It's a midwinter Friday and there's not a car on this highway
That wouldn't hit me just to get home.
I'm riding punch lines and dregs from the pouch that we split
somewhere back on Punt Road.
And the big neon signs they all intertwine
With the passing cars' headlights burning my eyes.
In this city of excuses, dead palm trees and useless transport,
I use my legs to get to you on time.
But silence speaks louder than words that we don't understand,
And I know the language is made out of
One upmanship and slight of hand.
But it's all we've got to explain how they made us,
Unable to explain how they made us.
Unable to explain how they
And I'm naked except for donations, rank revelations,
My own bad behavior, pissing off the neighbours.
Lying to colleagues about how interesting I am,
Just so part of me is nothing like them and
The clubs up on Swan Street pulse to the backbeat of violence and sadness and god awful sweat heat.
They tarnish reputations and they smash up train stations,
So angry they forgot what they were angry about.
This city is a punching bag for the punished to let something out.
But how can you stay mad when the red sun spits straight through the clouds like this?
And the cold bites my skin.
And you bit my upper lip.