Michael Waugh

BUY / STREAM

1. Heyfield Girl

Written by Michael Waugh

The car tapes we played on those long country drives

Were Kenny’s and Dolly’s and old Charley Pride’s

Mum sang along with Jim Reeves and Burl Ives

As we rattled along country tracks

And Dad used to threaten us boys with a hidin’

‘If you don’t settle down in the back’

Then mum would growl but she’d turn up the volume

And pass ‘round the lollies she’d packed

They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

American women get songs about how they’re adored

Tennessee girls get to waltz

Californian girls they’ve got no faults

But they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

No they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

Heyfield’s a timber mill town in East Gippsland

The Maffra boys think it’s a joke

Dad used to hang it on mum, who was born there

But she’d give it back, I suppose

They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

American women get songs about how they’re adored

Tennessee girls get to waltz

Californian girls they’ve got no faults

But they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

No they don’t write love songs about girls from Heyfield at all

My dad loved my mum with affection familiar

And long as an old country road

But there’s not a melody written to sing of

The depths of the love that they’ve known

So even when cancer took part of mum’s body

And the chemo took all of her hair

Dad used to tease mum about girls from Heyfield

‘Cause that’s how she knows that he cares

He’d say,

‘They don’t write pretty love songs for girls born in Heyfield

But you’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever known

Tennessee girls they might waltz

Californian girls might have no faults

Ah, but you blokes can keep ‘em ‘cause I’ve got my Heyfield girl

Yeah, you blokes can keep ‘em, ‘cause I ‘ve got my Heyfield girl’

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2. Mafeking Hill

Written by Michael Waugh

The shops all shut at 1 o’clock on Saturday

And there’s not much going on down Johnson Street

So we took our BMXs to the hill behind the high school

Through the trees the sun was setting on another Saturday

And a ute is cutting laps around the main street

Someone’s drinking beer at Rosie’s Ring

The bottom pub is jumping, the Macalister is running

It’s a brown and muddy river – and we consider jumping in

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Saturday evening – in another country town

So I turn up to the party with my backpack

And I’m clinking with the Stone’s Green Ginger Wine

And a bottle doing battle full of Sweet McWilliam’s Sherry

And the Screaming Jets are screaming louder than the neighbours from behind

Someone’s eating cat food in the kitchen

Someone’s playing cricket down the hall

Someone’s parents might regret leaving him at home this weekend

Then I said to my mate, Ted

‘There are things that I regret’

As I vomit like a sprinkler on the lawn

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Saturday evening

Almost Sunday morning

Technicolour yawning

In another country town

So we go back to the hill where we began

And we started talking ‘bout next weekend’s plans

And we stay up there a while

Another ute goes driving by

And a magpie started singing – as Sunday morning rolled around

Then we go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On another Sunday morning

Dreams of Saturday evening

When we’ll go, go, go, go, go

Looking for a better place to go

But we’ve only time to kill on the crest of Mafeking Hill

On every Saturday evening

And every Sunday morning

In every country town

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3. Paul

Written by Michael Waugh

Swimming pools terrified the ugly kids at school

Towels were used for torture in the slippery changing rooms

Girls with brand new coloured Derwent pencils hated fools

And boys who kicked the footy loved to kick around young Paul

He was not the type of kid who said what you’d expect

He was full of stupid jokes that no one used to get

One day he got sick of how they teased and called him names

He stood up for himself until they pushed him down, again

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

The forty-minute bus ride home was bumpy in the back seat

For boys with haircuts by their mum and those that loved to read

Pretty girls with long blonde hair in ribbons point and watch

As Paul trips on a school bag when he gets out at his stop

Paul was not the type of kid who seemed to give a toss

When one boy calls out ‘poofta’ from the window of the bus

The battle for his dignity was already fought and lost

Standing like a shadow in the gravel and the dust

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

It’s funny how a country school looks smaller when you’re free

The bus rides all seem shorter, the pool is not as deep

I moved down to Melbourne but most got left behind

And Paul he found a different path to the peace he hoped to find

Phantoms of his torment followed every step

Spirits of their loathing still swimming round his head

He took his grandad’s rifle and he went to shoot the ghosts

He only had one bullet for the kid he hates the most

Just a fat little kid who can’t forget the things you did

A weird little fag, you know, the one you loved to bag

You don’t know what he might grow up to be

Life might be crueller to you than you ever were to me

You don’t know what I might be

Here’s to us fat little kids who still remember what they did

The ‘weirdos’ and the ‘fags’, ‘rangas’, ‘geeks’ and ‘freaks’ and ‘slags’

The ones of us still hurting

The ones who made it free

And those of us like Paul, who never lived to see

What we all grew up to be

You don’t know what we might be

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4. My Dad's Shoes

Written by Michael Waugh

There’s a picture of me laughing when I was two or three

Standing in dad’s Blundstone boots that are twice as big as me

He’s towering behind me in his overalls

Arms outstretched to catch me if I fall

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

They’re not the kind of shoes you wear to church or into town

Mum would scream blue murder if he wore them in the house

He’d kick them off and line them up like soldiers on the porch

That’s how we knew when dad was home or not

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

When I was a young man

I got too big for my boots

And I tried lots of styles but the soles have all worn through

Now that I am older and the sneakers just don’t suit

I’m proud to wear these Blundstone boots like you

He had to sell the tractor and they’ve moved into town

He’s far too old for farming in those worn out work boots now

But sitting on the back porch, holding vigil for him still

The Blundstone boots are waiting to be filled

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

I want to work hard for my family

Dig my heels in for what’s true

I want to stand to be someone my son might someday look up to

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

Wherever I am

I want to wear my dad’s shoes

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5. Planes

Written by Michael Waugh

Two boys mucking ‘round in the yard next door

One of them said ‘if you want to play dead you don’t get to get up anymore’

With a little toy plane in a Spiderman suit

Teaching his little brother what the grown ups do