Att: Shock Records! Faulty Pressing - Do Not Manufacture

Describe The Worst Head Job I've Ever Had? Fantastic!
Hear what was caught in the newsreader's arse?
That's what fame's all about.
Down the casualty ward they had a laugh.
That's what fame's all about.
The lead singer, I heard, likes it up the date.
That's what fame's all about.
I heard it from a friend, who got it from a mate.
That's what fame's all about.

The half back flanker rooted the coach's wife.
That's what fame's all about.
Coach bashed him to within an inch of his life.
That's what fame's all about.
You only gotta beep out the names if you're broadcasting;
That's what fame's all about.
By the way, you know who Tony **** is shafting?
That's what fame's all about.

The Ghallager brothers think they're geniuses
That's what fame's all about.
And some people care what Mike Munroe says.
That's what fame's all about.
There's adulation for every jumped up git.
That's what fame's all about.
And when you're forgotten, no one gives a shit.
That's what fame's all about.

The Australian Guitar Hero Makes His Last Stand

In a tiny inner city pub the amps were being stacked;
Leads were getting wound up; it was full of pissed ANZACS;
"Got no more gigs for Tuesday nights," said the barman to the Star,
"We're putting pokies in the lounge, and strippers in the bar."

The Star, he raised his finger and said, "Fuck this fucking hole!"
But to his faithful roadie he said, "It's the death of rock and roll.
There ain't a single place that's left to play amplified guitar -
Every place is serving long blacks or has become a Tapas bar."

His dirty denim jacket was gaffered and turning black;
Hair was missing on his forehead, but it reached right down his back.
"I don't blame that barman bastard," he told his roadie - "Hey, fuck no:
I blame all those faggot wankers who are playing this techno.

`Brothers can work it out' - get fucked. That can kiss my rotting arse.
Work out what happened to real music is what I'd like to ask.
Everything is all machine, run with MIDI and A-DAT;
But all they do is go ping ping ping, like a truck that's backing back.

Who the fuck are the Chemical Brothers, that they now call the shots?
Goldie is the name of a light beer, Elastica holds up socks."
The roadie sat there silent next to the ejaculating Star.
"What the fucking point of drum 'n' bass if no one can play guitar?"

"And have you seen those fucking clubbers with their peroxided dreads,
Dressed up in fucking Adidas like fucking fucked fuck heads?
I wouldn't drop a tab of E if you fucking paid me man -
I've got the guts for L.S.D; and the only jungle I know was 'Nam."

His roadie sat, still silent, but then he finally began to speak:
"Actually, Star, I maybe should have told you this last week,
But I've scored a job as D.J. at the latest techno club.
I'm sick of working with a loser. See ya later, bub."

Well, the roadie owned the p.a. and the roadie owned the ute
And the roadie told Star to get right out or he'd bash one up his chute.
And there on that cold freeway Star walked along alone -
Of course, he been kicked out half way between emergency telephones.

"Fuck youse all," said Star aloud in the emergency stopping lane,
"To quote from the chick Juliet, Hey, what's in a name?
A good song's just a good song, just the same as long ago;
But dress it up in something new, and suddenly you're Picasso,

Every white balled Pommy cunt thinks that you are so hip -
Read N.M.E. from ten years ago, and there's all the same dickslip;
Prodigy are just the band who are getting it this year -
Rolling Stone's got no more cred than fucking New Idea."

Star's anguished voice rose in grief as he cried unto the moon:
"In the end, when all is said, a tune's just a fucking tune."
Star played his amp far too loud - his hearing was sort of gone,
So he never heard the grinding squeal as the truckie put the brakes on.

Twenty six of that road train's wheels played a tune upon his head.
"He just wandered into the traffic," the distraught diver said.
The cops had seen it all before; the ambo's washed the freeway clean -
There's no contest when you put a man up against a machine.

Kate, Fischer Of Men

I know he owns a paper Kate, but I buy one every day;
It's not that he's rich and successful that you love him, so you say,
Which makes me feel so much better, Kate, cos I'm not any of those;
And, just like him, that's got nothing to do with my abilities: God, no -
As it is, I'm still renting, and the place can get a little drab,
But at least you know in two decades' time I won't look like his dad.

There's a tall poppy syndrome, Kate, that is ready to attack:
Come with me and I'll guarantee you won't get any of that flack;
There's sneering two bit disaffected maladjusted types
Ready with their oh so moral high ground jeering hype
Condemning you just because you are who you are -
I'd drive round now and rescue you, 'cept the diff's gone on my car.

