Well, April was fucken bullshit.
The land’s useless, even the lilacs barely grow,
The missus won’t put out, which maybe explains
The mention of “dull roots”.
Winter was alright, y’know
We even got some snow,
And some spuds to boot. You beauty.
Summer was hot as balls, then a storm came over the Tasman
And of course it pissed down; we stopped on Bourke St Mall
Til it blew over, then moseyed down to the Fitzroy Gardens,
With a slab, and pissed about for a bit.
Some shit in German.
Um. Anyway. So when we were little tackers,
Me dad’s mate Archie Duke took us out on a billy cart.
I was shit scared. He said, Marie
Harden the fuck up. And hold on tight.
It was more fun up at Buller, tbh. Anyway,
I crack one out and head up to Byron for the winter.

What’s this growing all over
The random shit in the shed? Jesus,
I got no fucken idea–all I see
Are some smashed up old pictures going yellow in the sun.
It’s still stinkin’ hot and there’s no shade:
The gum trees are no use, and the cricket’s finished early
Because the fucken Poms are hopeless. Only
There’s shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock)
I’m not a fucken rock spider,
I just want to make you some some shadow puppets
And then throw dirt in your face. Sucked in!
Some more shit in German.
Do we even have hyacinths in Oz?
They call ME the Wattle Girl
—Because when I go out, late, to Chasers
Even if you’re coming on like a freight train
I’m too pissed to speak, and it’s like
What’ll she do next? I dunno anything.
I just stare into the lasers.
I don’t even know what fucken language that is.

Down the pub, Mrs Soso
Is back on the gak,
Always sniffing and shit, y’know
While she does tarot for shrapnel.
She dealt me a card, a drowned sailor, with pearls for eyes
(Why pearls? Fucked if I know)
And then a sheila, and a wheel, and
Honestly I’d stopped paying attention
But then the daft old coot grabbed me,
Stared me right in the eye,
Sniffed, and shouted “Fear death by water!”
Is she talking about Harold Holt?

London,
Cunt of a place, if we’re honest.
A whole bunch of people on London Bridge,
Are they actually dead? Or are they just Poms?
Hard to tell the difference, really:
Either way they stare at their feet and look miserable.
They headed up King William Street as the clock struck nine.
Wait, surely the pubs aren’t closing already?
Then I spotted an old mate and stopped him: “Stetson!
Oi, Stetto! Remember me from Mylae?
Had any joy out of the stiff you buried in the yard?
Ya fucken mad cunt! Who plants a corpse??
Nah, you’re alright mate, I love ya.
Just keep the dog inside
Or he’ll dig the bloody thing up again!
You! Dickhead! I mean c’mon
You’re the one reading this shit!”