Song of a City, Canberra

1. (3/4)

Crushing up, the morning frost

Spinning your roundabout

Up and down, the shouting hills

Wattles blooming all way

As one, the Phoenix of lake

Is summoned by us all

2. It’s an cold empty city in the wintertime

They only come here in the spring

When the autumn leaves fall

They make us to close the door

And come, the Phoenix of lake

Is summoned by us all

(time sig change to 2/2)

3. Blazing summer

High in the sky

Blazing summer

Fry your eyes

Blazing summer

(slow) Canberra summer

(back to 1)

Pop up monkey vs Phoenix 

A pop up monkey with brass knuckles She lulled the Phoenix that was armed with a metal bar

It made a ping as the warrior Monkey hit it 

Phoenix knew their was no use crying and turned to their martial art known as the Sketch Method

Monkey tussled up her Navy training to support her revolutionary ways 

Phenonix was raised by wolves and Amanda Palmer and knew how to reef the knots of hits that came its way

Monkey ripped her dirty rotten imbeciles shirt and lit it with Phenoxis own flames she transit with a pong and muttered the magic words “West Pac”

The spell made the flame burst green bricks and brass rubber bands that flew into the air with speed 

They hit Phoenix with a mighty cockbeltch leasing it to swear on mighty Astro zombies and re supply its presentables 

Monkey made a mental note to mention this battle to her friend the Elk next time she visited the factory and prepared for the Phenoxis retailing blow

The Phenoxi knew it was beaten and flew up into a mighty flame that spelled the letters N S and K

Monkey was pleased at its victory and looked to see what prize she would be able to put into her locker 

It was just a Kingswood kid? 

“Oh Super Ralen? I’m going to have to get the cash for this one. I was hoping for a Lyre of Byrdland. Such is life.”

She picked it up, and took off to find a good burns ward. 

Two white buildings

Like a old friend who’s seen the sights

Sitting in a cafe to talk

Winter chills, from the right 

Coats thick and the sanguine coffee strong. Lark at the magpies preparing their best nests.

Some of the paint has crumbled, like that old face you know so well. 

Mossy hair, growing in defiance to the years, spitefully grey.

Clasping the the cup, like a trickle of a stream in a long dry winters night.

Busking death away, his songs are old and full of ttr memories of the places his been. 

It’s a place you go, a place you chat, a place you would call the heart. A city like this, beats like a old trackers farts. It would trundle along, keep going, keep fighting. 

This man is old and cold though. I’m not sure if he will survive the next summers fires. They come all the time now.

I stare at the cup and think how much he’s enjoying it. It’s the last month of winter, and he knows it all to well.

That sanguine coffee is a sign of things to come