CITY LIGHTS
Posted: Fri Jan 13, 2012 7:14 am
CITY LIGHTS
Maureen Clifford ©
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights.
He misses the open plains and starry nights.
This bushie comes from out near Chillagoe,
somewhere where those outback rivers flow
far away from rush and city sights.
He needs to feel the cool wind in his face,
to push a mob of sheep up through the race,
to tail the cattle walking down the track
and never have the need to watch his back.
Country fills his soul with sheer delight
He needs to lay his swag at end of day,
beneath the silver moon and milky way.
You never see their brilliance in the smoke.
Don't take the time to look those city folk.
Surrounded as they are by the machines,
that interfere with life and spoil their dreams.
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights,
He needs the peace of country to be right.
He doesn't wake each morning to a bell,
doesn't face the gridlocked traffic and the smell
of diesel, burning rubber, exhaust fumes.
His day begins with natures softer tunes.
The rumble of a ewe calling her lamb,
the low of cattle drinking at the dam,
the endless caw of crows, the eagles flight.
He's in tune with his country, shares her plight.
He loves to show his lady off in bars,
and serenades her playing his guitar.
He's offered her his love sure that he knows,
he feels it getting stronger as it grows .
He's offered honest toil working the land
and promised her a golden wedding band.
Told her every day he lives, his love he freely gives
out there far away from city lights.
Doesn't work a day that runs from nine to five,
but he's glad each day he's here and he's alive.
You can't beat working out on your own land
close to nature, boss of all that he commands.
His day starts as the sun begins to rise,
and ends when evening darkens western skies,
and at day’s end with sleep he has no fight,
for he sleeps beneath the stars not city lights.
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights.
With its rising crime, debauchery and fights.
On the land who ever knows what lies ahead,
but every day he lives he surely earns his bread.
So you'll never make this man move into town
for when times are tough and all the chips are down,
he is doing what he loves, what he does best.
I suspect that he is happier than the rest,
who spend their lives down under city lights.
whilst he's up enjoying views from craggy heights.
Maureen Clifford ©
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights.
He misses the open plains and starry nights.
This bushie comes from out near Chillagoe,
somewhere where those outback rivers flow
far away from rush and city sights.
He needs to feel the cool wind in his face,
to push a mob of sheep up through the race,
to tail the cattle walking down the track
and never have the need to watch his back.
Country fills his soul with sheer delight
He needs to lay his swag at end of day,
beneath the silver moon and milky way.
You never see their brilliance in the smoke.
Don't take the time to look those city folk.
Surrounded as they are by the machines,
that interfere with life and spoil their dreams.
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights,
He needs the peace of country to be right.
He doesn't wake each morning to a bell,
doesn't face the gridlocked traffic and the smell
of diesel, burning rubber, exhaust fumes.
His day begins with natures softer tunes.
The rumble of a ewe calling her lamb,
the low of cattle drinking at the dam,
the endless caw of crows, the eagles flight.
He's in tune with his country, shares her plight.
He loves to show his lady off in bars,
and serenades her playing his guitar.
He's offered her his love sure that he knows,
he feels it getting stronger as it grows .
He's offered honest toil working the land
and promised her a golden wedding band.
Told her every day he lives, his love he freely gives
out there far away from city lights.
Doesn't work a day that runs from nine to five,
but he's glad each day he's here and he's alive.
You can't beat working out on your own land
close to nature, boss of all that he commands.
His day starts as the sun begins to rise,
and ends when evening darkens western skies,
and at day’s end with sleep he has no fight,
for he sleeps beneath the stars not city lights.
You can't make a bushman stay in city lights.
With its rising crime, debauchery and fights.
On the land who ever knows what lies ahead,
but every day he lives he surely earns his bread.
So you'll never make this man move into town
for when times are tough and all the chips are down,
he is doing what he loves, what he does best.
I suspect that he is happier than the rest,
who spend their lives down under city lights.
whilst he's up enjoying views from craggy heights.
Actually written as lyrics - but I have yet to learn how to play the music. My next project perhaps 