MUSIC - Michael

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This Song Reminds Me

Written by Michael Waugh

This song reminds me of being young and partying

Fitting in stretch denim jeans

Feeling like I could say almost anything to you

This song reminds me of sleeping bags in living rooms

Whispers after ‘lights out boys’

Trying not to laugh too loud or make your folks annoyed

I couldn’t sing you all the words

Or name the band who sang that tune

These are things that you forget

But this song remembers

This song was playing when you and I got really pissed

Took my dad’s quad bike out

Crashed it in an irrigation ditch

We were singing this song camping on Macalister’s banks

Drunk again and trying to pitch a tent

Daring you to pee on that electric fence

I couldn’t sing you all the words

Or name the band who sang that tune

These are things that you forget

But this song remembers

Paul Kelly, Daddy Cool, Midnight Oil, Aussie Crawl, Weddings and Parties

Baby Animals, Hoodoo Gurus, Nick Cave & The Birthday Party

Barnsey and Diesel, Accadacca, Chisel, Braithwaite, Farnham

– These songs know

This came on the radio

I was driving home from work

Sang all the lyrics wrong

Didn’t we used to know that song?

In between the traffic jams and the life I’ve planned

I haven’t thought of you in a while

This is the soundtrack to where I’ve been

I turn it up and I tune back in

To Paul Kelly, Daddy Cool, Midnight Oil, Aussie Crawl, Weddings and Parties

Baby Animals, Hoodoo Gurus, Nick Cave & The Birthday Party

Barnsey and Diesel, Accadacca, Chisel, Braithwaite, Farnham, Mental as Anything

The Saints and The Church and Goanna and Redgum, Hunters and Collectors and (these songs know)

Spiderbait, Magic Dirt (these songs know), Powderfinger, Men at Work (these songs know)

Divinyls, Angels, INXS, You Am I, Screaming Jets, Deborah Conway, Yothu Yindhi

These songs remind me of being young and partying.

1. Little C Word

Written by Michael Waugh

I’m telling you right now

This thing won’t get him down

My little brother is a fighter, I should know

‘Cause in every disagreement and in every game

He’s a determined little C-word

With a filthy turn of phrase

It’s always effen this, effen that, what a little ‘B’

He’s got another dirty word and it starts with a ‘C’

He seasons every sentence with the worst things you’ve heard

He’s got the biggest effen heart

For a little C word

Tamara doesn’t like it when he drops the ‘f’ bomb

She says ‘you better watch your mouth ‘round the kids’

He loves his beautiful wife

She’s a pretty good mum

And he gets about as good as he gives

When he says effen this, effen that, what a little ‘B’

He’s got another dirty word and it starts with a ‘C’

He seasons every sentence with the worst things you’ve heard

He’s got the biggest effen heart

For a little C word

At the kids’ grand finals

Down the dog track with dad

He’s got a colourful way of expressing

How he feels when the game goes bad

So, when he got the news

He didn’t lose his sense of humour

He said ‘I’m like Schwarzenegger and this thing is not a tumour’

Scaring all the nurses with his joking and his cursing

But Tamara had to tell me when he couldn’t find the words

About this effen this, effen that, what a little ‘B’

He’s got this awful bloody thing

And it starts with a ‘C’

But he’s gonna get better He’s got that trip to Phuket

He’s got aisles to walk down with his daughters

Grand finals to be at

He’s got his wife

He’s got their grandkids to see

He’s got the biggest effen heart

For a little bloke with the big C

And I’m telling you right now

This thing won’t get him down

2. Footy Trip

Written by Michael Waugh

Better beware

Lock up your daughters

Let down our hair

Life’s too short

Leave the dairy farm behind

Get the boys and let’s get blind

I’ve got a 12-seater bus

I’ve got a few slabs of VBs

You can tell your missus

You might see her sometime Sunday

And there’s Melbourne up ahead

Gonna paint that bastard red

When we rip, rip, rip, rip, rip it up

Holding onto stubbies like kids with sippy cups

What a bloody nuisance

What a pack of charmers

What you gonna do with the drunken farmer?

