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.

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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

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