It's not too late: give him the a and come with me to Airport West -
We've got a brand new shopping mall with a eight cinema multiplex;
There's a half tube skateboard ramp and the waterslide's the best -
Down Airport East they say we're snobs, but I know you'll be impressed.
In Airport East they ain't got much, so all they do is slag,
Just like the people whose weddings don't make the women's mags.

I'm interested in wog ball and I really like Acca Dacca;
And I'm better than him 'cos I'm a store man as well being a Packer.
Cos, I'm a bit short of cash right now, but before rumours get about,
Any one says I like you for your dough, I'll snap the bastard out.
If I marry you I'll be famous, Kate, but they won't take my privacy…
Enough about me: what about you - what do you think of me?

I'll just assume it's a done deal, then, and get on with the rest,
Like finalizing photo rights and which tabloid offer's the best -
Give it a break, Kate, you can't complain if we make a buck:
Our marriage could set up us for life, with a little bit of luck.
I could be rich and famous Kate, just you mark my words:
Why marry some unknown jerk from the outer suburbs?

My Brilliant Huntington's Chorea

'Huntington's disease, however, is a rare, fatal inherited disorder for which no known cure exists. The patient suffers progressive loss of mental functioning due to brain-cell death in the region of the basal ganglia, along with the depletion of some neurotransmitters and the buildup of another-dopamine. The symptoms appear at almost any age but most commonly in the thirties and forties, and death follows in 10 to 20 years...'

Once my life was easy:
It was just like watchin' TV
And I was the lucky audience member
Who's playin' Price Is Right -
I came on down every night -
Could come five times a night, too, I remember.

But let me tell you pal
That there's another game as well,
But you won't see the fucker on T.V -
It's called Fortune's Wheel,
And no matter how you feel,
Adrianna will turn the letters "R.I.P".

One day it's gonna start:
Everything will fall apart -
There's programming, too, in your bones.
One night you go out dancin'
Thinkin' that you're Hanson,
Then you wake up and you are the Rolling Stones.

All of life is lived in stages;
You're going out to rages
And you and your friends know all the right grooves;
But there ain't no use hidin' -
The cells have begun dividin'
And it's time you learnt the dopamine moves.

Don't you get a fucking shock-o
When you watch one of those doco's
'Bout those diseases that means you're born with flippers?
Or you're feeling sort of well 'n'
Next thing, it's the Peter McCallum
For the haircut they give you without clippers.

You wont be fucking laughin', son,
When you're interviewed by Parkinson,
Or star in a mini-series called Alzheimer.
You'll be picking up the tab
When they order you a nice cold slab -
And I don't mean the 24 can type either.

One day you're collecting Tazo's,
The next you are a spazo:
I only know one way to ease the pain -
Pick a way to go
That the doctors don't know
And they might give the fucking germ your fucking name.

(Let me take a quick ad break
During which I'd like to make
An apology to go here in a bracket:
That Tazo/Spazo rhyme -
It wish that it weren't mine:
Where'd I get my poetic license? A packet?)

So kiss the wife for me -
You can live quite happily,
Watchin' T.V together as you sup;
But just like a bad dream, oh,
You'll play a game called Chemo -
Spot. Match. Win. Your numbers have come up.

Apology Of The Thai Drug Runner

Drugs are fucking fun, pal:
Factor that fucking in
To your Drug O-fucking-fensive
Type health fucking warnin'.

There ain't a lot that's fun, pal:
Old age, and school, and dreams
Of a life that will never be;
Sexless nights; wasted schemes;

Your horizon still receding,
Speeding hope that's fruitless;
A sudden cliff; and skidding;
Then descent to twisted rest.

The Sacred Temple of the Emerald Buddha -
Serene and total peace.

I could'a stayed at home, pal,
And lived a joyless life -
But where the fuck's the fun in that?
Superannuation, wife -

The whole fucking package?!
For me, it never suited.
A softcock life and limp death?
Go get fucking rooted!

There might be fun in poetry,
And art, and bein' literate;
It never hit the spot for me,
Nor you, though you won't admit to it.

The Sacred Temple of the Emerald Buddha -
Hear the distant gong beat.

You say you got a Ph D?
Well, good for you, my son.
How smart you fucking need to be
To work out that drugs are fun?