Pour him on a bus

Take him to the city

Rip, rip, rip

With the boys on the footy trip

Breaking hearts in the clubs

We’re the kings on King St

You can tell those jokers

They’re gonna be dead meat

We’re a pack of bloody cards

Slamming shots and hands down hard

When we rip, rip, rip, rip, rip it up

Holding onto stubbies like kids with sippy cups

What a bloody nuisance

What a pack of charmers

What you gonna do with the drunken farmer?

Pour him on a bus

Take him to the city

Get into a fight

Things get shitty

Rip, rip, rip

With the boys on the footy trip

Hey, Mr Driver

Can you turn up the CD?

We’re gonna sing all the way home

To ACDC

While we take turns dropping dacks

Flashing brown eyes out the back

When we rip, rip, rip, rip, rip it up

Holding onto stubbies like kids with sippy cups

What a bloody nuisance

What a pack of charmers

What you gonna do with the drunken farmer?

Pour him on a bus

Take him to the city

Get into a fight

Things get shitty

Take him back home

Give him to his wife

Sleep it off Sunday

Back to his life

When we rip, rip, rip, rip, rip it up

Holding onto stubbies like kids with sippy cups

What a bloody nuisance

What a pack of charmers

What you gonna do with the drunken farmer?

Pour him on a bus

Take him to the city

Rip, rip, rip

With the boys on the footy trip

Rip, rip, rip, rip, rip it up

Holding onto stubbies like kids with sippy cups

What a bloody nuisance

What a pack of charmers

What you gonna do with the drunken farmer?

Take him back home

Rip, rip, rip

With the boys on the footy trip

3. They Don’t Let the Girls in the Game

Written by Michael Waugh

Little plastic whistle blows

Someone broke the rules

You’ve got to teach them young where the lines are drawn

If they’re gonna be taught at all

Standing on the boundary line

Waiting for a bounce of a ball

Hoping for a chance to kick it back in

If it gets knocked out on the full

The best footy player in all of Grade 3

Was a little blonde kid named Marie

She finally gets a shot

Everyone’s impressed

She kicks it pretty far

She kicks it in a dress

Everybody loses

When we all don’t get to play

Some run around on the oval

But they don’t let the girls in the game

They don’t let the girls in the game

The full forward’s full of praise

He says, ‘you kick well for a girl’

And he says, ‘if you like,

You can watch at the side

And help us keeping score’

Then the teacher on yard duty comes

Sends Marie back to the girls

He says, ‘The boys on the oval play too rough

If you hang around here you’ll get hurt’

So, she climbs to the top of the monkey bars

And she watches the game from the slide

While the girls on the asphalt play with their swap cards

Marie dreams of freedoms away from the tan bark

Everybody loses

When we all don’t get to play

Some run around on the oval

But they don’t let the girls in the game

They don’t let the girls in the game

Down around the cypress tree

Playing Doctor Who

A little fat boy wants a time machine

To take him to when lunch is through

Breaking in through the branches

Flying in through space

Someone kicks the Sherrin

And it crash-lands in his face

They say, ‘kick it back here, Loser’

But the Loser’s afraid of the ball

So, they call him all the worst of the names they could call

And everybody laughs when they say he’s a girl

Because they don’t let the girls in the game

Some of us were left on slides

Some were left in trees

Some of us were girly-boys

Some were girls just like Marie

When will we not be losers

When will we get to play

When will we all grow up from Grade Three

When they don’t let the girls in the game?

They don’t let the girls in the game

They don’t let the girls in the,

They don’t let the girls in the game

They don’t let the girls in the,

They don’t let the girls in the game

They don’t let the girls in the,

They don’t let the girls in the game.

