Sunday, 16 November 2014

November 16: Do yourself a favour ...


Countdown it's back, and I’m watching a track
Of ABBA when the girls were so hot
I was in love with them all, and a very young Paul
Would sing with just all that he'd got

There were dozens of bands, from so many lands
But there were hundreds from right here in Australia
And we watched as he tried, though his brain was it fried
The short chat with Prince Charles was a failure

Now I look back at those days, which for some are a haze
And my eyes they swell with my tears
I loved every song that I heard, the new, old and absurd
But for me they were wonderful years

Back when Molly was King, and for him they did sing
His ear was a passport to fame
To our lives he brought passion, and the most awful fashion
But no Sunday at six was the same

So we thank you old mate, your show it was great
The stars and the songs they had flavour
Not to everyone’s style, but is lasted a while
Countdown's on, so do yourself a favour ...

Saturday, 15 November 2014

November 15: Verandah blues ...


I’m on my verandah, I’m having a beer
The music is playing, the wife she’s not here
I’m playing Paul Kelly, there’s nought on the ‘tele
I think I might have one more

The weather is cooling, the sky it is grey
It’s really quite pleasant, hope the rain stays away
I’ll just have that next one, the day is all gone
A barbeque sounds quite inviting

I’ve been thinking about it, it’s making me sad
I miss all the good times, that I once had
There’s really no winner, I’m such a beginner
I need to stop it invading my mind

Tomorrow is Sunday, should I get out for a walk
Should I find a Koala, engage in small talk
But once I’m outside I might go for a ride
I won’t know what to do until then

When I was twenty, I thought life was a laugh
Back then I knew nothing, not the wheat from the chaff
Life should be greater, nearly thirty years later
I’m sure it is in it’s way

How did Paul Kelly get inside my head
Was it something he’s singing, is it something he said
The clock on his silo can’t show eleven degrees
Nothing right now makes much sense

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

November 4: Horses for courses ...


Hit me, beat me, whip me hard, so I’ll stretch out another yard
Check your bets, clutch your card, I’ll bring the silver home
Flog me, starve me, run me out, have a drink, and for me shout
You know what it’s all about, I run so hard I foam

Feed me, load me up with weight, so I’ll go faster out the gate
Give not a toss about my fate, just race me ‘til I’m done
Run me ‘til my bones give in, celebrate me when I win
When I win the Cup, it’s you who grins, for me it isn’t fun

What a lot of poppy cock, pissed on champers, in their frocks
Just once a year, eyes on the clock, in minutes it’s all over
This is no sport I’m telling you, and when it’s done we go for glue
Or out to stud with nought to do, chomping on the clover

But if I should once break a bone, get the vet man on the phone
Bring his 22 along, and shoot me in the head
Hold a sheet so no-one sees, as one bullet reaches me
I’ve run my race, and now I’m free, it's better that I’m dead