Have a fucking bash, pal -
Take this suspect load
And give to a mate of mine,
Lives on the Pat Pong Road.

You ever felt the warming waves
In the Gulf of old Siam?
Ever wanted to ever be
A different fucking man?

The Sacred Temple of the Emerald Buddha -
Foil parcels in my teeth.

You need to hear the Mekong flood -
It's an awesome fucking sound.
Take this package - quickly pal,
They've come to chain me down.

They bolt me to a concrete floor -
Don't get all moral, son:
There's sixty of us goes in here,
We all think drugs are fun.

50 years in a Thailand hell -
20 grams of smack up my arse.
Why? Cos drugs are fuckin' fun:
Why the fuck you need to ask?

The Sacred Temple of the Emerald Buddha -
Did a deal at the fat guy's feet.

Julius Seizure (Act III, scene ii, verse 73-118)

Second Plebeian: Peace! Let us hear what Anthony can say.

Anthony: You gentle Romans-

All: Peace, ho! Let us hear him.

Anthony: I come to praise, not to bury, the shoddy and the rooted -
To lament for the passing of those men, Safari suited,
Who'd flatten you with mindless glee when they got really newted.

Behind the bottleshop you'd see the roughest justice done:
Yeah, it was assault and battery - but with a sense of fun,
And a drink together after, when the ambulance had come.

Who would have thought you'd ever miss the barmaid's brutal snarl
And guys looking at you strange while she says, "What's yours, darl?"
"Wanna go?" is all you recall, before the blow and grand mal.

"You gotta fucking mouth on ya," those moustached yobs would say
Back when being literate was something to hide away
And being mediocre meant you played in the V.F.A.

But now everyone is talking, and it's oh so tres witty:
All those fucking D.J's and their flashy repartee -
It's always breakfast down in Hell, and radio compulsory.

From McGuiness to McGuire to Douglas fucking Aiton
There's a whole new type of person that's takin' over this damn nation:
And I'm not talkin' some racist crap about Asian immigration -

If you're a yobbo now, you're rooted; no one says, "I'll 'ave ya, pal" -
Listen to Adrian Martin, Jon Casimir, et al:
Excellence is demanded, or the critics give you hell.

Everyone's got a fucking voice - there's personae right and left:
They must learn this stuff in school: I mean, what fucking next?
Even the E.G cadets crap on, then move to the London desk.

Who needs another columnist to point out that the thing
'Bout living in the suburbs is that it ain't like Berlin? -
Just in case all of you in Melton were ever wondering.

I tell you what can get fucked, and that's fucking them for starters:
If there's one thing we just don't need, it's another mouthy smartarse
Slagging off the guys who wear footy shorts and zappatas.

You know who we've swapped them for? People who say "rad"
And blokes who go round reading books on being a modern dad -
Why, everything's so cool these days, I can't even understand Telstra ads.

Excellence surrounds us like a fucking voodoo curse:
There's Helen Garner's sister's book; there's all of modern verse;
There's world's best practice, and business men talking terse

On mobile phones on a mobile net that reaches round the earth;
Everything is excellent: nowadays, there's nothing worse
Than saying "I don't give a shit": you'd be in a fucking hearse

Driven by some consultant git who's analyzed your system
And wants to fully integrate you into modern wisdom:
He's gonna take you by the balls and flush you down the cistern.

You know what killed the Anzacs? It weren't the fucking Turks,
It was the Australians coming after them talking up the perks
Of fucking multi-skilling and how the Internet fucking works.

So give me back the good old days, though I know they really stank,
When everyone could seem to tell when you were talking wank,
And we didn't all have to go around pretending to be Yanks.

Give us back those great ideas that made this nation free,
Like the end of season footy trip, and inefficiency,
And if they aren't part of freedom - well, who gives a fuck? Not me.

Why find voice now at this stage, when silence was just fine?
Why learn to talk in coffee shops? It's a fucking wank, for mine.
Coathanger one of these effete guys, next thing you know he's cryin'.

The one thing good 'bout dumbing down is you're not so fucking smart;
I thought Australia was the country that had a silent heart -
It's time we just shutfuckingup. I know what. I'll start.

Neighbours - Everybody Loves Good Neighbours

Cancer? Cancer?! I dream of cancer -
Cancer can eat my bones:
O, lucky I would consider myself
To be racked by cancerous moans.
A fate more evil, a life more lost
The Devil for me foresaw:
Imagine the day I woke to find
The Milats had moved next door!

