| So there’s trouble again on the eastern plains
|
| As a floral tribute is draped from my back
|
| It’s the lure of the cattle market calling again
|
| The ruby red cobweb
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| The sight I lack
|
| And there’s the fear that I hear
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| Oh, a hundred wailing sirens
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| The sound I’m drowned by
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| The tinnitus that lasts
|
| As I burn with the heat of a thousand red flares
|
| I could play dot to dot with the freckles on your face
|
| And oh, the things I’ve done
|
| And oh, the gravel tooth son
|
| Burn me now like an ant with the magnifying glass
|
| Leave me charred and let the wind blow away the ash
|
| So I marked another tally and took a train back
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| To the town that raised me from tiny blade of grass
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| I was chased by a giant black spool of cellophane
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| That bound my body and cut off the gas
|
| Was it the alcoholic blessing I gave myself
|
| Or the counter move book I hold
|
| Or the smell that rises post-heavy downpour
|
| Or the groove down her back like a book’s centrefold
|
| And oh, the things I’ve done
|
| And oh, the gravel tooth son
|
| Burn me now like an ant with the magnifying glass
|
| Leave me charred and let the wind blow away the ash
|
| So there’s trouble again on the eastern plains
|
| And those sirens are all I hear
|
| I was humbled by a industry and gave under the wright
|
| Of the things I’d done by my 24th year
|
| And oh, the things I’ve done
|
| And oh, the gravel tooth son
|
| Burn me now like an ant with the magnifying glass
|
| Leave me charred and let the wind blow away the ash |