| That I happened to a town once
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| Is of no consequence to my story
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| But i burned all of my diaries
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| The day a town happened to me
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| I guess I should’ve called you
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| But payphones there were just so hungry
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| I was busy writing headlines
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| Like 'postbox eats the hand of lady'
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| Who fixes stamps to cutout competitions
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| She kisses each letter she mails
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| This is how i found Manilla, Manilla NSW
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| Cold beer for welcome stranger
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| Choose to refuse and so politely
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| Is to risk the danger
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| That they’ll raise the kind of hell known only by the New South Welsh
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| To be heard along the Namoi banks
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| And out across the distant ranges
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| You’ve had so many lovers
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| Your brothers would be so proud of thee
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| But one way of another they’ve drifted to be beside a sea
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| While the information clock has tied a knot
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| With both it’s hands and holds us by our tails
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| We’re all bound by time to Manilla, Manilla NSW
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| Can you pick a grave for me in the ruins of cordial factories
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| Where flavoured flowers grow pirouetting in cul-de-sacs
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| Miss the sound of clickety clacks on tracks that trains won’t go
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| And out through windows…
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| The shop keepers gape out over the landscape
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| They’re praying for sales
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| Religion makes more sense in Manilla, Manilla NSW
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| Here’s to the folk behind fences
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| Furtively readjusting denches
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| A chorus of corellas
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| Form clouds over saturday benches
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| Where old men sit and lick tobacco papers
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| They look like a harmonica band
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| As the sun tiptoes down Manilla St
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| And slowly comes to land
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| I may make me a home in Manilla, Manilla NSW |