Was I a man of the bourgeoisie?
Ha! Of course I was more than that!
I was a latte drinking, clever thinking
Documentary making pratt.
I ran my own film company,
I was an artist, I was sure.
Then I heard my neighbour say:
"I'm Alex Milat. I'm in next door."

My films explored the evil side
Of Mankind's unknowable self;
My kids all went to private schools,
My wife, she bloomed with health;
The critics applauded my visual style
And my dissection to the core
Of the Freudian, Jungian evil id.
Then the Milats moved next door.

Ivan, of course, was doing time
But his brothers are all free men.
"There's me, there's Walter," said Alex Milat,
"And Richard - in all, there's ten.
Me and the wife moved in last week,
And when Richard's coming we're unsure.
You like films? Well, I'll bring over some… shots.
Wink. Wink. We only live next door."

A shadow, a pall, hung over my days
The first weeks after I found out.
The bruchutto was off, the antipasto stale
At the cafes where we'd all hang out.
"It's good for your art," said my cameraman,
"They're just the sort your films explore."
"Fuck my films," I told Toby, "you pretentious git -
My fucking films don't knock on my door."

My wife was a painter, sculptor too -
Her studio was set up at home.
"I can't stay here," she'd scream at me,
"It's impossible to work alone."
Her exhibition was coming up soon -
A review in the Age for sure.
"Just stay calm," I'd scream - so loudly, too,
I bet you they could've heard next door.

A couple of months after they came
I got a call from my children's school:
"Your daughter's been caught smoking pot,
And your son's started playing the fool.
The counsellor's asked them both to say
If their home is quite safe and secure."
By his tone I knew straight away
He lay the blame right at my door.

My next film was a critical flop
For the first time in my career.
"He seems to have lost his ability
To show evil up close and near."
I read that review, and gave a laugh -
Critics always think they know more.
Fucking critics should try living up close
To the people who live next door.

Toby left me the very next month
To shoot a Gillian Armstrong flick.
"You know," he told me when he left,
"I always thought you a soft cock prick."
Funding dried up; grants turned down;
My wife couldn't take any more:
"I'm leaving," she said, "I'm getting out.
I can't live here with them next door."

But the way she said it, how she left,
I knew the Milats were her excuse:
She married a successful film artist,
Not a failure. The final proof
Came when I heard three months later
She'd moved in with some director bore
Whose film was at Cannes. She was gone -
But I couldn't blame the people next door.

My children went to some alternative school
Where all the hippy children go;
After that, we sort of lost contact -
I last heard from them two years ago.
I got a job in advertising
Shooting commercials - on video, what's more.
No super 8, only mainstream crap
Designed for the people who live next door.

And yesterday came my greatest shock -
Oh, Truth comes bound in Pain:
I went to next door's intercom
And asked for Alex Milat by name.
"Who?" said a voice, incredulous.
"Why, they're not living here no more.
They moved out nearly two years ago.
Hey, aren't you the weirdo who lives next door?"

No matter how easy or sweet life is,
Be sure - your life will change;
There is a shadow hangs over us
That leaves none of us the same.
There is another person waiting to come
Buried in your deepest core:
You'll be found out. Who you really are
Lives behind your very own door.

Opposite Day
"There's seven different movies at the city multiplex;
Let's both not go to school today and give the brain a rest -
You can't say missing one day could be taken seriously -
You can be sure that no-one will tell either families."
She thought about it for a while, then let go her old school bag;
"O.K," she told him, "I'm with you." Both teachers said: "Let's wag."

That day Constable Harrison was browsing city streets;
He walked along commandingly up and down Swanston Street.
A skateboarding kid flew right down the railings of St Paul's;
"Filthy move," said Con. Harrison, "But, ah oh - duty calls."
He walked right into Brashes and walked out suspiciously.
"Here," he told the skateboarding kid, "just flogged you this C.D."

The kid just pushed his dreadlocks back and looked up in surprise -
All he saw was a drug crazed stare deep in the policeman's eyes:
"I'm disappointed in you, dude," the skater told the cop:
"If we all had your attitude, it would be just great - not.
I'm gonna let you off this once, but just you look out, son.
Next time I'll call the cops, my boy." "Like, I care," said Harrison.

