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If You Don't Fight You Lose - Lyrics

ONE MORE BORING NIGHT IN ADELAIDE

Well it's one more boring Thursday night in Adelaide
And it looks like everybody must have died
There's no one on the streets and nothing on TV
Well I think I'll go and burn my TV guide
Doesn't Ernie Sigley bring you down?
Don't you think Mike Willesee's a clown?

Oh well I think I'd like to go and hear some rock'n'roll music played
So I'll check the amusement pages of the paper
Reggae bands doing one night stands at the Lion Hotel and Arkaba
And the girl at the bar thinks I'm going to take her home in my MG and
Hanging out at discos brings you down
Hanging out at discos brings you down

Down on Anzac highway in my rusty old FV
And I'm looking for some food to take away
Finger lickin' kitten and a double fisted bun
Well I've chewed and spewed and so I'm here to say
Orange laminex pizza bars bring you down
Orange laminex pizza bars bring you down

Yes we know it was the festival of art and all that stuff
And the culture vultures still sat on the fence
Before you put your bum on those plush red seats take a look in your backyard
Don't we need some changes in this town?
Arty farty cities bring you down
Don't we need some changes in this town?
Before you put your bum on those plush red seats take a look in your backyard
Don't we need some changes in this town?
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Carrington Cabaret
Are you proud white Australians wherever you are?
Beer in your hand and your elbow on the bar
All you people from Darwin to the south
With your blue faded jeans and a joint in your mouth

Young sophisticates making the scene
At the Lion Hotel in your rolled up jeans
Something going on, we're all employed
Last night another pickininny died

In the dirt filled gutters on the cold concrete
At the nightclub end of Hindley Street
Sit dusky young ladies learning the rules
From drunks and traps and the hard knocks school

Milky brown eyes from drinking all day
Till it's time at the Carrington Cabaret
Down at the port a sick black mum
Rings for a taxi but the taxi won't come

It's probably too painful for us to understand
But two hundred years ago we overran their land
Dreamtime's just a nightmare now, an alcoholic sleep
Australia land of things to do have you got time to weep

Oh our great free land of fire and rain
White man's wealth and black man's pain
You've got to be white if you want to get in
It's the black man's country but the white man's in

Too utter distasteful for civilized man
Hide them away in Arnhem Land
Shake your head and say "That's that"
As you kick away the bottles on Pinky flat

It's probably too painful for us to understand
But two hundred years ago we overran their land
Dreamtime's just a nightmare now, an alcohol sleep
Australia land of things to do have you got time to weep
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Beaumont Rag
I am a wealthy barrister
About 100 bucks a word
I've got a plum stuck in my mouth
I'm really such a
Really such a turd

I attended PAC
I meet a wife at the prefects' ball
I am the elder fotheringay
And she was apprentice,
She was apprentice whore

I passed my matriculation
Four Ds and a C
Daddy bought be a Mercedes Benz
And he bought me a law de'
Bought me a law degree

I voted for Mal Fraser
Was the decent thing to do
Was a vote against the communists
And I hope that you did,
Hope that you did too

I love to read the bulletin and watch the ABC
I love to wear by well-informed opinions constantly
All my friends are professionals from polite society
So come and sing the middle class Liberal
I've got a home in Beaumont Rag with me

I bought a brand new Range Rover
the outback is a lark
I slip it into four-wheel drive
At gates of national
gates of national park

Oh the working class are out of place
when they are on strike
I drive my Jag in circles
Trying to knock them off their,
knock them off their bikes

I love to read the bulletin and watch the ABC
I love to wear by well-informed opinions constantly
All my friends are professionals from polite society
So come and sing the middle class Liberal
I've got a home in Beaumont Rag with
Come and sing the middle class Liberal
I've got a home in Beaumont Rag with me
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Peter the Cabby
Peter's a cabby on Adelaide roads
And in five o'clock traffic that's a hard road to hoe
Hunts for his family in a Holden with a two-way and meter
And there's no air conditioning where he plies his trade
On the green plate stand by the Rundle Arcade
Sits and he waits for the privilege of driving you home

And there's no Mr. Muzak in the front of his cab
Just a crackling voice dog-eared roadmap
And a torch and a biro sliding around on the dash
And your life's in his hand when they're gripped on the wheel
The water pump rattles and the Michelins squeal
He's been driving for years sometimes it feels like forever

And knows very well your city of gardens
He'll take you from town drop you at Marsden
Peak hour: five minutes, if you think that's easy just try it
He can change a flat tire in three minutes flat
Lubes his own car lying flat on his back
Tunes up his motor with a timing light in his ear

Oh you could be at Woodville, you could be at Stirling
Sun may be burning, fog may be swirling
But Peter's still driving all down that endless white line
Could be the morning, midday or midnight
He'll sell you a ride, his yellow roof light
Till a drag operator gives him a job to go home
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HMAS Australia
Here I am again in the ship's post office
I want to send a telegram
Send it to the captain
Asking where the hell I am

I've been on this luxury cruise
For twenty five years or more
And I've just begun to wonder
Where we're headed for

