1. |
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30 bucks, a credit card and a red bag;
a blue shirt and shorts, and an accent, were all that he had.
He come to my door.
If he’d ever seen my house before,
I’ll never be sure.
He said, “I have something important to give
“to your Father; it’s secret men’s business.”
His words were slow and deep.
Sunlight washed the street -
steamed the morning dew from his feet.
“And who are you, and what name can I pass on?”
“I’m nobody. But tell me, boy, are you a Child Of God?”
I said I didn’t know.
He sighed, bent down low;
he gave me the bag, and proceeded to go.
“Very important business, my boy.
“With God as my witness, my boy,
“I pass on all the money that I own.”
“Tell them what you saw, my boy.
“For what’s mine is now yours, my boy.
“It will only drag me down, where I’m going.”
I will forfeit his finances to the police station.
And if I were a Christian, I believe I’d pray for him,
as he doubtless prays for me
to follow what I’ve seen
and give away all of my money.
And as if this turbid world
wasn’t confusing as all Hell
without this dissonance as well.
“Very important business, my boy.
“With God as my witness, my boy,
“I pass on all the money that I own.”
“Tell them what you saw, my boy.
“For what’s mine is now yours, my boy.
“It will only slow you down, where you’re going.”
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2. |
Death Of The Elephant
04:15
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Muse, let me kiss you.
Drape your rubbish pearls and seagull skies
right across my eyes.
Tomorrow ain't nothing -
I have to touch you now.
And the mangled bottles moan,
"Leave that Wicked Boy alone."
Seeds that I have sowed
wait for Spring to come around.
There's a beating goin’ on outside,
they got him up on the ropes.
Yelling, "Don't you tell me those lies!";
they're throwin' him 'round by the throat.
Next morning, he can't speak, or laugh -
but man, look at him grin!
'cause there's nothing he can say,
and it's easier that way.
Cardboard coffins and balloons down town
herald the Death Of The Elephant.
Self-flagellatin’ preacher cries out
for God to cleanse the Behemoth of his sins.
He who trampled everything he found
to be ultimately insignificant,
and in desperation drown'd himself, when
he found that he couldn't touch the ocean.
And it's not enough for Little Mary Sue
to see the Behemoth tore limb-from-limb.
'cause her mirror's been smashed,
and her mind's lost as the Wind.
There's a song I sing in times like these,
I heard it's old as Solomon.
Well, it's 13 words long, my friend -
and it might just get ya back up on your feet again.
It goes -
"Stay with me, my angel.
Glory! Glory in our love!
Let us always be together."
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3. |
Noonkanbah Song
02:43
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In 1971 the Yungngora people
walked off of Noonkanbah Station;
In 1976 the government bought out Noonkanbah;
gave it back to the Yungngora people.
Premier Charles Court,
he must have been a-tremblin',
outraged and offended at this threat to industry.
Well, he grit his teeth and fought for
the good of his State electorate,
as he proclaimed it to be.
“No use for tradition, no time
for unproductive Dreaming
in this skyrocketing two-speed economy;
and if the owners of this land might be sleighted by the hand
of business, it's just the way it's got to be.
For the public interest, it's the way it's going to be.”
In 1979 an American oil company, they called AMAX,
sought rights for exploration on Yungngora land.
The people there said "No, our land is sacred. It must stay intact;
you can go and dig your holes up somewhere else."
Sir Charles Court said that this could not be accepted,
"There's no wealth in that, and boys, there's wealth up there to dig"
45 police protected trucks and drilling rigs
rolled in through Noonkanbah,
smashed the fences down
and raped the sacred ground.
And no oil was found.
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4. |
49 Days, Part One
00:35
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The worst thing that I’ve ever known
is the weeping of a child, who doesn’t know why I’m not home.
The worst feeling when my mind roams
is thinking ‘bout his eyes, when he’s lookin’ for me
‘cause I’m not home.
But, that’s where my heart is.
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5. |
49 Days, Part Two
03:20
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How much longer will it be 'till I come back to you?
How much longer will it be 'till I can say to you
that I love you?
"49 days," I say to thee, though I know that you don't hear.
Dates and times and numbers don't mean nothin' to your ears,
when you're down and blue.
I know it was your birthday, I know that you had cake -
it was sweet, but loneliness was mixed in with the taste.
And if I was a little fish, born in the calmest bay,
I'd swim against the lonesome tide, to have been there that day.
And if there was a mountain, and I had no legs
I'd crawl to the top just to kiss you on your head.
But they got me locked down in chains that I chose,
they give me bread and dangle roast beef right under my nose,
my precious boy!
But if I had a hammer made of gold and pearls,
I'd smash these bars; you and me would live free as the birds,
and fearless as bees!
And 49 days 'till I see thee, for three weeks, then no more.
Three weeks flies in the bat of an eye, but one day I,
I will slam the door, on all that keeps me apart from you.
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6. |
49 Days, Part Three
01:12
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I’m sorry, my boy, that I’m away.
I know you watch the window for my car every day.
And every night, when down to sleep you lay,
your dreams twist with grief, my precious boy,
‘cause I’m not with you.