4. Willy's Chickens

Written by Michael Waugh

Down Blore’s Hill on the way to Coongulla

Nesting in the bush and scrub

Old man Willy had a chicken farm and a shitty abattoir

He employed the local girls, the dairy farmer’s daughters,

Single mothers, Poor men’s wives, and he employed my mum

From six in the morning til four when it ends

You’ve got your hands in the air like you want to surrender

One hand holds a chook like a pub raffle winner

The other’s in the arse of a Sunday dinner

They’re not silly

The women there rule the roost at Willy’s Chicken Factory line

And they’re not paid enough for their time

He’s got them gutting, cutting and plucking

Chickens on the factory line

One day after work, Willy asked mum

To take a box of chickens to the Manson farm

They owned the house at the bottom of the hill, they were worth a lot of money

So, mum shows up at the Manson door

Tarred and feathered in blood

She would’ve cleaned up if she could but she was on her way back home.

And they’re not silly

The women there rule the roost at Willy’s Chicken Factory line

And they’re not paid enough for their time

He’s got them gutting, cutting and plucking

Chickens on the factory line

Old Mrs Manson’s face turned grey

As a tailored linen suit

She said ‘take the box round the back door like the other servants do.’

Mum delivered more than chickens that day

She dropped the box down on the porch

She said to Mrs Manson as she walked away:

‘Take it up the back door yourself!’

And they’re not silly

The women there rule the roost at Willy’s Chicken Factory line

And they’re not paid enough for their time

He’s got them gutting, cutting and plucking Chickens on the factory line

Mum worked hard every day of her life and

She prayed hard every morning

But God didn’t give them wings to fly

He gave them lungs for squawking

No, God didn’t give chickens wings to fly

But he gave them lungs for squawking

And they’re not silly

The women there rule the roost at Willy’s Chicken Factory line

And they’re not paid enough for their time

He’s got them gutting, cutting and plucking Chickens on the factory line

He’s got them gutting, cutting and plucking on the factory line

5. Baling Twine

Written by Michael Waugh

Me and my big brother inherited what's left

When dad was worked into the ground and finally laid to rest

He was from a generation where nothing was replaced

He did his own repairs when things broke down around the place

When you can't afford a new one

You just try to make do

You tie it up with string and you patch it up with glue

You solder broken pieces and you pray that she'll be fine

And you hold the farm together with baling twine

WD40 and hay bale twine

They say necessity must be the mother of invention

I reckon dairy farming gets an honorable mention

It's screwdrivers in ignitions to get utes on the road

It's pumps that don't have drive belts that still run with pantyhose

When you can't afford a new one

You just try to make do

You tie it up with string and you patch it up with glue

You solder broken pieces and you pray that she'll be fine

And you hold the farm together with baling twine

WD40 and hay bale twine

When dad was here just making do was somehow just enough

Big business started moving in and bought our neighbours up

They replaced the little dairies with massive automations

And our little family business can't compete with corporations

When you can't afford a new one

You just try to make do

You tie it up with string and you patch it up with glue

You solder broken pieces and you pray that she'll be fine

And you hold the farm together with baling twine

WD40 and hay bale twine

When the rear diff on the John Deere went it was the final straw

My brother said 'I'm sorry, I can't take this anymore'

