Three men strode down Flinders Street,
Their steps in time, their silence neat.
The city hummed, the trams rolled by,
As clouds hung low in Melbourne’s sky.
The middle bore a light-strewn beard,
A gentler face, composed, revered.
Each side, his mates were cleanly bare—
No bristle marked their chins with care.
A curious sight in modern age,
Where stubble speaks of style and stage.
Yet here they walked, a quiet band,
As if from some more tailored land.
No phones in hand, no hurried pace,
Just shadows shifting into place.
And Flinders watched, with windows wide,
As three men crossed from time to tide.
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