’t moan, just work it out,
and don’t you dare complain.”
And when they broke, they called it weak
like they weren’t taught the pain.
Some found their way to bourbon,
some got lost in town,
Some wore a suit and played the part,
but never let it down.
Some took to blaming women,
some just blamed their dads,
Some raised their boys the same old way
and wondered why they’re sad.
But listen close on cold spring nights,
out past the edge of light
You’ll hear ‘em in the timber,
those boys who once took flight.
Still swingin’ sticks at shadows,
still howlin’ at the moon,
Still barefoot in the red dirt,
still whistlin’ their tune.
They never really left, ya know
they’re buried in our skin.
The part of us that never fit,
the bit we locked within.
And maybe if we’re lucky,
and quiet when we stand,
We’ll hear them runnin’ home again
with fire in their hands.
Jr McGregor
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The boys they broke in
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