| The sunrise bleeds into the bay
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| Landed in sydney, nothing’s changed
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| It’s still so beautiful in ways i will never be
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| The dogs are still in parliament
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| And every summer day is spent under the shade down by the fence, cricket on tv.
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| the desert cracks under the sun. |
| the farmers wait for rains to come.
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| we all have our own race to run, sometimes. |
| and everything we read about,
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| i would believe but i’m in doubt, on what’s left in and what’s left out,
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| this time
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| No way will we run
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| No way will we run and hide
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| Under a southern sky
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| There’s beach towels laid out on the shore
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| Where no one needs or wants for more
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| And all the radio is for is monotony
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| An eastern suburbs housewife yawns
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| And while the gardener mows her lawns
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| We all just smile and play along
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| And why wouldn’t we?
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| It’s easier to be undone
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| Than it is to stand and run
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| It’s easier to feel it’s come, untied
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| The dream they’ll sell you isn’t much like the reality but, underneath it all
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| there’s dust, and time…
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| No way will we run
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| No way will we run and hide
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| Under a southern sky |