Bruises bruises bruises
Cuts cuts cuts
Giblets Giblets Giblets
Guts guts guts
Death - Death
Hacksaw hacksaw hacksaw
Scrape scrape scrape
Murder murder murder
Rape rape rape
Torture torture torture
Rack rack rack
Slaughter slaughter slaughter
Attack attack attack
Bruises bruises bruises
Cuts cuts cuts
Giblets Giblets Giblets
Guts guts guts
Death - Death
Hacksaw hacksaw hacksaw
Scrape scrape scrape
Murder murder murder
Rape rape rape
Torture torture torture
Rack rack rack
Slaughter slaughter slaughter
Attack attack attack
Work, play; Night, day -
They shit me.
Good, bad; Happy, sad -
They shit me.
He, she; They, we -
They shit me.
Rich, poor; Less, more -
They shit me.
Out, in; Fat, thin -
They shit me.
Black, white; Left, white -
They shit me.
Epistemology shits me;
Ontology shits me;
Phraseology shits me;
Scatology shits me;
Life shits me;
This song shits me;
Even shit shits me;
But they don't shit me one tiny, eentzy, weentzy, miniscule, macroscopic, nanoseismic, pan-insignificant,
zoophytic, neo-nonexistent little bit compared to the way
I shit me.
Truck you, Australia Felix;
Truck you, the sheep's back;
Truck you, Tasmania;
Truck you, Big Mac.
Chorus
I drive a truck.
Truck you, Scotch and soda;
Truck you, the Underground;
Truck you, the enigmatic coda;
Truck you, lost and found.
Truck you, cunt burger cheese;
Truck you, pubic hair;
Truck you, if you please;
Truck you, five bucks the pair.
Don't wanna do soundchecks;
Don't wanna do gigs;
Don't wanna do any rehearsal;
I just wanna get a girl -
Maybe have kids -
A total role reversal.
Put away my songbook;
Put away my guitar;
Put away my balaclava;
Swap them for a briefcase -
And a family car -
I just wanna be a father.
Life is like cum, you gag but you swallow
When it goes down your windpipe and comes out tomorrow.
Oh! Never forget that you'll never remember
My name once your lip's off my member.
Remember the days when you were a lad,
Trying to fuck the arse of your mum and blow the fuck outta dad?
Or, if you're a lass, that part of you achin'
For the guy who kisses mum and brings home the bacon.
Oh, what happens now we're as naked as babies,
All over each other like V.D. or rabies?
In each others' jockettes long may we wallow.
Life is like cum, you gag but you swallow.
Base jumping's for pussies
Kick boxing's for thugs
Jet skiers are morons,
Weight lifters need drugs
Abseiling is pointless
Why climb up a wall?
Only right wankers
Play beach volleyball.
The X-Treme Sport you haven't tried yet
is kissing my arse.
Kiss my arse.
Met a snowboarder
Who wasn't a turd?
Nah, neither have I
The idea's absurd
You get on a plank
Slide down some slush
Fall on your arse
Say "Man, what a rush!"
I turned on the telly
I just went, like, "Whoa!"
And used the remote
To flick through the shows!
I think I'll watch footy
I know it's not x-treme
But why take it to the max
When you can take it to the mean?
Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder!
There's a pomegranate up your blurter!
Eating fruit is mean and vicious!
Keep your hands off Golden Delicious!
World Bank is wrong! So is fetta!
My voodoo man will make it better
My voodoo man speaks only Hindi
Put super-glue on my Bindi
Would the last person to leave please turn out the enlightenment?
I'm lacto-enzyme-oxy intolerant!
I use breathatarian-based emollient
Meditation makes me ebullient!
I've never earned a day's emolument.
Everywhere, astral-signed hippiness
Primitive as Australopithecus,
Panders to some deah-head's wishes
Next we'll be back to burning witches.