But, that’s where my heart is.
And two years is a long, long time
for you to suffer for my crimes,
of not thinking straight, but never again will I
let waste and greed over-ride what money can never buy.
I’m thinking of you, always,
from Darcy.
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7. |
Martyrs
03:05
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Nelson Mandela, yeah.
He lay down in prison, 27 years.
He lay down in prison, dark and lonesome
but he stood up for Black Africa.
And Nelson Mandela, you are a martyr;
and you are a martyr to me.
Jandamarra freed his people from chains.
Three years, the squatters hounded him to his grave.
He fought for protection of his country
'gainst the thousands who sought to invade.
And Jandamarra, you are a martyr;
and you are a martyr to me.
Jesus Christ wanted Home Rule.
Mohandas Gandhi wanted it for India too.
They fought against the fury of the mightiest empires,
and neither slew a single troop.
Yes, they killed you, they killed you,
but could not defeat you
and you are martyrs to me.
Injustice rains down its warheads once again.
But bloodshed's logic dies the second the battle ends.
For in killing for conquest, you become
the inhumane oppressors that you condemn.
So all you brave children, and unarmed marchers
you are valiant martyrs to me.
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8. |
Shopping
05:28
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Everything is awesome, everyone’s amazing.
Every experience is awesome and amazing.
Learn these little words and forget proper phrasing,
'cause everything is awesome and everyone's amazing.
Literature is dying. Nobody's crying,
'cause everybody's got their sunglasses on,
in the supermarket, scavenging like vultures 'round a carcass,
with skinny-leg jeans and skate shoes on.
Everybody's buying, everybody's buying!
Walking plastic bags of happiness straight out the door.
Everybody's smiling, everybody's smiling;
inside their hearts, greed screams for more.
Attention shoppers!
Mind-melting bargains on love up for grabs in aisle 27!
Get your philosophical and religious satisfaction-in-a-can, now, now, NOW!
Christmas is just around the corner shoppers,
be a smart consumer and buy your Easter eggs now!
Shopping shopping shopping shopping
shopping shopping shopping shopping -
is there a greater thrill in life
than shopping shopping shopping shopping?
Glorious shopping!
Have you ever had such fun in your life?
Choices, choices everywhere, choose your drop to drink
by the colours on the bottle, or the sizzle on your steak.
Bump into your mate - make any excuse to get away
So you can carry on shopping with a smile on your face.
Shopping shopping shopping -
boys, we’re going on a bear hunt
to bring some bravado back into the pack.
Shopping shopping shopping shopping,
knick knacks and Kit Kats
get cheaper, the deeper they’re in your backpack.
Running running running running
running running running
‘till the choccies are nothing
but a melted stain.
Shopping shopping shopping.
Weekly trudge on a Tuesday,
a young son helping his Ma out again.
Another public service announcement, shoppers!
You are fat, and ugly and worthless
And nobody has a high opinion of you!
Nobody wants to tell you that, shoppers,
it really breaks my heart to have to tell ya
but honestly! We have a public duty!
It’s for your welfare!
Just imagine what would happen if we let you
walk around thinking you were beautiful!
No, your hair colour makes you look positively pregnant
And those clothes! You poor girl!
Don’t you know jeggings are sooo last year!
Now, gaze over there at that mirror on the wall,
that plasma screen mirror on the wall.
You see that woman? The pretty woman? The skinny woman?
If you can walk like her, look like her, act like her, smell like her,
people will think you’re hot!
And you will be a better person!
100%, your money back, guaranteed*
You’re going to need a few things though, my darling -
and thankfully for you, my dear, I’m very happy to help.
Buy pimple cream, moisturiser,
fake tan and jewellery,
and 20 different types of hair dye too.
Buy protein pills and a skipping rope,
some surgery, and you'll be a whole new you!
Buy summer jackets, Winter shorts,
Autumn somethings -
you'll look just like a princess to behold!
Just make sure you keep on shopping
and you shall never need fear growing old.
Everything is awesome, everyone’s amazing!
The security guards and clerks, everyone's amazing!
The shoplifters and the protesters, they're not quite so amazing,
but them Third World sweatshop workers, over in Burma -
they’re grateful, and they’re invisible, and they’re amazing!
Shopping shopping shopping
Shopping shopping shopping,
this joy I simply cannot contain.
Excuse me for a second, my amazing fellow shoppers!
While I put a little bullet through my brain.
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9. |
Worried Time Blues
04:16
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A young man put his foot to the charge
A young man put his foot to the charge
He’s driving foolish, times are hard.
War returns.
Worried times – war returns, man.
There’s blood slick in his face and hair
Blood slick in his face and hair
Smell of burning tyres in the air.
Worried times – war returns.
There’s lights and sirens in the rear view
There’s lights and sirens in the rear view
Hard times, what’s a poor boy to do?
Worried times, war returns
Worried times.
It’s flat for miles, nowhere to run
It’s flat for miles, nowhere to run
Nowhere to hide but behind the barrel of a gun
War returns. War returns.
Yeah, it's worried time man.
