1. |
Chips and cigarettes
04:46
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It was dawning half to noon, Valentine’s Day,
TJ’s on his bike to get some chips and cigarettes.
He’s looking near and far with many a slow twinge,
If the boys in blue will find him they’ll cut him to the quick.
He’s living on a thread of vexed cold sweat,
Last time the cops nabbed him they thought he was someone else.
But they snarled and chewed him up, beat him to a pulp.
The firm and shapely hand of the long arm of the law.
Living on The Block with nothing but hard work
And less than the real necessities of life.
Cordially hounded by the cops with never the blinds down,
Of his misdeeds they knew nothing and could care less.
In the quiet of the path, on the way home from the shops,
The heat is on his nape, the hum and bustle of the cops.
So they give chase and TJ cycles down the hill,
Falling through time his heart misses a beat.
He’s riding on a thread of vexed cold sweat,
Last time the cops nabbed him they beat him to a pulp.
Crying fit to choke, he takes the bend too fast,
Landing on a fence, impaled through the neck.
And when the horror died away and TJ lay fighting for his life,
His mum lay beside the bed beginning to wilt.
“Say that they killed you, son, but that you made a pact.
Say that they killed you but that you were the last one.
“Hell’s only half-full, plenty of space for the boys in blue,
If they make it there that would be soon enough for me.
Hell’s only half-full, plenty of space for the boys in blue,
Say that they killed you but that you were the last one.”
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2. |
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Sitting in my lounge room going for a song,
I thought I heard a bevy of knocking at my door.
In my deepest hearts of hearts,
I knew what that swelling chorus meant.
Opening the door there were my friends,
Posies bunched up like a cabbage in the hallway.
And they said:
Let’s just go to the pub,
A healthy peal of laughter on our lips.
Let’s just go to the pub,
The late spring jacaranda and a beer.
Well met, well met, we’re as thick as thieves.
A continuous picnic in the midst of life.
Oh, word is to the blue gum, to the jasper,
And the cooktown orchid.
Making a beeline like old chestnuts,
We sang with a slight swing of the hips.
Which pub shall we go to?
Oh, lord, I thought you’d never ask!
Which pub shall we go to?
The long and short is:
Let’s just go to the pub,
A healthy peal of laughter on our lips.
Let’s just go to the pub,
The late spring jacaranda and a beer.
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3. |
Waiting for Louise
05:46
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Waiting for Louise to come by
And for my eyes to blaze with joy
When I hug her hello.
She’s a dear old friend of mine
I’ll move mountains and hem and haw
For her to be my confidante.
By my lights, she’s a tassel of delight,
A darling of fortune,
Even seabirds know her name.
Waiting for Louise
Avoir un coeur d’artichaut
Waiting for Louise
She is well-nigh here and here
Waiting for Louise
Oh, Louise, where are your deft euphonious feet?
The waitress here thinks I’m a
Loose-leaf tea man.
You’ve had so much time for me
I owe you more than
Orchards of courgettes.
I know men throw themselves in the way of your kisses.
But even though you’re spoken for
I’ll still sing you this song.
I could sit here peeling an artichoke.
I could sit here to which it may be germane.
But I’d rather just sit here and wait for Louise.
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4. |
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"The olives may now be picked
They lay waiting by the hill.”
Many a time I've said so to my child.
She's young but she's growing daily.
Father, dear father, do you not know what you ask?
If the settler on the hill sees my shadow cast,
Many an hour he will knock me all about.
He remains and he grows unruly.
Daughter, dear daughter, I know to where it is you're sent.
The olives must be picked, our livelihood sustained.
Many a time they’ve come on to our land.
They remain with no will of sharing.
Father, dear father, if you see fit.
Hebron this is not, nor is it a mountain of beasts.
I'll go to the checkpoint with my head held high.
I'm young but I'm growing daily.
One day I was looking beyond the dividing wall,
I spied the harvest with a hope for them all,
Many a time my daughter was there at work.
Oh, she's young but she's growing daily
At the age of thirteen, she was a married gal.
At the age of fourteen, a mother of a child.
At the age of sixteen, her grave it was dug.
Now I watch over her child as he is growing.
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5. |
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Weeping on a bird wire in an alleyway,
There’s an old saw in such a cliché.
Staring at your back-gate, no more a gauche intruder.
Oh, the whisper wakes. Oh, the shudder plays.
By a mighty effort of will unto the last.
Feet of brass and sand in the soul.
Running the gauntlet of a thickened face
Against whom my lot was cast, a real and silver-toned voice:
“I’ve got some friends in Footscray, and a job from Deakin U.
I must nod, make nice, and move on.”
More than a whiff of the wages of guilt.
Soon she’ll be gone, she’ll be solid gone.
Who said that leaving will clip the wings of age?
’Tis an old wine in a broken bottle.
Let the debate come down as it will.
Listen to my sense, dear, in and of itself.
It’s not only you who has irons in this fire.
Oh, why must you give me pause?
“For I’ve got some friends in Footscray,
And a job from Deakin U.
I must nod, make nice, and move on.
Oh, from Sydney, why would you want to leave?
I’ve just broken your heart, dear, don’t let me break your bank.
Oh, for your friends, you’ve always had so much time,
So much, so much the merrier.
Oh, they say, we must decide, where must we shine
And to whom is our sunshine needed?
For I’ve got some friends in Footscray, and a job from Deakin U.
I must nod, make nice, and move on.“
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6. |
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I could write tombstones of column inches and weep over my copulas
I could have a corn-tassel for a dovetail, yeah
I could fish for compliments or be at my wits’ end
But you’ll still love me just the same
I could be a loose thread that pulls out your nerves
I could staple pine nuts into everything I touch
There could be more people that have been to Moscow than I have
But you’ll still love me just the same
I don’t want to make hash of your love
But I don’t want to hold your hand
I just want to cycle home
It gets me there before the bus or train
I don’t want you to worship the hem of my cardigan
I can gladly give a good account of myself
I don’t want you to wait and long all astir with stormy waves
I don’t want you to stand on ceremony either
I just want you to be you, heaven bent to the very brim
Our lives shouldn’t comprise of eatings of curds and whey
You’re on the ball, I’m in the wrong salad
You’re flaxen-haired, I’ve got my eyes unstuck
But I don’t want to hold your hand
I just want to cycle home
It gets me there before the bus or train
I may be beyond the pale
It might be a thrice-told tale
But the bells cough: “à bientôt”
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7. |
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Yet again I’m making hay, making both ends meet,
My face thickly mottled with furrows of worry.
Yet again I’m slouch-hatted, working by dint of unflagging effort.
A millstone around my neck is of little moment
When I don’t own what I make anyway.
For whom do I plug away, claw at my spade and wheel?
And mother always said,
“A slave for a wage is worse than a slave,
At least the bosses take care of you.”
When I come to sell my wares,
Made by caring and callused hands,
I still keep my person.
But when I come to sell my labour,
I yank the teeth out of my dignity.
Selling myself pell mell, lashing up the menials,
One more delectation in someone else’s pockets.
Yet they who made the piper should call the tune.
And mother always said,
“A slave for a wage is worse than a slave,
At least the bosses take care of you.”
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Bud Petal Sydney, Australia
Bud Petal’s music has been described as “cerebral art-folk”, “a true outsider, a freak-folk wunderkind”.
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