The Drynie Boys

It's 2:30 AM, and the Drynie Boys are in play,
Harvesting cane that won't see the next day.
With skill and might, they cut through the night,
Harvester and truck in sync, a seamless sight.

Working in harmony beneath the sun’s fierce heat,
Their work’s never over until the last bin's beat.
Through golden seas of towering sugar cane,
They cut, they toil, through grease, sweat and strain.

Dan, the main man, with his sharp blades,
Guides the harvester across the glades.
With spirits high and heart so true,
He faces each drill, being true blue.

"That’s no dog!" yells Spikey, "another tyre’s blown!"
A hiss louder than any snake, a burst hose, air is flowing.
Though bins may tumble, and steel ropes fray,
The Drynie Boys do not grumble, it’s just another day.


Traversing the lands from farms to sidings,
It could be Burkes, The mill or Colevale two, four and five.
Good or bad, we can always hear Darren bellow,
"Burkes is the only true siding for this fellow."

From the moon’s silver glow to the sun's golden set,
No time for a wager, no time for regret.
"Flamin' oath," they cry, as the engines roar,
Their work is legend, a tale to explore.

It’s 2024, and the crew’s not the same,
Shaun wields a spanner, mastering the game.
Over the two-way, his voice rings clear,
"Grease up, boys—no rest for us here!"

Darren, steady, with bins in line,
Pushing and pulling till all align.
JD crunches numbers, urging them on,
"Another twenty bins boys before the day is done!"

Bear and Glen stand ready and steady,
Lifting spirits, calming the crew.
When one man falters, they’ll take the strain,
Ensuring the Drynie Boys do not drain.

As they prepare for the next day, the fields ignite, a fiery blaze,
Vast green lands of sugar sticks, cast in an amber haze.
The water cart bounces through the break, quelling stray flames,
As fast as they roar, they fade—dawn’s work now remains.

When night settles and work is done,
The Drynie Boys reflect on battles won.
Fields once lush with sugar cane now bare,
Tales of grease and grit linger in the air.

Then comes the rain, with its pitter-patter tune,
Wheels spin in the mud, the mill halts too soon.
As rivers swell, the season’s end draws near,
But Christmas beckons, so does another year.

So here's to the Drynie haulers, steadfast and true,
Spinning yarns of harvests old and new.
In the heart of the Burdekin, where legends are spun,
The Drynie Boys have had a ripper run.