If your dishes stink in you putrid sink;
If your vacuum cleaner's bust;
If your refrigerator's on the blink,
C'mon, sing along with us:
Chorus:
Whinge rock
This song's for the alienated
In their ghetto dwelling fringe.
Capitalism's a harsh cruel world -
C'mon pine heads, have a whinge:
Every song on the radio,
Someone's moaning about heart burn,
Or Sting's lost his copy of Jung -
C'mon listener, now it's your turn.
They called my dad the only Rabbi in jackboots;
They called my mum the wife of my dad;
They circumcised me at the Nuremburg rally:
That's how I became a Semitic Nazi for life.
My mum always told me not to annex Poland;
My dad always told me not to invade Russia;
That's what you get for being a rebel -
Stuck in a bunker, eating unleaven bread.
I'm as popular as a Jew in Beirut;
I'm responsible for millions of deaths;
I've decimated more than half of Europe;
Kinda makes you want to boogie.
Tend tend tend,
Tend to your trodden lives,
While I I I
Poke you between the eyes;
I can smell smell smell,
Smell you from here
'Cause your pants pants pants
Are stained with fear.
I met a member of Generation X
Said, "What's in with you kids these days?
I'm so old I'll probably never've heard of it" -
And then he said, "Purple Haze."
Now I know that we should separate our garbage -
The environment'll give us thanks;
But it's going too far when teenagers re-cycle
Their parents' adolescent angst.
chorus: Do you wanna save the world? Don't recycle garbage.
Monday night is 50's night;
Tuesday night is 60's night;
Wednesday night is 70's night;
Friday night is Thursday night.
Paul Mc. Cartney once said that the Sex Pistols
Were another band doin' Chuck Berry;
At the time I thought, "You boring old wanker",
But now I think it's downright scary.
What's so good about the 60's?
That we gotta keep rewindin' the clock?
You know the best thing about the 60's?
They'd never heard of "Classic Rock."
Your life is like a candle
Lighting your way
A beacon in the darkness
So snuff it right away
The world is like a oyster
A fortune inside
The pearl is waiting for you
So clam up and die.
Kill all the red-blooded, flag waving, young yankee boys,
String their torsos up, and use their dicks as toys,
Nuke every U.S. city, blow them to the sky-
Every single fucking Yank deserves to fucking die.
You gotta work real hard,
To be a faithful man,
You gotta lie
For one extra person.
You've gotta make your bed,
And sleep in it,
You sort of wish
That you were solo.
You've gotta work real hard,
To be a married man,
You've gotta say
"Love is no illusion."
You've gotta tell yourself,
"No grass is greener."
You've got a wife, got a life
They're in collusion
You've gotta work real hard,
To be a solo man,
You've gotta hang
Shit on married men.
You've gotta go to bars,
And smoke in bands,
You've gotta think
That you're happy.
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 rumors 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 privacyÂ...
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?
