Just back late in the last century,
dangerous high risk duty for the TRG
assigned an outpost too far bound,
tasked to defend contested low ground,
were ordered the brave one hundred.

Hamstrung by orders command,
not to seek and patrol the land,
lest they frighten those who might,
attack under the cover of night,
so waited the brave one hundred.

Bricks and rocks from on high,
the TRG lines in the target eye,
Police brothers shoulder to shoulder,
shields held tight against the boulders,
fought the brave one hundred.

Like fireflies in the darkness of night,
the Molotov cocktails burned so bright,
Fires on the hard ground blazing,
haze on the ground slowly clearing,
boded ill for the brave one hundred.

Charge after charge they made,
Driving the foe back time and again,
their black batons swinging so bold,
just like the armoured knights of old,
jousted the brave one hundred.

Watched as their brothers struck,
with broken bones and out of luck,
until no longer could they stand,
were carried to the outpost command,
decimated the brave one hundred.

Fought until they stood supreme,
under the moon's faint gleam,
a pitched battle fought so heroic,
victorious against the odds so stoic,
at great cost to the brave one hundred.

By

Bryan Michael Doyle

- The Suburban Bloke -

Used with Special Permission of the Author
Copyright © 18 October 2001 - All Rights Reserved
and may not be duplicated without permission

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