Now, it's 2am and he's been out the back since almost 9

I can't go out to the shed, I'm scared of what I'll find

Cause we can't afford a new one

And we tried to make do

But some things are just too big to fix with bits of string and glue

And even til the end my brother knew just how to find

One last way to fix it all with baling twine

I've been thinking about my brother

And of what I'd leave behind

And I'm tying little nooses with the baling twine

6. For a Moment

Written by Michael Waugh

It just goes by so fast

You only get a little while

Before it all goes rushing by

Like a little boy running from his bath

Shaking ‘round his cheeky bum

Pulling faces at his mum

Before I caught my breath

You were washed and you were dried, you were dressed

We cleaned up all your mess

For a moment in your life

You can hold ‘em by your side

But you only get a moment T

hen the moment passes by

If the man that I was met the man I’d get to be

I would tell him, take this moment

Because it just goes by so fast

Flying off to who knows where

Shaking ‘round his shaggy hair

Like a skateboard rider rolling down a hill

Fast enough to break his arm

But you can’t keep him safe from harm

And he’s heading for a stack

But he was never gonna wear that safety hat, you bought him

You can’t hold him back

For a moment in your life

You can hold ‘em by your side

But you only get a moment

Then the moment passes by

If the man that I was met the man I’d get to be

I would tell him, take this moment

And it just goes by so fast

Sitting in a waiting room

Hoping for some happy news

And a moment ago they were handing you to me

Now they’re handing you your daughter

Who knows what’s ‘round the corner

If I could give you some advice

Treasure every single moment in your life

You don’t get to have it twice

But for a moment in your life

You can hold her by your side

But you only get a moment

Then the moment passes by

If the man that I was met the man I’d get to be

I would tell him, take this moment

Because it just goes by so fast

You only get a little while

Before it all goes rushing by…

7. Shit Year

Written by Michael Waugh

Mum was out of hospital

Dad was almost out of hope

So we rallied round at Christmas

Tried to make it better with a roast

Dad poured mum a shandy

We thought that she was gonna make a toast

She held her glass up high

Looked at dad a while

Gave us boys a smile

‘Let’s have a beer

Let’s drink to a pretty shit year

The end of it’s near

Thank God that it’s here

It’s been a pretty shit year.

‘Eleven months of treatment

Left me feeling sicker than before

And all those bloody needles

The prodding round that left me feeling sore

The back and forth to Melbourne

The up and down and never being sure

The trying not to let it ever get the better of me

Worried about the worry that I’ve caused

‘Let’s have a beer

Let’s drink to a pretty shit year

The end of it’s near

Thank God that it’s here

It’s been a pretty shit year.’

And as Bing sang ‘Silent Night’

Something in her eyes

Sparkled like tinsel on a tree

All is calm, all is bright

Without the usual family fight

She’s in a silly paper hat

Like a little crumpled queen

After all the presents, the mince tarts and all the Christmas pud’

After Christmas crackers have all been broken open

And given up their goods

Dad asked the questions

Mum knew the answers to the jokes

Except for that one question

No one wants to mention:

Will this be the last Christmas that she knows?

‘Let’s have a beer

Let’s drink to a pretty shit year

The end of it’s near

Thank God that it’s here

It’s been a pretty shit year’

8. Bloody Rain

Written by Michael Waugh

Old cow cocky at the bar

Pot of Melbourne Bitter and a chicken parmigiana

Smell of old tobacco

Couldn't even crack a smile in happy hour

He's had that spot since 1983

Squatter’s rights apply - no one dares touch that seat

Chairs lined up like dominoes

He's the last one balanced in the row

How's the bloody rain?

I haven't seen the sun around for days

It’s bogging down my wheels

There’s mud all up my boots

I must be slowing down, I can't fire up today

But I guess I can't complain

How's the bloody rain?

No one in particular replies

Pool balls on the table form shapes like constellations in the sky

Beneath the photographs

Of premiership teams from the past

Stars and glory long gone from their eyes

How's the bloody rain?

I haven't seen the sun around for days

It’s bogging down my wheels

There’s mud all up my boots

I must be slowing down, I can't fire up today

But I guess I can't complain

How's the bloody rain?

Battered barstools packed up at the bar

The Farmer’s Arms are closing

He gets a traveller for the car

Sad old man, a sad old town

And Jesus it was pissing down

The night the old bloke didn't make it home

How's the bloody rain...

It’s bogging down my wheels

There’s mud all up my boots

I must be slowing down, I can't fire up today

But I guess I can't complain

How's the bloody rain?

9. Tapping

Written by Michael Waugh

In the stickiness of Summer

In the sleeplessness of heat

In the rolling ‘round, rubbing on the dirty cotton sheets

A whining dog is scratching at the fence

Tugging at a leash

Dazza’s wearing Stubby shorts

And a Bulldog’s footy top

He’s chatting up the barmaid

He’s sucking in his gut

He says, ‘Do you want to see my burn out?

Do you want to see my skids?

Do you want to see the parking lot?