Band keeps playing American songs from 1973
Getting wise to the officer’s lies
That we've even got a country
You say we're independent
And we've even got the right to choose
Well we're sick of doing nothing
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work to do

Swimming pools, the cocktail parties
You keep us plied with drink
But when we cruised through South East Asia
It made us stop and think

We never take on passengers
Though we seem to have lots of room
And I can't escape the notion captain
That this is a floating tomb

Band keeps playing American songs from 1973
Getting wise to the officer’s lies
That we've even got a country
You say we're independent
And we've even got the right to choose
Well we're sick of doing nothing
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work to do

Some of us have calculated
We must be short of oil
Someone mentioned fission
And blood began to boil

The passengers are restless, captain
This is how they feel
Angry at how it came to be you
Who sits beside the wheel

Band keeps playing American songs from 1973
Getting wise to the officer’s lies
That we've even got a country
You say we're independent
And we've even got the right to choose
Well we're sick of doing nothing
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work,
We'd like some work to do

And the band keeps playing the Imperial Waltz From far across the sea
Not a long way from discontent
To open mutiny
You say we're independent
And we've even got the right to choose
Well we're sick of being passengers,
We've got some work,
We've got some work,
We've got some work to do
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SO GOODBYE (Schumann)

I loved your home at Springfield
And your chauffer-drive Jag
But the afternoons at the yaucht squadron
Rally are a drag
Your country home at Aldgate
Your horses and your friends
The alcoholic sunsets, the pleasure never ends
I've just begun to notice the cold steel in your eyes
So I say to you goodbye
As she goes on asking why

I've spoken to your father he's a self made millionaire
Do you know where his factories are?
Do you know who lives there?
In squashy little red-brick houses far away from here.
They're ugly and they're all the same
The neighbours live so near
The way my famliy's living there you'd not believe your eyes
So I say to you goodbye
As she goes on asking why

Your brother's learning how to drive the jag in your back yard
Your father sits and tells me about how he's worked so hard
Your mother's introducting me with patronising grace
To all her bridge friends in the salon, little cakes and lace
My mothers working nightshift now, she's working till she dies
So I say to you goodbye, as she goes on asking why

Your fathers firm owns factories not far from where we stay
The chimneys spewing thick black smoke
Across the night and day
The people live and work down there underneath that cloud of smog
The kids' backyards are small and bare, too small to keep a dog
Dont tell me that they like it there, thats certainly a lie
So I say to you goodbye
As she goes on asking why

Please dont cry, you'll find a lover very soon I'm sure
A Gentleman who'll bring you roses
And lay them at your door
It's not because your rich but 'cause
Your not prepared to think
The higher daddy rises, the more his workers sink
You won't wake up in time my lady
You wont realize
So I say to you goodbye
AS she goes on asking why
So I say goodbye.
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Poor Ned
Poor Ned, you're better off dead
At least you'll get some peace of mind
You're out on the track
They're right on your back
Boy they're ‘gonna hang you high

Eighteen hundred and seventy eight
Was the year I remember so well
They put my father in an early grave
Slung my mother in gaol
Now I don't know what's right or wrong
But they hung Christ on nails
Six kids at home and two still on the breast
They wouldn't even give her bail

Poor Ned, you're better off dead
At least you'll get some peace of mind
You're out on the track
They're right on your back
Boy, they're ‘gonna hang you high

You know I wrote a letter
'Bout Stringy-Bark Creek
So they would understand
That I might be a bushranger
But I'm not a murdering man
I didn't want to shoot Kennedy
Or that copper Lonnigan
He alone could have saved his life
By throwing down his gun

Poor Ned, you're better off dead
At least you'll get some peace of mind
You're out on the track
They're right on your back
Boy, they're ‘gonna hang you high

You know they took Ned Kelly
And they hung him in the Melbourne gaol
He fought so very bravely
Dressed in iron mail
And no man single-handed
Can hope to break the bars
It's a thousand like Ned Kelly
Who'll hoist the flag of stars

Poor Ned, you're better off dead
At least you'll get some peace of mind
You're out on the track
They're right on your back
Boy, they're ‘gonna hang you high
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Letter to BJ
Can you hear me Bjelke-Petersen
From your leather padded chair?
There's a tide outside your door
Steadily rising
It's a simple case of freedom
And a lot of us who care
And if demonstrations aren't enough
Well I hope you've said your prayers

It seems this time you've gone too far
Next you'll call the troopers in
And you can put my dossier
In the glossy pages of the bulletin

Oh you think the battle's over
Well the war has just begun
Your legislation's just a piece of tissue
Oh won’t you listen to the beat
Of ten thousand marching feet?
Taking to the street

Oh there'll be a national monument
In yellow-cake of course
Oh where the plaque reads
"Look what Bjelke-Petersen did"
A traitor's tree, a traitor's rope,
Thirty bits of silver
And a couple of Queensland
Jackboot kicks

You think the battle's over
Well the war has just begun
Your legislation's just a piece of tissue
Won’t you listen to the beat
Of ten thousand marching feet?
Taking to the street

You think the battle's over
Well the war has just begun
Your legislation's just a piece of tissue
Won’t you listen to the beat
Of ten thousand marching feet?
Taking to the street
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