Australian

Black Backs

Love and respect for the bended black backs,
who boiled in the heat and took the attack,
who quietly tended their scabs and their wounds,
while their children were dreaming sound safe in their rooms,

who cried in their passion and toiled in their pain,
who managed to laugh though all that remained
was the fear of tomorrow, and the fate that awaits
when their kids would be chained and then taken away,

who conspired a plan by the light of a wick,
in the dead of the night while beaten and sick,
with a clarity only despair can afford,
to rescue their children, where children were hoard,

Who died in the dirt while making the trip,
who died in the dirt by the gun and the whip,
who died in the dirt while kids watched and they cried,
though were happy to die because they had tried,

Love and respect for the tall and straight backs,
who remember the fight and what it is to be black.

Our Thin Blue Flag

The mast wore yellow in the sun an' rain,
the flag wore thin to see straight through,
the reason that it rose is long forgot,
the reason why stays stays true,

with only the earth to keep our truth,
and only the heavens to store our hope,
somewhere in between, on a rusted mast,
on a taught and fraying rope,

flies the thin blue flag against the sky,
with love and pride and sorrow,
to shoulder all our pain of past,
and hopes of our tomorrow,

so whether feeling love or loss,
or whether good or bad,
above you flies the southern cross
upon our thin blue flag.

Work

Work's a cunt, we know it,
it's something to detest,
despite our souls objections,
we get up and get dressed,

it pays the rent, (or mortgage,
in half happy peoples case),
so with vegimite an' toast,
it's something that we face,

It aint that bad,
the dumb bitch on the till is still half drunk,
walkin' like a new calf,
and smellin' like a skunk,

the kitchen cunt, an arab bloke,
out rolls his muslim mat,
prayin for forgiveness,
(and not to burn the fat),

all is cool and quiet,
everyone's a task,
the idiots from last shift ,
left more than we could ask,

'cause even though we bitch an' moan,
even though we're slack,
we'd rather fix a fuck up,
than fuck up and give back,

so now the day is done,
the shift we can adjourn,
we count the day as won,
and tomorrow we return.

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The Cure

Brothers and cousin brothers,
cousin cousins and cousin friends
found boredoms cure in bottle's bottom,
whole families downing medicine,

and then we sought another cure,
and found it in the hydro trees,
or going into town
and stealing cars to tease police,

or, torment a passer by,
they ran, or cried, some flexed,
felt like a teranisaurus rex
in a cage of kids and lambs,

eat them until we're full,
then beat them because we could,
that cure was just as good
as the other medicines,

on sunday noon I woke,
heard a screaming out the window,
saw my brother was the cure
for my other brother's ills,

then my sight cast down the road,
the street was blood and spirits torn,
the cure had made us crazy,
into fucken cannibals.

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Crinkly Black Man


The crinkly black man loped along,
while whistling weezy sixties songs,
he leaned the right and looked the left
and raised his boney, hairy head,

his words were honest, clear and clean,
and rolled live leaves upon a stream,
"A buck and ten I beg my boy,
I'm patchin for a bottl-a-beer",

his old eyes smiled a cheeky love,
a soft love for the world's soft souls,
and in a blink I think I fell,
forever down those endless holes,

and when I landed I remembered
all his life from birth to now,
and not an unjust word was uttered,
not an unjust thought was found,

I would have cried for all his peace,
I nearly died a happy man,
the earth could offer no increase
to what I found within that man,

but all that world was shifted quickly,
a blink and on the street I stood,
a buck and ten was all he asked,
a buck and ten was all I could,

he bowed his head and gave his grace
away he whistled sixties songs,
and no one's love would ev' replace
the crinkly black man who loped along.

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