Morwell,
you are one beautifully disgusting cunt.
the glass of your broken phoneboxes,
lays all over post office st,
a street named after the church.
the lady at the bakery has a gleaming stud,
right in her tattoo sun,
she grins and gives me coffee,
i tell her im getting one,
i’m going to get a tiger,
with ruby red eyes,
like my uncles medal,
he won for eating pies.
the finest thing you’ll ever see
is a price of ten bucks flat,
for a six pack of VB tins,
nowhere else has that.
tinnies all the time,
mon-wed-fri-keen,
whenever you want,
whenever you don’t,
my favourite fluoro green,
like slime,
slime that makes us happy,
slime that makes us sad,
slime that makes us fight all night,
slime that makes us bad.
in Morwell,
shit is never good,
but really not that bad,
she is what she is,
I like what she's like,
but she's oh so visibly sad.
so I say, I love you Morwell,
love you just enough,
for here is where the shit is real,
you’re honest and you’re rough.
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