Bert Newton; Warwick Capper; Samantha Fox; Richard Wilkins; Don Lane; Rocky Burnette; Ernie Sigley; Olivia Newton John; New Kids On The Block; Billy Ray Cyrus; Uri Geller; A Flock Of Seagulls; Betty Boo; Vanilla Ice; Jacko; Bros; Cliff Young; Victoria Nicholls; The Daddo's; Tony Barber; Shannon Doherty; TISM; Fairlie Arrow; Mike Whitney; Chelsea Brown; Noeline Daniher; Ugly Dave Gray; Jeannie Little; Peter
Reith; Pete Smith; Brian Mannix; Scotty Palmer; Julia
Roberts; Dennis Walter; Jade Hurley; Elle Mc. Pherson;
Brian Bury; Denise Drysdale; Jo Baily; Bongo Starkie;
Russel Cooper; Edie Sedgwick; Bianca Jagger; Racey; Tony Modra; Gumpie; Paul Janoskis; The Pony; Brandon Lee; Travis Bickle; Kerry-Ann Keneally; Terry Willessee; Harold Holt; Nadia Komenesh; The Archies; Gary Numan; Tubular Bells; Alan Parsons Project; Peter Frampton; Lynyrd Skynyrd; Ken Done; Albie Mangles; Anyone called Trevor; Snow; General Ambrose Burnside; Yes; Smokey; Sailor; Graham Hick; Graham Taylor; Dr. Hook; Jazzy Jeff; Mandy Smith; Lee Majors; Ivana Trump; Cicciolina; River Phoenix; Plastic Bertrande; Farah Fawcett Majors; Rob Lowe; Brenda & Brandon; Brett Easton; All of Prince's girlfriends; Bubbles; Julio Inglesias; Kenny G. ; Gordon Elliot; Paloma Picasso; Angie Bowie; Gerald Ford; Jeremy Jordan; Laurie Anderson; Diana Spenser; Prince Charles; Prince Andrew; Every Royal anywhere; Zsa Zsa Gabor; The Hood; The Cult; Sammy Davis Jnr.; Peter Lawford; James Dean; Dan Qualle; Jim Morrison; Jethro Tull; Janis Ian; Pope John Paul I; Bill Wyman; Britt Eckland; Karen Finlay; John Cage; Any performance artist; Linda Mc. Cartney; Kim Bassinger; Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music; Chipmunk punk; Andy Gibb; David Koresh; Everyone on Neighbours; Jennifer Flowers; Camilla Parker-Bowles; John Bonham; Starsky & Hutch; Mickey Rourke; Le Toya Jackson; Boyz II Men; Classix Nouveau; The Knack; Klaatu; Kriss Kross; East 17; Pearl Jam; Jimmy Swaggart; Pee Wee Herman; Tommy Hanlen Jnr. ; Peter Andre; Greg Evans; The Sharp
Second Plebian: 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.
Johnny's Mum took drugs and alcohol;
Johnny's mates knew she was a mole;
She told Johnny to be a rock and roll star -
He said, "No way, I'm staying right where I are."
Chorus:
Stay home Johnny, stay home...(etc.)
Johnny got home, he went to bed;
Johnny went on to do Melbourne Med.;
Johnny got rich being a doctor,
And then he died after a happy but boring existence.
No one knew Johnny, and he didn't care;
When on the bottom storey, he climbed the stair;
Johnny didn't get very far:
Most of all, he hated guitar.
I
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!
II
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."
III
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.
IV
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 someÂ... shots.
Wink. Wink. We only live next door."
V
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."
VI
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.
VII
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.
VIII
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.
IX
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."
X
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.
XI
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.
XII
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?"
XIII
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.
There's violence on the television
And letter bombs in the mail:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
Famine eats up children;
The peace talks always fail:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
You might have double malaria -
Doctors see you and go pale:
But things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail.
Christ Himself on the cross
Told the guy banging in the nail:
"Mate, things can't be all that bad
'Cos Derryn Hinch went to jail."
I can put up with Ronald Reagan
I can put up with Micham Begin
I can put up with tetraplegia
I can put up with total amnesia
I can put up with black spiky hair
I can put up with germ warfare
I can put up with Chasers and Inflation
I can put up with hyperventilation
I can put up with bowel dysfunction
I can put up with nuclear destruction
I can put up with Mike Willesse - well, at a pinch:
But one thing I can not put up with is Derryn fucking Hinch.
Volare... oh, oh!...
cantare... oh, oh, oh, oh!
nel blu, dipinto di blu
felice di stare lass
Ma tutti i sogni nell'alba svaniscon perch
Quando tramonta, la luna li porta con
Ma io continuo a sognar e
negli occhi tuoi belli, che sono blu
come un cielo trapunto di stelle.
If I were Britney's boyfriend
I'd be playing hard to get
She'd come around beggin' for me, but
I'd say, "No no, not yet.
Cos God has told me personally
That I should remain pure.
Just love me, baby, for myself."
And more of that manure.
