| I think I hear the sounds of then and people talking
|
| The scenes recalled by minute movement
|
| And songs they fall from the backing tape
|
| That certain texture, that certain smell
|
| To lie in sweat on familiar sheets
|
| In brick veneer on financed beds
|
| In a room of silent HardieFlex
|
| That certain texture, that certain smell
|
| Brings home the heavy days
|
| Brings home the the nighttime swell
|
| Out on the patio we’d sit
|
| And the humidity we’d breathe
|
| We’d watch the lightning crack over cane-fields
|
| And laugh and think, «This is Australia»
|
| The block is awkward, it faces west
|
| Long diagonals and sloping, too
|
| And in the distance, through the heat haze
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| In convoys of silence the cattle graze
|
| That certain texture, that certain beat
|
| Brings forth the nighttime heat
|
| Cha-kow
|
| Out on the patio we’d sit
|
| And the humidity we’d breathe
|
| We’d watch the lightning crack over cane-fields
|
| Laugh and think that this is Australia
|
| To lie in sweat, on familiar sheets
|
| In brick veneer on financed beds
|
| In a room of silent HardieFlex
|
| That certain texture, that certain smell
|
| Brings forth the heavy days
|
| Brings forth the night time swell
|
| Cha-kow
|
| Out on the patio we’d sit
|
| And the humidity we’d breathe
|
| We’d watch the lightning crack over cane-fields
|
| And laugh and think, «This is Australia»
|
| Out on the patio we’d sit
|
| And the humidity we’d breathe
|
| We’d watch the lightning crack over cane-fields
|
| And laugh and think, «This is Australia»
|
| This is Australia
|
| This is Australia
|
| This is Australia
|
| Check it out |