THE BUSH CAMP (Final) (Cover)

alt-pop indie groove; brisk mid-tempo beat with steady kick + rim clicks, clean electric guitar arpeggios with chorus effect, synth pads that shimmer and fade; vocals are melodic with breathy urgency, conversational tone with falsetto lifts; pacing quicker than a ballad but smoother than rap, forward-driving rhythm with dreamy undertones

As we stood around the camp fire,
flames flickering in the dark,
we heard a creeping tapping sound,
feet upon the bark.

The cook was cooking sausages,
for us all to eat,
while the rest of us sipped our grog,
a-wavering on our feet.

[narrative melody, playful tone]
A four foot long go-anna
was attracted by the light.
It came to watch us eat our grub,
as it did most every night.

This night ol’ cook decided
he would share with us an ale.
As the sausages got darker,
Cookie, he got pale.

[soft instrumental pause]

Suddenly his eyes lit up,
a grin upon his face.
He was sick of this prying go-anna—
he’d put it in its place.

He raised his long and slender fork,
the one that turned the snags.
He jabbed a sizzling sausage
and flung it between us lads.

[narrative melody builds]
The go-anna saw it comin’
and downed it in one gulp.
It swallowed that red hot sausage—
and mate, it really bolted.

It shot straight up a gum tree
and down the other side,
and round and round Cookie’s tent—
we was laughing till we cried.

[gentle folk guitar]

This four foot long go-anna,
its insides burnt red raw,
ran amongst old Cookie’s grog
and spilt it on the floor.

Slippin’ on the canvas floor
of our Cookie’s tent,
it tangled in the stays and ropes—
and down the whole lot went.

[narrative melody, steady rhythm]

A four foot long go-anna,
going at full trot,
and blinded by a canvas tent—
won’t take any rot.

It doubled back toward the fire,
still running full of pace,
headed straight toward the frying pan—
you should have seen Cook’s face.

The pan went flying skyward,
and so did Cookie too.
He landed with the pan on top—
we was buggered what to do.

[quieter, reflective phrasing]

He was burnt red raw from boiling fat,
the sausages were scattered.
Cookie lay there moaning,
all shagged and burnt and battered.

The go-anna’s guts was blistered,
the cook’s skin all red raw.
That four foot long go-anna,
and Cookie’s tent—
was never seen no more.

[soft campfire fade]

Cookie slept in the open air
till we next could get to town.
He slept with one eye open,
and he wore a constant frown.

Any noise upon the bank
made him rant and rave:
“Hey go-anna!
I can take more than you gave!”

[gentle, warm ending melody]

Cookie gave up drinking grog,
and from that night to this—
he’s never cooked us snags no more.
Our meals have been sheer bliss.

[soft guitar fade, campfire crackle]

2623/7500

[Australian folk ballad singer, warm male vocal, gentle melodic storytelling] [light fingerpicked acoustic guitar, soft campfire ambience] ["goanna" pronounced “go-anna”, two syllables: go-anna] [force clear enunciation of “go-anna”] As we stood around the camp fire, flames flickering in the dark, we heard a creeping tapping sound, feet upon the bark. The cook was cooking sausages, for us all to eat, while the rest of us sipped our grog, a-wavering on our feet. [narrative melody, playful tone] A four foot long go-anna was attracted by the light. It came to watch us eat our grub, as it did most every night. This night ol’ cook decided he would share with us an ale. As the sausages got darker, Cookie, he got pale. [soft instrumental pause] Suddenly his eyes lit up, a grin upon his face. He was sick of this prying go-anna— he’d put it in its place. He raised his long and slender fork, the one that turned the snags. He jabbed a sizzling sausage and flung it between us lads. [narrative melody builds] The go-anna saw it comin’ and downed it in one gulp. It swallowed that red hot sausage— and mate, it really bolted. It shot straight up a gum tree and down the other side, and round and round Cookie’s tent— we was laughing till we cried. [gentle folk guitar] This four foot long go-anna, its insides burnt red raw, ran amongst old Cookie’s grog and spilt it on the floor. Slippin’ on the canvas floor of our Cookie’s tent, it tangled in the stays and ropes— and down the whole lot went. [narrative melody, steady rhythm] A four foot long go-anna, going at full trot, and blinded by a canvas tent— won’t take any rot. It doubled back toward the fire, still running full of pace, headed straight toward the frying pan— you should have seen Cook’s face. The pan went flying skyward, and so did Cookie too. He landed with the pan on top— we was buggered what to do. [quieter, reflective phrasing] He was burnt red raw from boiling fat, the sausages were scattered. Cookie lay there moaning, all shagged and burnt and battered. The go-anna’s guts was blistered, the cook’s skin all red raw. That four foot long go-anna, and Cookie’s tent— was never seen no more. [soft campfire fade] Cookie slept in the open air till we next could get to town. He slept with one eye open, and he wore a constant frown. Any noise upon the bank made him rant and rave: “Hey go-anna! I can take more than you gave!” [gentle, warm ending melody] Cookie gave up drinking grog, and from that night to this— he’s never cooked us snags no more. Our meals have been sheer bliss. [soft guitar fade, campfire crackle]

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