Thou Shalt Not Britney Spear
Britney would go off her tree
At my refusal
"I'm Britney freakin' Spears,
Rejection's not that usual."
"I love you, darling, for yourself,"
I'd explain to little Miss
"It's your personality I like.
Not your body. Serious."
As far as a coy mistress goes
You'll like it more than she
When, upon her curt refusal
You whole-heartedly agree
Girls justly hate the lecher man
With sweating, hairy paw
But what happens when Boy says no?
They hate that even more
"Just like I told J-Lo," I'd say,
"It's not your fame and wealth,
It's not your perfect bod and face
It's you I want. Yourself.
Jesus wouldn't like us to
If he ever knew it"
"Stuff him," I'm sure she'd say
"Come on, babe, let's do it."
It was at that very bar I had my worst trip -
It was only last Saturday, I'd come to the Grip
With Keegan and Troy and a few other skegs
When this weird dude comes up to me and he says:
"I got some leaf the other day up at Byron
And a couple of cones - you wanna try 'em?"
Now, I know I was pissed and the light's pretty bad
But I looked at this dude - and it was my dad!
I was speechless - I stayed rigid with fright.
He said: "Do you know Evan censored fucked Kylie censored Friday night?"
His hair was in dreds; his T-shirt said Slaam -
I couldn't believe this was the old man.
I see him every day hanging around with bankers.
"TISM play here next Saturday", he said. "They're wankers."
"But Dad...", I stammered, "you're...you're...I mean, you're not..."
Just then my Uncle Leroy came up. "Woa", he said. "Awesome pot."
I looked 'round this club - my sight, it was hazy -
But there was Aunt Ethol, and Uncle Fred, and wife Daisy!
My eyes finally focused on this host of drug takers:
My whole family was here - and they'd turned into skaters.
"Gotta lash, dude", said Dad, "can't afford to linger
I gotta get your mum home for a bit of stinkfinger."
I fainted right there in a swoon on the floor;
Keegan and Troy took me out by that very door.
It was like watching a movie from end to beginin';
It was like forcing Michael censored to fuck older women;
It was all in reverse, all a horrid contrast -
It was like seeing Jennifer censored put the Coke bottle up Johnny censored's arse.
I woke up next morning - all was normal again.
"Listen son", said Dad, "I want you home by ten.
You were raving last night; your friends are all thugs;
You were so out of it I think you're on drugs."
I grabbed his hand, said, "Dad - thank god it's you!
And you're telling me off! Oh Dad, I love you!!"
"Smartarse", he muttered, and went off to work
The same boring, normal, conventional jerk.
So skaters and skegheads and surfers - be warned -
Thank god for parents and teachers and policeman uniformed:
Remember as you slag them off and you cuss;
When you are forced to do homework, and at the next drug bust -
I have had a vision of a world even more suss.
Remember - it would be worse if they acted like us.
Children soften their parents' hardened features;
Students busy buying presents for their teachers;
Wives cuddle husbands, and playfully tease 'em;
Poets write lyrics, some of which please 'em;
A stone fells bird, only manages to stun her;
Spring's allowed to stay around for Summer;
Casting doubts away, it's time to find
A gentle, literate woman, fuck her from behind.
'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.
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.
I've been working 76 hours per week;
I hate every moment -
But I do it because
Somehow I like the pain.
Chorus:
I'm fucked in the head.
When I was five years old
I fell in love with my sister;
I still have a strange attraction
To women with faces like her.
Deep down I'm guilty still
About my treatment of my peers -
I used to think they were the fiddle,
And I was Nero and Rome was burning.
I was born in the emergency lane
Of a 6-lane German autobahn
The opening of the first 8 lane fly-over
Was my old father's favourite yarn
I'd knew that I'd be, sooner or later
The famous Mordialloc Road duplicator.
From lower Springvale to the Frankston Freeway
Until you get to that bitumen stain
That runs between two road highways,
Happy people trapped in its invidious single lane.
