1: The Belief
Next door salted cakes and poisoned wood, traded for seven hours of The Woodsman goods, a small price to pay at an Age like The, newspaper flavour mulched in the bay of Torquay, so we were talking; yeah, we were haughty, the arthouse films were fourteen, each half an hour a thief: time wasters for when the digital arms flicker to the taste of wine tasters, and we play the roles of villain and hero, Nero and His pirates so we can keep the flyest flicks with the nipplest tits to suckle on with eyes as they perform tricks, candy sweeter than the salted cake, too young to be baked, but still tried by the Hague for baking Jewish fat cake, drum skins and fun things, like curly hair, dick noses, mascara and wedding rings absent, the lab spent most of his time on the foot path, the short succulent grass before the draught had a chance to laugh, and the rain clouds were not quite so crass; he’d run and play, small and Fluffy, aptly named for a four and twenty pie filler puppy; still the grass was dirty with plastic and paper, and in between these two distant neighbours, was the oldest of wicket keepers with plastic floors, newly painted walls, and the smell of darkness, hatred and dust: we must make the regular pilgrimage to the gilchurch for rubber and fizz, chocolate biscuits and other kids, nothing other than the most important biz, six points to discuss for the backyard whizz, one world routinely hit; when the syringes were just another hit for kids with bare feet, mostly in New South Wales but the fear spread to the Rich, and in the suburbs the Mondo sticks looked like metal twigs glistening in the autumn leaves and piss, smelling of alcohol but holding the horrors of older kids, smouldering in the hot sun as the drought appeared, rearing its ugly head and feared in Rugby, denim, but that was a few years later, it was yet to come; the metal was infected and jettisoned by dumb, the junkies would come like come, fester and run; play with the bums, and run and run; we’d play hide and seek, and wait once more for the thief: another excursion to where words are learned; black and white or Technicolour illegible, written in faces, nebulas and vestibules; VHS plastic, black smears that were tragic, that we could devour for another seven hours of heaven: flowers, bouquets, bees and celluloid showers; the flickering is written in benevolent power.

2: The Tim Tam

This verse was recorded with a gun to the stomach, so if the flow don’t fit blame it on birettas and gullets.

Big Town Wizard and the WZRR doing sexual motions
Not without some lotions and some viagra potions
A locomotion of rock hard dicks causing a commotion
Some emotion from those mirrin chicks we're causing conception
An inception of our love making, he's gonna give me lockjaw
What's with all the hoopla? We're just depicting kamasutra

I can eat brie without a blink of mine eyes
Look at my size, I got girth from my birth
and I'll be dreaming until I dies
These ain't no lies, I'm from the soil of this earth