| Big galvanised roofs and monster pipes black
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| Pink and white clouds from a chimney stack
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| Red dust and hawks in the wind out back
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| And here I am at the Isa
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| What do you do in a town like the Isa
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| Retrenched at 50 become an old miser
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| Drink yourself blind so you’re none the wiser
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| Sit at home with the race form and whinge
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| Just over the hill in his own backyard
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| The landscape becomes a picture postcard
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| Where the colours are soft but the life is hard
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| On the stations here at the Isa
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| Tonight’s the night of the rodeo ball
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| Before riders and bull and horses stand tall
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| While out in the park some black people sprawl
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| And share their money on flagons
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| There’s so much more to be understood
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| Before coming out here like Robin Hood
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| The do-gooders do more harm than good
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| Without really knowing the Isa
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| Through the Leichhardt East
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| Where fools gold flashes
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| Fossick around for Maltese Crosses
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| Flog them off to the tourist buses
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| See ghost gums under the moon
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| Some really battle some make do
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| The luckier ones make a quid and pull through
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| Some perch at the bar like a caged cockatoo
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| But that’s nothing new at the Isa
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| And it takes a special kind of girl
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| To stay out here in this rugged world
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| Keep your dignity when the oathes are hurled
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| I pay my respects to you
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| And I’ll raise my glass to an outback town
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| To that weathered spirit that won’t back down
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| It takes the courage of a rodeo clown
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| To stick it out at the Isa
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| Big galvanised roofs and monster pipes black
|
| Pink and white clouds from a chimney stack
|
| Red dust and hawks in the wind out back
|
| And here I am at the Isa
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| Never thought I’d return to this lonely track
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| And here I am back at the Isa |