If you're behind a truck or freighter
Say, "Thank god for the Mordialloc Road duplicator".
So I work for the RCA
I got big bulldozers and earth shifters
I dig all those cut away slopes
With 700 tonne capacity lifters
If you're interested in roadworks, see me later
I'm the Mordialloc Road duplicator
One day all the way to Portsea
It'll be all big divided freeways
There'll be turn offs to Tootgarook
Cranbourne, Frankston and Five Ways
The whole peninsula will be my crater
I'm the Mordialloc Road duplicator.
All you people on Christmas vacation
Here is the reason for jubilation:
There ain't no better road works in the nation
Than the Mordialloc Road duplication.
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 fingers and said, "fuck this fuckin hole"
but to his faithful roadie he says, 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 and become a become a tapist 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 couldn't work it out, get fucked, they can kiss my rotten ass
work out what happened to real music, is what i'd like to ask
everything is all machine, run with middy and lay dash,
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
goldies the name of the light beer, elastica holds up socks
the roadies sat there silent next to the ejaculating star
what's the fucken point of drum and bass, if no one can play guitar?
CHORUS
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
have you seen those fucken clubbers, with their peroxided dreds?
dressed up in fucking adidas, like fucking fucked fuckheads
i wouldn't drop a tab of E, if you fuckin paid me man
i got the guts for LSD, and the only jungle i know is man
these roadies sat still silent, but then he finally began to speak
actually star, i maybe shoulda told you this last week
but i scored a job as DJ at the latest techno club
i'm sick of working with a loser, see ya later bob
well the roadie owned the PA and the roadie owned the ute,
the roadie told star to get out or he'd bash one up his shoot
and there on that cold freeway, star walked along alone
of course he got kicked out halfway between emergency telephones
CHORUS
aussie
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie, (what a man, what a man, what a man)
"fuck ya's all", said star aloud in the emergency stopping lane
to quote from that chick juliet, hey what's in her name?
a good song's just a good song, just the same as long ago
but dressing up as something new and suddenly you're picasso
every white bald pommy cunt, thinks that you're so hip
read MNE from ten years ago and there's all the same dickslip
prodigy are just the band who are getting it just this year
rolling stones got no more cred. than fucken new idea
stars anguish voice rolls in grief as he cryed unto the moon
in the end when all is said and done, a tune's just a fucking tune
star played his amp far too loud, his hearing was sorta gone
so he never heard the grinding squeal as the truckie put the brakes on
26 road train wheels, played a tune upon his head
"he just wondered into the traffic", the distraught driver said
the cops had seen it all before, the ambels washed the freeway clean
there ain't no contest when you put a man against a machine
aussie
aussie (aussie guitar)
aussie (aussie guitar)
aussie (what a man, what a man, what a man)
aussie
aussie
aussie, (aussie guitar)
aussie,
aussie,
aussie, (it's a man against machine)
I'm a bogan, baby, always was;
I'm only happy when I punch a Mod -
And in walks this pine head turd,
I looked at my mates, said, "Thank you, God."
Dyed black hair, done all spiky;
Saw him laugh when they played Bon Jovi;
Had a jacket on just like a bikie;
If there's a bigger Mod, could you please show me?
Chorus
Snot nosed jumped up little bludger,
When I see ya, wanna punch ya.
Me and my mates were gathered round;
What was on? Well, nothing much.
Had me pair of mockers on -
Denims nearly crushed my crutch;
Thought I'd go into town,
But then I said, "Well, what the fuck?"
Fosters Car Park, I've always found -
Just hang out there and I'm in luck.
So we followed this guy out of the pub,
Told him, "Rock and roll will never die",
Then down on the dirty bitumen
Me mates and I showed him just why.
Do you wanna die for art?
Do you wear black leather pants?
Come on down to Fosters Car Park,
Me and the boys give you your chance.
