Poetry

Our lives are led
the streets are full
The air is filled
With the wretched fuel.

At night the cars are Tucked up tight
As close as the curb allows
By day they flee on a shopping spree
The mullens darling run.

From town we come
Past old White Bay
At 80 90 100 k
The roads are drains we waste along
Robert Street here we come.
We're charging up
You can hear us roar
From time and peace
You will hear no more
There's work and space
And things to do
While the engine is running
Our blood does too.

We lock them
And shine them
And make them sing
Their song is a siren
The Balmain sting.

The house and streets
Follow the land
They were built
By the human hand
We open our doors
What did we do?
We built ourselves
An electric zoo.
The bars are cars
Time is speed
We lap it up
The brave new creed.

Stop!

There is something we think
We cannot do.
There are currents and waves
And tides too.
There's a voice that is rising
And floating along
And we can steer it
And shape it
And make it as strong
As the voice of the reason
Of machinery's song.
So while logic and facts
And circumstance declare
A brave new voice returns the stare.

It can be done
The cars will go.
We must show
Belief can know.