1. |
Bore My Soul
03:35
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Bore my soul to a pot of beer
Bore my face to that whom I fear
Barstool sound, made of wood
In the corner shadow a girl played fiddle
My right a veteran from Kurdistan
My left an old union man
In my head Achilles screaming bloody murder
And the old man says “Disregard that fatal verse”
Says all he’s learnt in his existence of pain
Is the knowledge that ‘fore all is distain
Where borderland states are the same as the core
Where no one fights for ideology but power
Kurd told her story as the fiddle played true
Born on a mountain eyes green and one blue
Anatolian trench she held the line
But no one told her how much blood leaves a corpse
Empty eyes we stared at the bolted ash door
Laughed to ourselves we’re happy but poor
Dreamt of tidings fair, but outside heard gunfire raging
Or maybe it was just rain on the iron roof
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2. |
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He spoke my name, for the hammer was dropped
Like a smith bent over the grind
I looked in his eyes for compassion
But in there, none did I find
The blood on my hands, still a’dripping
A rebel until the end of time
It was then I stood down, put my face to the ground
And for the last time, I looked down the line
When I looked down the barrel of my ’22 rifle
And his head appeared in my sights
I never thought this would end in a palace of stone
A darkness the may end in light
When his body hit the ground, I turned my head away
And I ran through the scrub and the trees
Oh the bush cut my skin, yet my fear was within
As a foreboding feeling came in on the breeze
He asked if I felt remorse or self-loathing
In my chains I said the place to die
Is under the sun in the deepest of greens
Cadaverous like the snake, and there is to lie
Oh the press call me mad and they think I’m insane
But I ain’t no Dan Morgan or Brothers Clarke
And carrion birds pick at the bones of my salvation
I opened my eyes in the dark
He spoke my name and on the gallows I stood
‘Fore my feet fell down through the floor
Catholic priest and his boy, the last thing I saw
Not God, nor heavens blood shore
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3. |
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On the burial ground since 1804
The bishop waltzes idly by
And states that he didn’t lynch a soul
But I know that that was a lie
For his hands could be seen in the cold light of day
As the blood dripped down his sleeve
And the rope burn tore through his pale white skin
But I, am not one to grieve
You crossed the bar, like the Rubicon
Resided to a life on the road
Smashed a pot glass deep in his face
And nothing could stop the flow
But even goannas die in the sun
Goannas they die
Ancient sepia tones they run
See the fall of the house of us
That train would take us far from that place
Where the high watermark crossed the rail
Tore through the desert, a cast-iron rainbow serpent
Whilst horse and camel pulled trail
I see you Van Diemen, goin’ over there
Sayin’ you’ve got nothing to hide
Lee Enfield on your shoulder and the skin of a bear
What God’s on your side?
20 years ago I met a man at a bar
Who asked about the old desert land
“Has your blood ever boiled in a steel divvy van?
Has ether ever taken your hand?”
But even goannas die in the sun
Goannas they die
Ancient sepia tones they run
See the fall of the house of us
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Harry F L Vincent Melbourne, Australia
Melbourne based alt-country, dark story songs.
Tales from deep-fine leg and the business end of a Melbourne Bitter stubby.
Feel free to contact me at harryflvincent@gmail.com
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