Five points for hitting petrol-heads, Jet-skiers too
No points for hitting P Platers, they do the work for you
Three points for a Volvo-driver, dock one for stereotyping
But here's the way to maximm points, you'll do it without trying
Ten points for a razor scooter, double if it's not a kid
Smash a Pumpkin, kill a Heidi, celebrity's worth a fiver
Hit anyone on Reality TV, call it "Non-Survivor"
Three points for a pagan worshipper, four if they go to heaven
Five for a World Business Leader, plus six for S Eleven
There's no point to this world, let's make that clear
But you can leave your mark, on a smaller sphere
Tell the cops "He just came out of nowhere"
One point for road rage tailgaiters
Two for custom license platers
Three for the Beamer driving ponce
Four for a limo full of debutantes
Five for the re-made retro classic
Six for the original while we're at it
Seven if it's open-top red and sporty
Bonus if the driver's over forty
Eight for bumper-sticker teasers
Remember to honk if you love Jesus
We must observe equal opportunity
Put the pedal to the metal and hit everybody.
Take your love;
Boil it in a pot -
Scrape the sides
From bottom to top;
Wrap the rest in The Age,
Tie it in a knot,
Bury it deep in the ground
And forget the lot.
Wait twenty years
In secret hope:
Nothing ever grows.
If your Luke Perry sideburns just wont grow - that's dancin'!
Or if you can't seem to dress like they do in Cosmo - that's dancin'!
You admitted you don't like the taste of alcohol - that's dancin'!
You thought "mull" was a Paul Mc Artney song - that's dancin'!
Chorus
So give us none of your aggravation
We've had it with your discipline
Saturday night's alright for fighting
Except when you have to stay in
Strictly lounge room
You know it's time to get the razor blade out
Step into that noose and swing
When it's Saturday night and you're all by yourself
Watching re-runs of That's Dancin'
There's a party goin' on down the local church hall - that's dancin'!
You know some people going, all you need to do is call - that's dancin'!
Leave your lonely room tonight and you'll be saved - that's dancin'!
But you flick on ABC and foxtrot your chance away - that's dancing
I was waiting at the Pearly Gates
But the angels said "It's members only, mate"
St. Peter was shepherding in the meek
But all he said to me was "Schoolies Week."
Lucifer's got issues with Paradise
So he blocked the view with miles of high-rise
Car yards far as the eye can see
And a million teens who think they're free
Schoolies Week
Schoolies Week
In Hell it's always
Schoolies Week
Devil don't need fire and brimstone
His place is full of kids with mobile phones
You still hear weeping and gnashing teeth
But that's just bad E and too much lemon Ruski
Monday!! - Binge drinking
Tuesday!! - The world owes yuo a living
Wednesday!! - Everyone calls you "man"
Thursday!! - Every car's a Divvy Van
Friday!! - One big Desperate Dateless Ball
Saturday!! - Sorted for Rohipnol
Sunday!! - Wake up with vomit breath
Monday!! - Back to the start again
So you better pray you haven't been bad
Or you could wake up in a "Say No To Drugs" ad
Devil rubs his hands in glee
And in a booming voice shouts: "Fluffy Ducks are on me!"
I don't want to live and I don't want to die
I want to shoot heroin through the eye;
I want it to shine and I want it to rain
I want to get hit by a freight train.
Chorus:
Be-bop-a-lula-a-lom-bam-balsy
I think I got Saturday night palsy
A wom-bom-a-lu-bom-ba-lom-bam-balsy
I think I got Saturday night palsy
Someone better shoot me before it's too late
I wanna be impaled on a fifty foot stake
My V.U. meter's in the overload
I think my aorta is gonna explode.
I got a brand new car and a new set of clothes
I wanna pull my brain out through my nose
Show me to women and show me to the bar
I wanna jump into a vat of hot tar.
Everybody's got it,
Every guy and girl:
Wait until you snuff it,
You'll have it as well.
