To be born different in a conforming world,
To want only the exploration of new lands
Yet having light turned into darkness
Hopes dragged down into oblivion
All for the petty fear of the jealous
They who’ve neither the talent nor the drive S
mother those in whom creativity shines
This cannot be the end of freedom.

Born of folks from the farming plains
North of the city and in from the back of Bourke
Born in the summer heat of those flat dry lands
Where grudging respect is granted not given
Where summer heat builds summer storms
In massed array on the western horizon
Before all vent their fury in spectacular displays
Where the survivors eke out a mere existence.

From these fertile yet ultimately futile plains
Where sons are born to work the land
And daughters chained to kitchen stoves
Here on the plains the church is the cornerstone
Of family, and reverence must be paid to both.