Lay your stuff on me, anything you’ve got,
sparkle-new or pre-loved, keeps me moving…
Hey, it’s 2004 already. And he says
the world’s going to hell in a handbasket
but I say to him
no — you are.
OK, so petrol’s expensive. But people
are still driving old Datsuns with P-plates and attitude
and I can still buy tyres from a shop
where the metal shelves are dusty and they
call you ‘mate’ or ‘luv’
depending on sex. I get ‘mate’ first,
because of my hair, or my workboots.
Then the bloke sees my tits in their t-shirt
and my hips in their jeans and it’s
‘oh, sorry — luv’.
I don’t care. I don’t. Maybe in another five
years I’ll finally have enough ‘tude to say,
that’s cool, I’m a poet.
The hippy woman in the op-shop calls me ‘darl’
but I don’t buy anything.
Bombs are going off
but the sun is still shining
and tomorrow I’m driving for five
hours by myself with the stereo
loud
Anything you’ve got, anything. Keeps me moving.