‘We can write what we want to write.’

John Farnham, ‘You’re the Voice’ 
I want to tell you a story

I come from a saltwater people

Waiting on the weekend, set of brand new tires

Is running in your veins

I’m tired of the city lights

Let’s go down to the sand

You don’t need a friend when you can score

Out here nothing changes, not in a hurry anyway	
Call this history? But what could we ever really know?

So you look into the land, it will tell you a story

I would not tell lies to you

I love her far horizons

A rain of falling cinders

Yeah, we razed four corners of the globe

Now she’s gone, gone, gone like the wind

No way, get fucked, fuck off				 
I come from a land down under

I’ll be coming home to see you tonight

I woke late in the middle of the day

The hot gold hush of noon

Crying in the wilderness

The hot sun is a killer

So long, long between mirages

I didn’t know how or why				
There was nothing that I owned

If half of what I’m saying, of what I’m saying is true

In convoys of silence the cattle graze

We see the cattle die

The Western desert lives and breathes

And rumour said there’s a boom ahead

More than working for the rich man

Mistaking tacky sex for sensuality			
I feel like a good time that’s never been had

Each passing day our culture slowly dies

Come and see the real thing

She pays us back threefold.

And that ain’t bad

Watching as the ships came one by one

Life is a bitter disappointment

Let’s swing for the crime				
Now listen, we’re steppin’ out

Like a child at big store windows you feel confused

Help is on its way

You will not understand

There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain

Close the doors to the past forever

So throw down your guns

Dream on white boy (white boy)