Harrison at the city looked - these were the real clean streets:
Gangs of polite teenagers played rap songs like Help da Police;
The new gardens were growing where the casino once stood,
The trains, they ran bang smack on time, and people thought they would;
Husbands sat in discrete cafes and flirted with their wives;
"I'll give you head," all girlfriends said; "Don't worry," said the guys.

The skater got back on his board, and rode off carefully;
Behind a fence two teachers hid, so that he couldn't see;
"Satan's spawn!" one teacher said, "that was a year nine kid!
The one I caught just yesterday repairing his desk lid."
"He didn't see," the other said, "thank god that we weren't sprung.
I hope I die before I'm him - who'd wanna be that young?"

Somewhere a distant song did play, the number one chart track.
"That's TISM," said one teacher - then: "I hate that mainstream crap.
Give me Billy Joel any day - TISM's just for fathers.
They're so ugly I think they should start wearing balaclavas."
(And so it is that even in a world where hot is cold
It seems that teachers still listen to a turd like Billy Joel.)

Harrison saw them both and said "Shouldn't you be at school?"
"Yeah, that's right cop," both of them said, and Harrison said: "Cool."
"Got any dope?" the policeman said, and then he looked disgusted,
'Cos both teachers admitted "Nope." That's right, folks - they're busted.
"I'm taking a dim view of this." The teachers' faces paled.
(They wouldn've been in trouble with a cop from New South Wales.)

"I'm taking you back home right now - don't dare not call me pig -
And you can explain why you were caught drug free to your kids."
I hope this is a lesson that all of you understand:
Wag school, and the next thing you know, you're in paddie van.
You can imagine, I suppose, the scene in the kitchen -
The teenage sons and daughters weep, the teachers think, "Bitchin' "

What's become of our social state, when it has come to this?
A teenage child just can't control their folks' rebelliousness?
Later that night the youngest child sat reading in her bed
("Don't stay up late" she told her mum) and to her self she said:
"I've heard that once in primary school they had Opposite Day,
Where what you said and what you meant both went two different ways.

"So if you liked someone you said "I think you really suck,"
Then said "On opposite day!" - that meant they were in luck.
But imagine if this happened not just in primary school,
And everywhere and everyone followed this kiddie rule!
Imagine an opposite world, though it is hard to do -
Newspapers for illiterates! Leaders say untruths!

"The best people this world ignores whilst the brats it coddles;
Rockstars are seen as serious - also supermodels;
In this world the actors would be treated as if they're kings,
And ordinary folks would just be like anonymous nothings."
The little girl put down her book, and rest her sleepy head.
"But that world could never exist. Thank you, Satan," she said.

Rebel Without A Paunch
So my hair is sorta thinning and a colour's been applied;
And, yeah, O.K, about the paunch - I guess I sorta lied;
But you won't hear me whining like those fucking teeny stars
When I'm standing at the mirror and I'm playing air guitar.
Rock and roll is music for the angry and depraved -
So you can't really rock and roll till you're middle aged.

Moaning, between head jobs, rock stars say they're so depressed -
They should try out a real job and a boss that's not impressed;
If it's so fucking hard being young, beautiful and rich
Come on down the office, cockhead, I'd be glad for us to switch:
The Prodigy despise normal men; Keith studded his own tongue;
But the pain of that don't compare to actually being one.

Oooh, it must be so fucking hard for all the Trainspotting crew
To have to live an alienated life in the proletariat milieu,
While all us normal middle class wanker types are trying
Not to have such a great time working 40 years then dying;
Every fucking adolescent moans about how they're so deprived -
What do you fucking think it's like turning forty five?

"Oh no!" I say to the wife, "another album's due;
Another tour of the world - oh, what am I going to do?
Oh, it's such a hassle - the fans just won't leave me alone -
Remember those great old days with three kids and a loan?
Can't go to Safeways, got a photo shoot, and I'm stoned.
By the way, nearly forgot - Madonna phoned."

Hey, who doesn't wanna rock all day and party every night?
Every adult's a boring turd - that's exactly fucking right.
You'll never join the normal world, says your anguished teenage voice:
Well I don't ever remember someone giving me the choice.
So you can sing about rebellion and experiment with drug bingeing
But you won't get really angry till your teenage kids start whingeing.

