Relaxed and Comfortable

 

Tasmania's losing its democracy, but it still retains

its four seasons: roo, deer, duck and possum.

We're leasing the wires but we're giving away the polls;

they're 40 per cent too expensive.

 

I don't want to be part of a Nation, whether it is One

or whether it has a leader who can count even beyond that.

I just want to live here, a not too innocent bystander,

standing at short leg to the globalised spin doctors:

 

a sort of David Boon of the level playng field,

while ATM's chew up the bush as if it was a dodgy card

and call centres are calling you-oo-oo-hoo-oo-oo-hoo,

but when you fly into Sydney business class

 

the harbour looks even bluer than how Brett painted it

and the high-rises, when the sun is at a happy angle,

are as clean and relevant as a Tandberg cartoon,

an Iron Pot Bay chardonnay or a Matthew Richardson mark.

 

Meanwhile, if God had meant us to be compassionate

It wouldn't have given us the stock exchange

and if It'd meant us to be serious

It wouldn't have invented the Hollywood Argyles.

 

There is nowhere better than a relaxed and comfortable possie

(unless it be a tired and emotional one)

from which to look into the face of the future,

which was last observed behind a balaclava on Webb Dock.