It’s colour she bleeds

And music she moans,

From the black of her body,

To the ground of her soul.

It’s V8 she roars,

And pram that she strolls,

A pearly white moon,

In a sky full of coal.

It’s light’s that she flashes,

And each other she bashes,

In the streets Friday,

Empty and cold.

It’s the trains she unwinds,

From the mine of our crimes,

That snake through the mangrove

On dusk.

It’s the shop window boarded,

And love that she’s hoarded,

That make this city a husk,

Of a hell of a hole,

Of a home for the soul,

They say “In Newcastle We Trust”.

It’s her team,

It’s her coast,

Now there’s two things to boast,

As the schooner glass lays down to die;

In a gutter, in a face,

What she’s lacking in grace;

Newcastle makes up for in pride.

It’s her time, it’s her place,

It’s the look on her face;

So distant, and hopeful, and tired.

It’s a life that she bought,

And a life that she’s lent;

Leaves this here city,

‘For sale or rent’.

It’s her will,

It’s her way;

What that is she can’t say,

But I’ll bet it lays buried inside.

So she digs and she hauls,

And she ships it offshore,

And she sells herself out on the tide.

Yeah she digs and she hauls,

And she sends it abroad;

She sells herself out on the tide.

 Benjamin W Wild © 2010



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