I’ll flip your bloody lid’

Banging on the bar with a set of Hilux keys

Tap, tap, tapping rhythms out

Like two stray dogs in heat

Trying to be subtle

Staring down the front of her dress

And she’s trying not to notice with her arms across her chest

Trying not to notice with her arms across her chest

Then someone in the kitchen calls out ‘Table 22’

She leaves to take the service and serves a backside view

Two flies copulate in the air above the door

And Dazza’s like a dog with a bone he can’t ignore

Banging on the bar with a set of Hilux keys

Tap, tap, tapping rhythms out

Like two stray dogs in heat

‘Jesus, I could tap that

Darlin’, you look gorgeous in that dress

When you finish work, I’m gonna take you for a spin’

He says, ‘When you finish work

I’m gonna take you for a spin’

Her shift is almost over

Only Dazza’s at the bar

She’s hoping that somebody else might walk her to the car

She packs away some glasses

Turns around to see

Dazza stumbling out the back door

The concrete in the car park

Is radiating heat

Bouncing ‘round the sound of her footsteps as she leaves

The brittle echo sounds like a set of Hilux keys

Tap, tap, tapping

Tomorrow night they’re back

And all across the news

A woman’s been attacked

He says, ‘Thank God, it wasn’t you

But what’d she expect

Walking ‘round dressed up like that?’

He’s got questions for the victim

But she doesn’t answer back

Banging on the bar with a set of Hilux keys

Tap, tap, tapping rhythms out

Like two stray dogs in heat

‘Maybe when you’re finished

Baby, can I drive you home?’

But she’s walking like a woman who’d rather be alone

Tapping out a rhythm

Leave me alone

10. The Asphalt & the Oval

Written by Michael Waugh

Joe Gray was a farmer’s son

With holes in every jumper worn to school

And he had older brothers

He knew boys ought to love their sport

Girls played on the asphalt

And Joe Gray ruled the oval with a ball

But I preferred to read

Beneath a shady tree between them all

I wanted you to know that I forgive you

Though I know you didn’t ask

And I’m sure you wouldn’t care

In between the asphalt and the oval

Joe Gray used to say that I was queer

I didn’t know quite what he meant

But I could spell more words than him

So I knew that he meant that I was strange

So I tried some moved from martial arts

But I was not the class Karate Kid

I wanted you to know that I forgive you

Though I know you didn’t ask

And I’m sure you wouldn’t care

In between the asphalt and the oval

Joe Gray used to say that I was queer

I forgave myself some years ago F

or being weak when I was very small

The last they’d picked when playing games

Not quite a black belt after all

Now I’m a father, I’m a teacher

I’m a husband, I’m a singer

I’m a talker, I’m a listener

I’m a writer, I’m a thinker

And I learned how to fight

I turned out alright

How ‘bout you?

