Crank it up in Batemans Bay tonight,
Where neon hums and engines bite.
Greazers slick with oil and pride,
Pompadours stacked to scrape the sky.

Rockabilly gals in polka-dot swing,
Red lips sharper than a guitar string.
They stomp and spin in leopard shoes,
Shakin’ the dust off small-town blues.

Hotrods rumble, low and loud,
Chrome so bright it blinds the crowd.
A candy-apple Chevrolet Bel Air rolls on through,
Like it’s got a date with ‘52.

Crank it up till the windows shake,
Till the seagulls dance on the lake.
In Batemans Bay, when night’s alive—
The fifties never really died.

Cranky ’26