the sunrise bleeds into the bay,
landed in sydney, nothing's changed.
it's still so beautiful in ways i will never be.
the dogs are still in parliament,
and every summer day is spent under the shade down by the fence, cricket on tv. the desert cracks under the sun. the farmers wait for rains to come. we all have our own race to run, sometimes. and everything we read about, i would believe but i'm in doubt, on what's left in and what's left out, this time.

no way will we run,
no way will we run and hide,
under a southern sky.

there's beach towels laid out on the shore,
where no one needs or wants for more,
and all the radio is for is monotony.
an eastern suburbs housewife yawns,
and while the gardener mows her lawns,
we all just smile and play along,
and why wouldn't we?
it's easier to be undone,
than it is to stand and run,
it's easier to feel it's come, untied.
the dream they'll sell you isn't much like the reality but, underneath it all there's dust, and time...

no way will we run,
no way will we run and hide,
under a southern sky.

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