The Capital

(S. Walker)
There is a town of infamy, where paddocks line the street
Devised by Burly-Griffin, public servants ten foot deep
A place where foul is fair and downright nasty's even fairer
You know the hell I'm talkin' of, the capital, Canberra

Beelzebub he rides there in a chauffeured limousine
One half of him's republican, the other backs the Queen
His head it does 360's when the Parliament's a-meeting
And he manifests himself as Little John and Mr. Beazley.

Yes Satan is the party whip, the numbers-crunching man
Who works the halls of power with a trident in his hand
In smoky backroom meetings they are skating on thin ice
'Cause if you're raving there's no saving from ritual sacrifice

Above the house the press is perched like buzzards on their seats
Alert to any dirt the politicians might explete
They smell a leak, they scratch their beaks and swoop in for the kill
Those Vultures of our culture, the journalistic swill

And with good reason politicians fear them to a man
They watch their TV sets with crucifixes in their hands
They say that 7:30 is the number of the beast
That period of darkness when O'Brien

There is a dark despairing cloud that shrouds the A-C-T
A fetid gas from just near Yass so dark you cannot see
The stench is so horrific to the nose it triggers terror
It's the smell and tell of power in the capital, Canberra

© - copyright 1994, Simon Walker. All rights reserved.