|
Theres a place they sit |
|
where the wind don't hit |
|
with a shadow hanging over it |
|
and sing with a sigh |
|
my dirt, my dirt is dry |
|
They put us on the steep |
|
side of the hill |
|
into our weatherboard shack on stilts |
|
all of the while |
|
the deeper the spiral |
|
Inside, all eyes |
|
fi x upon a great divide |
|
Outside, all eyes |
|
fi x upon an empty sky |
|
theres something in the garden |
|
that makes her unhappy |
|
theres something in the garden |
|
that makes her unhappy |
|
I dreamt that they found us |
|
the colour of coal |
|
as smoke crept through the fly wire holes |
|
and my dirt it was drier |
|
than the ash from the fire |
|
I count the days |
|
in sand and sticks |
|
and act brave on the face of it |
|
theres not a cloud in the sky |
|
my dirt, my dirt is dry |
|
Inside ,all eyes |
|
fix upon a great divide |
|
Outside, all eyes |
|
fix upon an empty sky |
|
theres something in the garden |
|
that makes her unhappy |
|
theres something in the garden |
|
that makes her unhappy |
|
come on let it wash us down, |
|
down deep |