The pus of the dead is yummy,
It froths up on your mouth,
It comes up in your tummy
When you've run out of health.
It is yellow and sticky
And it's waiting just for you.
It tastes much worse than bickies -
I'd rather eat my poo.
I've got trouble with my mother;
I've got trouble with my wife;
I've got an apple fritter -
Slit my stomach open.
Chorus:
Whole lotta love
Pus Pus Pus Pus
John Mc. Clintoff
John Mc. Clintoff
Slip on my ice;
Slip on my slide;
Who is that rectangular man?
Fifteen men don't make a football team.
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.
"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.
Don't get off the train at Richmond
The skins want your Doc Martins
Don't get off the train at Camberwell
The writers want your Air Jordons
Don't get off the train at Essendon
You'll get attacked for your moccas
Don't get off the train at Frankston
You'll get attacked by the rockers
Don't get off the train at Eltham
The yodel yobs want your lederhosen
Don't get off the train at Caulfield
The yid boys want your copy of The Chosen
Don't get off the train at Broadie
The petrol heads want your Torana
Don't get off the train at Laverton
The gorilla gang wants your banana
Don't get off the train at Broadford
The bikies want your leather jacket
Don't get off the train at Kooyong
Tennis toughs want your racket
Don't get off the train at Box Hill
The skaters want your ramp
Don't get off the train at Noble Park
3174 want your postage stamp
Don't get off the train at Ringwood
The Goths want your mascara
Don't get off the train at Windsor
The sandmen want your pyjamas
Jimbo, boy, you're a croc of shit,
You're a boozed, selfish thug;
Why don't you give your mouth a go
And in the other hole put a plug?
By Christ you've got a long long way
On a schoolboy's talent with words -
One crappy bit of symbolism
And you're adored by a army of turds.
You're a selfish, rude, arrogant prick;
You're basically pretty stupid;
Your mysticism's a lump of shit,
And so are all the girls you rooted.
So don't talk about being sad and lonely
Or fucking misunderstood
Because underneath that self-pitying phoney
Is a brutal, selfish hood.
I support the police that took you off stage,
I support the fact you bled;
I support the cops who carried you off,
I support the fact you're dead.
I think that you're a troubled guy
And I think that's nothing new;
I think your fans are a bunch of turds
Almost as immature as you.
And when I'm in my supermarket
And some prick pushes in front of my trolley
I'll be reminded of your stinking bravado
And I'll ask the cunt to say sorry.
You fans would excuse any rudeness
Just because it comes from you -
You'd tell them to go drop dead
And they'd say, "Oh, how true, how true, how TRUE."
You need a nine to five job, Jimbo;
You need to get to Flinders St. by train -
Go and find yourself a regular income,
Then you can write a song about pain.
Try and save for the kids' school fees;
Take some care when you drive a car;
Put your rubbish in a bin
You fucking great rock super star.
You've spawned a host of cock-sure shits
Who are nearly always filthy rich,
And think because they're a bit like Jimbo
They can act like stinking pricks:
An army of brainless, arty youth
That look down upon us common plods -
But they barrack for good ol' Jimbo
Like the fucking Richmond cheer squad.
So when you're listening to Morrison Hotel
And Jimbo's in top form
Whining about this harsh cruel world
And the fact he was ever born
Remember that his fans are rapt
And mourning their suffering lives,
And go down and discuss it at Subterrain -
And least, if Daddy'll drive.
Jimbo, king of the private school kids:
The girls from P.L.C.
Who identify with his tortured soul
Because they've got dropped by friend number three,
Who was Kent from Xavier College -
In H.S.C. he got a "A" for English,
And between Jimbo and William Blake
He hasn't the brains to distinguish.
Jimbo, father of a generation
Of private school depression idols;
From Nick Cave on, they don't kill themselves -
Just tell us why they're suicidal.
He's made self-pity legitimate;
It means we'll have to face
One after another artist with integrity,
Like REO Speedwagon - sorry, I meant Hugo Race.
