I make it back to Fitzroy with an inch worn off of my shoes
And got one joint left shoved there in my Winfield Blues
I keep me love letters in the lining of my suit
(Hoping to find me a stooge, so I can put them to use)
Nobody bothers me for a light or even a “beg your pardon”
I guess I’ll walk that lonely mile down to the Garden

The Napier, the Rainbow, the Labour In Vain
The long last rattle of the Collingwood train
Last drinks with Johnny Cash at the Rob Roy where he smashes my glasses
I cross six lanes to Lover’s Lane, full of toothaches aching for Charles Foster Kane
And lumberjacks wanting to carve their names in all of our arses
Scenemakers dressed in their Saturday best, with their lowriders round their ankles
With a smile, some popper queen reaches round for his silver bangles

But it’s funny how easily passion dissolves in a 3am bucket of rain
All the damp fringes and the sticky fingers go fluttering back to whence they came
I’m stuck between a hard-on and a headache in the mists by the oramental lake
When my Hiawatha calls from the opposite shore
The buckskin dazzles me as I reach for the door

I wake up at Cherry Bar with a feather between my front teeth
I crawl into the bass bin for some sonic relief
The boss comes later, with his chief roogalator, his popgun upside of my head
He says: “Didn’t I see your name. boy, in The West Preston Book Of The Dead?”
Nobody notices as I steal my way down to Pony
But I slip, and I bust my lip on the doors of Baba O’Reilly’s

The stagnight bores come crashing through the doors of Bridie’s, and into the arms
Of the Thin White Dukes in their miniature suits
When the little horse has lost its charms
I’m stuck between a fistfight and a handshake
And a groom shoved facedown in next week’s wedding cake
When some Cockney clown knoxks me to the ground,
And the blood flows down on my bridal gown

I wake up in my backpacker’s arms in the dunny of the All Nation’s Hotel
Someone’s banging both doors: I guess they’re just trying to wish us well
When the honeymoon’s finished, I pinch his Guiness
And steal my way out to the bar
Stepping over West End girls who’ve gone one Champagne and Soda too far
Out on King Street, in stockinged feet, with their high heeled shoes in their hands
The hen’s night ladies stomp to the Casino
After footy stars, in their tight polyester pants

I will not follow, ‘cos there’s nothing there to be found
Five queens may line up in a row and give me their gold, but never their crowns
I’m caught between Flinders and Franklin; I’m trapped between Spencer and Spring
When the man in the news stand opens his shutters
And stutters the news of the death of the king

I wake up in the pastures of Parkville, bedded down on The Saturday Age
All around, I hear the sound of TVs shutting down ‘cos there’s nothing left on Rage
A ruck-rover from Newman Hall bends over my body (he’s all of seven feet tall)
He says: “Piss off, cunt, or we’ve got nowhere left to bounce the fuckin’ ball!”
Thirty-six cheers sting my ears as I make my way out of the Garden
Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, it’s only the streets of North Carlton

Give me, this Sunday, my daily bread
Or, at least, some chums and a bottle of red
Won’t someone in this city offer me pity
And show me the way to go back to my bed?
I’m trapped between a funeral and a fun run
Somewhere just south of somewhere else
When the Dan appears, with my breakfast of beers
And I sing to the ringing of the St Mark’s bells

I make it back to Fitzroy with another inch worn off of my shoes
I can’t find my joint and I can’t find my Winfield Blues