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Wynnum High and Intermediate School • Page 75
              Raymond McMahon, Trevor Robinson and Peter Weir are our best
           cricketers, while David Reid, Barry Hambrook and Randall Vines are
           good tennis players.
              We have several Rugby League football players, David Reid, Ian
           Wheeler, Graeme Grimsey, Allen Beutel and Peter Weir all helping to
           win premierships or being narrowly beaten.
              Trevor Robinson, Raymond McMahon and Robert Winson helped to
           win the soccer pennant.
              Our Form captains are Dorothy Donald and Barry Hambrook.

                         Ode to the Modern Epicurean
                            The thriving adolescent,
                              Is he of whom I write.
                            His drinks are effervescent,
                              His taste in clothes is bright.
                            He likes to go a-jiving,
                              To barbecues and dances,
                            In his father’s car a-driving—
                              His chances it enhances.
                            He listens to the radio,
                              And turns it way up loud.
                            He’s sure to yell, “O Daddio!”
                              At the pictures with his crowd.
                            But otherwise, he could be
                              A normal, wholesome chap.
                            Who does his schoolwork grudgingly,
                              And stays friends—with his Pap.
                                                    TYPICAL FIFTH-FORM IDIOT.

                                 Death of a King
                     He stands on the hilltop, a lonely king,
                     Surveying his worldly wealth.
                     A glorious sunset, the mountains tinge.
                     His mate now is hunting in stealth.
                     Oh lion ! Oh lion ! Flee for I fear
                     You soon will grovel in dust.
                     I see the bold hunter, I see him quite near.
                     Oh, flee proud lion; yes, flee you must.
                      But the love of his sunset, and prowling mate
                      Had worn a hole in his heart,
                     And he whirled round, snarling, to face his fate
                     Be it life or the death-dealing-dart.
                     A sabre set in his mane he lies,
                     A feast for the vultures greed.
                     His mate beside him mournfully sighs.
                     She’ll never forgive man this deed.
                                                        DAVID BETTS FORM 1A.
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