Well, up your arse Jimbo old man,
Up your fucking hole:
You're a prick pure and simple -
It's about time you were told;
And up your arse to all your fans;
Up your arse to your tortured, artistic hell;
And while we're fucking at it,
Up your arse to Morrissey as well;
Up your arse to Robert Smith;
Up your arse to Albert Camus;
All those "I'm suffering for my arty" types,
Jimbo, I blame them all on you.
Anyone who handles life's pain
With a token of mature self examination -
It's time they told these pounces to stick it
Up their bogus self infatuation:
And if you think I'll stop at this,
The answer is, no way, never -
If you think Jim Morrison was a wanker,
Well, Christ - I can rave on like this forever.
[from: "Sixteen Nights of Violent Orgasm With The Masters of English Literature"]
T.S. Eliot tuned the radio, couldn't get rid of the static:
Serves him right for being so fucking enigmatic.
T.S. Eliot fixed his motor car, snapped the clutch cable -
Betcha my youngest daughter could drink him under the table.
T.S. Eliot lost his wallet when he went into town;
Serves him right for hanging round with the likes of Ezra Pound.
T.S. Eliot thinks he's famous because he is a genius -
But don't cha know I'm ambivalent about the modernist achievement.
It's a haunting world we live in full of despair
I ponder on man's great questions as I whittle away my chair
I've seen a lot of problems in my lonely life
Torment and psychosis - where'd I put that pocket knife?
How can man be so oppressed if we are all born free?
I sit alone and wonder with shavings up to my knees
There must be something that can be done for those of us that are able
I'll get to the problem right away, but first I'll get rid of my dining table.
I know how to cheat at Tattslotto
I got a great idea for a song
I know the truth about Marylin Monroe
I can prove Einstein's theory wrong
But that's not what motivates me.
I'm interested in apathy.
I can predict mankind's fate
I know where there's oil in Bass Straight
All the deserts I could irrigate!
All the poor I could emancipate!
But none of this petty stuff for me.
I'm interested in apathy.
I've got the cure for all known disease
I know how to make money grow on trees
I know how to stop terrorism
I know one of the guys in TISM
Enough of this wretched pedantry.
I'm interested in apathy.
Here we are at the last verse.
I've lost interest.
Howdy champ - you been pickin' the daisies?
Feelin' sort of morally lazy?
Ready to go mother fucking crazy?
Please to meet you - name's Marty Scorcese.
Why don't we go catch a movie?
Something light hearted and woozy
About the killing of teenage floozy,
Or beating someone black and bloozy.
Got this mate called Robbie Di Nero;
Like him a lot, he's a goddamn hero -
Drop around there for a drink of beer- Oh,
You'll end up feelin' like zero.
Just when I feel my happiness startin'
I bump into this guy called Martin.
I.
The scene at Appomattox;
The Greeks at Thermopylae;
The men at Dienbienphu
Lining up to die:
A million ghosts will stop the throat
Of any who does mock
General Grant and General Lee
And all at Appomattox.
II.
There in every classroom;
In every secondary school;
And in every workplace,
Every typing pool;
There, beside you on the bus,
With that lifeless stare -
Nervously, outside surgery,
Waiting for doctors there...
III.
There's cancer in the South of France;
Cancer lurks in Rome;
Cancer circles the whole world
Until it finds you home.
In heart and liver it is waiting
For all of us, or most;
Our very cells join hands and sing -
"Loser - losing - lost."
You look like Yassa Arafat,
You look like Indira Ghandi;
You look like Andre Gromeko -
You look like Roberts; Sandy.
Chorus:
I'll 'ave ya.
You look like Ronald Regan,
You look like Adolf Hitler;
You look like George Shultz -
You look like Magilla Gorrilla.
You look like Abel Tasman,
You look like Barney Rubble;
You look like Mussolini -
If ya pickin' me, there'll be trouble
