A soft, bouncy and melancholy number
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A series of observations of people and places in Brisbane, mixed with a little bit of middle suburban drama.
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The houses on main roads, all exposed and overgrown
A bare treeless estate, another concrete waterway
It’s a deserted afternoon, all the kids with nothing to do
Some suburbs hardly change, they just slowly rot away
Killing time in each other’s arms
Rub my fingers all across your palms
Shaking all the secrets from each other’s sleeves
When I feel like this I get the urge to leave
And the kids across from me sniff paint
I can smell them from 3 seats away
They get off and jump the tracks, disappear into the black
We talk of festive suicides, all warm blood and your tired eyes
A couple of mosquito bites, is the story of our first night at home
A girl with a stare so hard, gets on to the leading car
Pale hands hold her bobbing head, she sits doubled up in her chair
A fast talking man with a walking stick
Mumbles some sad tale from the 70s
See a shopping centre code in neon ink
When you’re in there it’s 7 things to think
Walk down a road of quiet nests, in our cage of discontent
Where hens with broken legs, drown themselves in broken eggs
We forget responsibility is wrapped up in being free
Just tell us what we want to hear
Please just tell us what we want to hear
Someone’s living in the storage sheds
Hear the shower drip through the crumbled fence
Watch the boom gates going down
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