I wanted you to know that I forgive you

Though I know you didn’t ask

And I’m sure you wouldn’t care

In between the asphalt and the oval

The world’s not black or white

It’s shades of in between

Joe Gray, I forgive you for the pain of six long years

Joe Gray, I grew up and out of here

11. Acid Wash

Written by Michael Waugh

The notes we passed in Science class

Were about the girls we’d like to ask

To the Blue Light in Sale

Where rough kids from the local tech

With love bites all around their necks

Danced with air guitars as Chisel played

She wore a denim skirt and blue eye shadow

In heels, too high to walk

He smelled of UDLs and Peter Jacksons

They wore acid wash

I had this one girl in my sights

An angel smoking Alpine Lights

Swaying to Katrina and the Waves

But I knew I never had a chance

With the Molly Ringwald of the dance

When I saw her in a corner pashing Shane

She wore a denim skirt and blue eye shadow

In heels, too high to walk

He smelled of UDLs and Peter Jacksons

They wore acid wash

I’ve lived long enough to say

Time makes a joke of all your pain

12. Driving With The Window Down

Written by Michael Waugh

My first car was a little yellow Datsun

Holes in the seat, cracks in the fuel line

An old air freshener shaped like a pine tree

Used coke cans rattling behind me

With a ripped up Melways and a bag of dirty clothes

Because of all the petrol fumes I couldn’t drive with the window’s closed

So, I like driving with the window down

Stereo on, singing with it loudly

And you’re sitting with your feet on the dash

Trying to tell me something, all I hear is Johnny Cash

Weekend ahead of me, you’re sitting next to me

All of our troubles are somewhere behind me

Two kids getting rowdy

Driving out of town with the window down

My next car had a crack in the radiator

Left a little puddle on the street where I’d park her

Lemonade bottles that were filled up with water

Strong smell of sweat from the previous owner

He tried to tell me that to keep the engine cool

You’ve got to drive around in summer time with the heater on full bore

So, I like driving with the window down

Stereo on, singing with it loudly

And you’re sitting with your feet on the dash

Trying to tell me something, all I hear is Johnny Cash

Weekend ahead of me, you’re sitting next to me

All of our troubles are somewhere behind me

Two kids getting rowdy

Driving out of town with the window down

And she’s always beside me

Even when I’m breaking down

Shouting out directions

And trying to read a map upside down

Now we get around in a little Kia Rio

Bought brand new in 2003

It goes pretty good and it gets pretty far

It works pretty well for a family car

And sometimes I pretend that we’re still in the Datsun

Feel the wind rushing through my hair like a in a time back when I had some

So, we like driving with the window down

Stereo on, singing with it loudly

And you’re sitting with your feet on the dash

Trying to tell me something, all I hear is Johnny Cash

Weekend ahead of me, you’re sitting next to me

All of our troubles are somewhere behind me

Where our kids are getting rowdy

You and me darlin’ with the window down

Kids in the back with the window down

Still getting ‘round with the window down

13. Kindergarten Fête

Written by Michael Waugh

There's parents in the back row

Loosening their shirts

It's standing room here only if you drove in straight from work

They're singing about 'Frosty'

And it's 41 degrees

Then the room lights up to catch it all on a hundred iPhone screens

At the little Christmas concert

At the kindergarten fête

There’s Joseph in a dressing gown

There's a star hung up with pegs

There’s Mary holding Jesus by his little plastic leg

And two wise men are clutching

Frankincense and gold

While a third is digging deep for treasure somewhere up his nose

At the little Christmas concert

At the kindergarten fête

It's not quite Marina Prior

It's not quite Andre Rieu

They're mostly dancing out of time and singing out of tune

But they're on their best behavior

For the story of the saviour

With a toy box for a manger

At the kindergarten fête

There's tinsel on the angel

But her halo's fallen flat

She's talking to a shepherd with a tea towel for a hat

A piano started playing

And a teacher gave a sign

Then silent night fell on us when my son forgot his lines

At the little Christmas concert

At the kindergarten

Who knows what fate might bring us

Life's not all good news

We're mostly dancing out of time

And singing out of tune

But our children shine like stars made of foil and paper plates

Fragile as a paper lantern, held with sticky tape

Clumsy, like a concert at a Kindergarten fête

1. Heyfield Girl

Written by Michael Waugh

The car tapes we played on those long country drives

Were Kenny’s and Dolly’s and old Charley Pride’s

Mum sang along with Jim Reeves and Burl Ives

As we rattled along country tracks

And Dad used to threaten us boys with a hidin’

‘If you don’t settle down in the back’

Then mum would growl but she’d turn up the volume

And pass ‘round the lollies she’d packed

They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

American women get songs about how they’re adored

Tennessee girls get to waltz

Californian girls they’ve got no faults

But they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

No they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

Heyfield’s a timber mill town in East Gippsland

The Maffra boys think it’s a joke

Dad used to hang it on mum, who was born there

But she’d give it back, I suppose

They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

American women get songs about how they’re adored

Tennessee girls get to waltz

Californian girls they’ve got no faults

But they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

No they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

My dad loved my mum with affection familiar

And long as an old country road

But there’s not a melody written to sing of

The depths of the love that they’ve known

So even when cancer took part of mum’s body

And the chemo took all of her hair

Dad used to tease mum about girls from Heyfield

‘Cause that’s how she knows that he cares

He’d say,

‘They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

But you’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever known

Tennessee girls they might waltz

Californian girls might have no faults

Ah, but you blokes can keep ‘em ‘cause I’ve got my Heyfield girl

Yeah, you blokes can keep ‘em, ‘cause I ‘ve got my Heyfield girl’