There’s mad sweat in a young man’s eyes
Mad sweat in a young man’s eyes
Draws the barrel up to his eyes.
Worried times. War returns.
The shots pour down like rain
Pour down like a freezing rain
Open up the blood in a young man’s veins
War returns. War returns.
Clean up crew, he’s eagle spread.
These cops don’t talk, they shoot instead.
Hard times - another poor boy’s dead.
War returns - worried times.
War returns, and another poor boy’s dead.
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10. |
Free Like The Birds
06:06
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Willie Wagtail, swift and free.
Flittin' your tail, singin' "Hi hee, look at me!"
When you chase the crows and the kestrels away,
do you ever feel afraid?
Chickowee, Chickowee, swift and free.
Sittin' at the topmost of your Bottlebrush Tree.
When the Southerlies blow the branches, and make your little nest sway,
do you ever feel afraid?
Mudlark, Jillinbirri, swift and proud.
Beatin' your wings, shriekin' your curses loud.
When you probe for grubs, and run your strong beak through the ground,
does it ever get you down?
Kingfisher, kingfisher, stout and proud
With your fine, shiny plumage, and your bobbin' head unbowed.
When you sit and wait for hours for your prey to come around,
does it ever get you down?
Some folks wanna be happy every day and night.
To spend their minutes and their seconds in ceaseless delight.
But count your blessings well, and give thanks for what you have in life,
and enjoy the things that are free.
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11. |
The Iron Blinds
02:55
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The lights have gone. The cars have gone,
the streets are quiet. Everyone's alone.
Another day, old lullabies drone,
"It's sleeping time".
Another beer. The crickets sigh.
They light youthful lanterns for me outside.
I close the door and step inside
for sleeping time.
Stabbing screen. Twisted mouth.
Fighting eyelids. Time dries out.
In a restless brain, wrinkles grow -
and it's sleeping time.
Daylight kills endless dreams
of sleeping 'til fortune intervenes.
The working day starts the ritual scream
of panting for sleeping time.
Zigzag smiles wash on melting lime.
Shackled money trashes the freedom chimes.
My family fears the crush-backed pantomime
of business time.
Late sun rots in the window-sill.
Late chatter threshes the gossip mill.
The wheel grinds on, until
down come the Iron Blinds.
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12. |
Poetic License
07:54
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I sat down one day,
with a pen and a pad - said that I was
going to write down everything that came into my head.
And I haven't gotten up since.
Eileen saw me sitting there;
asked what I was writing,
asked me for a quote.
I asked her for her address; said I'd write
her out a note, when I got around to it.
Arthur the Poet came around.
He sat himself down next to me;
said he'd read me out a little selection
from a verse that he'd just penned.
I wrote it down, with my own annotations, to which
he frowned, said a curse, then he got up and left.
I'm gonna use my poetic license.
The one that's been knocking at the door,
'cause I've been dragged through this whole trip before.
Then I had a vision of Isaiah.
He said "Son, why must you write when
there's so much still to read?"
I said, "Self-expression must surely come from within the self."
He opened up his mouth, to speak or say a prayer,
then he just laughed.
Then, a hopping lunatic,
screaming 'bout the war
and the things under his skin -
he rapped between my eye-brows and begged me to let him in.
I said "You're mad, but you're a human, and I'll help you."
Then the storm troopers took him away, down to Brockway.
I picked up my pen and stared writing again.
I’m gonna use my poetic license.
The one that’s been knocking at the door,
‘cause my whole life’s just a metaphor.
Days and weeks, months and even years;
I never left my seat, and my writing never ceased.
Then, something unexplainable
I can’t even say what, chiefly because it hasn't
actually happened yet, threw me from my chair,
ripped my pen from my hand.
Oh, I commenced then to stand.
I believe I'm gonna break through.
Gonna put down this pen, I'm never gonna write again.
Or, maybe one or two, or three, hundred thousand pages
somewhere down the line.
But I'm gonna rise, I’m gonna rise,
yes, I’m gonna rise.
Believe me, I'm gonna rise,
I'm gonna rise. I'm gonna rise.
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13. |
Honey, I Love Your Mind
03:35
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When your heart is on fire,
time aches and drags.
When you run with desire,
time don’t seem to matter.
When you run, like a madman.
When you picked her your bouquet
and you hurt, like a beggar,
‘cause she gone travellin’,
the other way.
Let the beautiful dogs bury their bones.
And let the runt puppies yearn for a home.
And as I lay down alone tonight,
I know - honey, I love your mind.
I like to think of you when I lag behind.
And I’d love to be near you, and your perfect mind.
And I think of you, all night,
and it drives me out of my mind.
I wander like a child, through the halls of my own mind.
And I wonder - what do you think of my mind?
Honey, I love your mind.
You’re the most beautiful woman that ever graced my eyes
But honey, I love your mind.
Yes, you’re the most beautiful woman that ever crossed my sight
But honey, I love your mind.
Honey, I love your mind.
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Darcy Hay Geraldton, Australia
Folk, country and blues singer-songwriter from the Midwest of Western Australia with a penchant for political and poetic lyricism, energetic guitar playing, authentic vocals and deft harmonica work
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