The Only Thing Stopping Me From Being Happier Is That I'm Not More Depressed

I been listenin' to silverchair, now I wish I was a freak;
Been readin' The River Ophelia - I'd love a masochistic streak;
But I am just a normal guy - I even use capital "S" -
Why, I'd rather tell the papers that I secretly cross-dress;
Women Who Run With Men Who Hate Wolves just left me unimpressed -
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

To get anywhere these days it seems a problem's a necessity;
Your father's gay; heroin's passe - just another fashion accessory;
I tried Recovered Memory, but that put me in a bind
Cos I became hypnotically aware my Dad was really kind.
You might have once been traumatized, but we're not all similarly blessed -
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

I went along to the Men's Movement - "Stop crying, girl," they'd shout;
Steve Biddulph, who wrote that Manhood book, got up and punched my lights out;
I went along to the women's room, but all I did was get it wrong -
I told 'em Smack Your Bitch Up was my current favorite song;
"But the Prodigy are so confronting," I tried vainly to protest:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

I lied to the Gambling Help Line, said I'd made my family poor -
When I asked what chance recovery, they offered me nine to four;
I rang that Alan Jones guy up, but he couldn't help me either:
"You a battler or a bludger?" he said - it turns out, I was neither!
"Come back when you're a stereotype if you wanna be in the press."
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

Finally I told the wife the reason I'd been so undemanding,
And what was worse, she took it well, and was totally understanding;
Those self-destructing relationships are simply too much fuss:
Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Well, I gotta say, not us -
Would you believe I like my kids? Can you get more mentally messed?
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

Why is it just so hard for me to take things way too far?
I'd like to travel beyond good and evil, but first I gotta wash the car;
I'd like to get a nipple ring and connect it to my dodger,
But somehow it just don't suit a bloke whose name is plain old Roger-
I'd be a member of the underclass, but they'd laugh at how I dressed:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

So it looks like I got to give up my dream of joining the Bad Seeds -
Those guys can't handle confronting concepts, like "thanks" and "please";
Sneaking 16 things in the "12 Items Only" aisle will be my biggest sin;
It's the shopping center of modern consciousness that I will stay trapped in -
I buy my junk from off the streets - I find The Trading Post's the best:
I'm sure that I'd be happier if I could be more depressed.

I just know I can't be creative. Why? I'm not depressed enough -
Yet I wish I was the guy who wrote: "If you're creative - get stuffed."
There's a competition going to have the most painful lives,
But the pain you feel from nine to five I guess don't qualify.
Your life might be miserable, but that don't stop your art from being crappier:
I'm sure that I would be more depressed if I wasn't happier.

Professor Derrida Deconstructs

I know that the Romans came after the Greeks;
I went to a lecture to hear Robert Hughes speak -
I am honoured, cultured, literate - and yet
All of my life I've had one main regret.

I wish I'd slept with more girls;
I wish I'd had more sex;
I wish my wife had'a sucked my dick.

They told me the yobbos would turn out no good -
I did my homework, they turned into hoods -
I have a family. I am happy and proud.
I said no to anything I wasn't allowed.

I wish I'd done more drugs;
I wish I'd snorted coke;
I wish I had taken the risk.

The Angel of Death hovers overhead.
My family, come, gather 'round the bed;
Come my colleagues, come literate friends.
Here is my last wish, as my life ends.

I wish you'd written my books;
I wish you'd married my wife;
I wish you owned my home;

I wish my thoughts were yours;
I wish my life weren't mine;
I wish you'd never known me at all;

I wish you'd take my place;
I wish it were you lying here;
I wish you'd all get fucked.

Ya Gotta Love That
"Well, O.K," she says, "I'll come on back,
Or you come to my place" - ya gotta love that.
I've heard parents speak of their children on stage -
Ya gotta love that, at primary school age.
When driving along, the first time you see
Your band's street poster, accidentally;
Friday night after work; or Steve Waugh out to bat;
There's beer in the fridge - ya gotta love that.

"It's only a lump" - ya gotta love that
When the tests are done, and results are back;
Unleaded's got cheaper; a seat on the wing;
When at last you're sure she keeps on looking;
The Kerrigan's castle; and Kafka's? - unsure;
Literary allusions that aren't too obscure;
You're in bed by ten - ya gotta love that -
After too many nights late back to back.

Some racist bastard says, "Why, you little black…"
Che Cockatoo Collins talkin' right back -
Ya gotta love that; and the phone finally rings -
It's the girl calling; when Paul Robeson sings;
Lust, before it goes away - and then when it's back;
Flashing high beams to warn of a speed trap -
Ya gotta love that. Your band writes a slow track,
And some people like it. Ya gotta love that.

All lyrics written by TISM (control).