2. Mafeking Hill

Written by Michael Waugh

The shops all shut at 1 o’clock on Saturday

And there’s not much going on down Johnson Street

So we took our BMXs to the hill behind the high school

Through the trees the sun was setting on another Saturday

And a ute is cutting laps around the main street

Someone’s drinking beer at Rosie’s Ring

The bottom pub is jumping, the Macalister is running

It’s a brown and muddy river – and we consider jumping in

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Saturday evening – in another country town

So I turn up to the party with my backpack

And I’m clinking with the Stone’s Green Ginger Wine

And a bottle doing battle full of Sweet McWilliam’s Sherry

And the Screaming Jets are screaming louder than the neighbours from behind

Someone’s eating cat food in the kitchen

Someone’s playing cricket down the hall

Someone’s parents might regret leaving him at home this weekend

Then I said to my mate, Ted

‘There are things that I regret’

As I vomit like a sprinkler on the lawn

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Saturday evening

Almost Sunday morning

Technicolour yawning

In another country town

So we go back to the hill where we began

And we started talking ‘bout next weekend’s plans

And we stay up there a while

Another ute goes driving by

And a magpie started singing – as Sunday morning rolled around

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Sunday morning

Dreams of Saturday evening

When we’ll go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On every Saturday evening

And every Sunday morning

In every country town

3. Paul

Written by Michael Waugh

Swimming pools terrified the ugly kids at school

Towels were used for torture in the slippery changing rooms

Girls with brand new coloured Derwent pencils hated fools

And boys who kicked the footy loved to kick around young Paul

He was not the type of kid who said what you’d expect

He was full of stupid jokes that no one used to get

One day he got sick of how they teased and called him names

He stood up for himself until they pushed him down, again

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

The forty-minute bus ride home was bumpy in the back seat

For boys with haircuts by their mum and those that loved to read

Pretty girls with long blonde hair in ribbons point and watch

As Paul trips on a school bag when he gets out at his stop

Paul was not the type of kid who seemed to give a toss

When one boy calls out ‘poofta’ from the window of the bus

The battle for his dignity was already fought and lost

Standing like a shadow in the gravel and the dust

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

It’s funny how a country school looks smaller when you’re free

The bus rides all seem shorter, the pool is not as deep

I moved down to Melbourne but most got left behind

And Paul he found a different path to the peace he hoped to find

Phantoms of his torment followed every step

Spirits of their loathing still swimming round his head

He took his grandad’s rifle and he went to shoot the ghosts

He only had one bullet for the kid he hates the most

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

Here’s to us fat little kids who still remember what they did

The ‘weirdos’ and the ‘fags’, ‘rangas’, ‘geeks’ and ‘freaks’ and ‘slags’

The ones of us still hurting

The ones who made it free

And those of us like Paul, who never lived to see

What we all grew up to be

You don’t know what we might be

4. My Dad's Shoes

Written by Michael Waugh

There’s a picture of me laughing when I was two or three

Standing in dad’s Blundstone boots that are twice as big as me

He’s towering behind me in his overalls

Arms outstretched to catch me if I fall

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

They’re not the kind of shoes you wear to church or into town

Mum would scream blue murder if he wore them in the house

He’d kick them off and line them up like soldiers on the porch

That’s how we knew when dad was home or not

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

When I was a young man

I got too big for my boots

And I tried lots of styles but the soles have all worn through

Now that I am older and the sneakers just don’t suit

I’m proud to wear these Blundstone boots like you

He had to sell the tractor and they’ve moved into town

He’s far too old for farming in those worn out work boots now

But sitting on the back porch, holding vigil for him still

The Blundstone boots are waiting to be filled

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

5. Planes

Written by Michael Waugh

Two boys mucking ‘round in the yard next door

One of them said ‘if you want to play dead you don’t get to get up anymore’

With a little toy plane in a Spiderman suit

Teaching his little brother what the grown ups do