Midland Highway Blues

 

It's a long way to Heaven.

It's a long way to Hobart.

It's a long way to hitchhike

to either one.

 

And all those Volvos

with iridescent fish signs

on their rear windows

just cruise on by.

 

I'm an old fellow traveller,

dialectical materialist.

I don't believe in Hobart,

don't believe in Hell.

 

Don't believe in destinations

and I never trust signposts.

Never fell for that romantic

idea of the road.

 

But there's asphalt and

semis, white lines, gravel edges

and pilgrims in Volvos

who never stop.

 

But here I am in Hobart.

Must be some kind of miracle.

I hitched a ride with an atheist

who was heading somewhere else.

 

If you can drive a Volvo

through the eye of a needle

then you might get to Heaven,

but that's about all,

 

'cause if you're heading for Hobart,

no matter what you're driving,

the other end of the needle

is the one you'll need.

 

And the tripping pilgrims

who cross the Jordan

find the road winds downhill

to the very end.

 

But downhill or uphill,

Spring Hill or Constitution,

they all put their foot down

through St Peters Pass.

 

So if you ever see me

standing by the highway,

say, somewhere round Tunbridge,

sticking out my thumb,

 

then pay no attenton

to which way I'm facing,

cause if you're halfway to Heaven

all roads lead to home.

 

Just stick me in your back seat

and take me where you're heading.

I'm an old easy rider

who finds the going hard.