The House At 21
Words & Music: Geoff Drummond

There's an old bush track that stumbles
from the house down to the street
Twin ruts worn smooth through clay and rock
By passing wheels and feet
And where it meets the asphalt it takes off on the run
But life goes on, a snail's pace, at Number 21.

It stands stout stone and timber with its rusted roof of iron
A monument to memories of a world long left behind
Ajoining flats that boast their youth,
designed to awe and stun
Peer over fences bowed with age at Number 21.

Where an old dray with the wheels gone, sits askew on forty-four gallon drums
There's hooks at the gate where the halter's hung for the teams of yesterday
Through peeling paint and a paling slot, comes a glimpse of an acre that time forgot
Where Patterson's curse and forget-me-nots, lie sleeping in the sun
Around the house at 21.

Now I'm told that the place was built in times when Hallet's Creek ran clear
In crystal carved unfettered banks for nine months of the year
When forest stretched from hill to plain, Its boughs embraced the sun
But the land was cleared when the house was born at Number 21

It laid no claim to heritage, no corner stone inscribed
Demanding sweet remembrance of a wealthy squatter's bribe
Graffitti carved in marble stone could never tell the sum
Of the hard fought battle to survive at Number 21.

Across the cobbled carriageway, renovations near complete
A bluestone stands with the doors aghast at the sight across the street
Companions for a hundred years, Now something must be done
To exorcise that ruffian at Number 21.

For the church, the pub and the city hall, have heeded the decree
That wealth and grace shall be the face, we place on history
Now the swells are drawn by the promise of a killing just begun
For the land is worth a fortune now at Number 21.

But it was those who swung the axe, and drove the post into the earth
That forced a living from this land, and added to it's worth
While speculators lined their purse with silver they had wrung
From those burst hearts of might and main at Number 21.

Where an old dray with the wheels gone
Sits askew on forty four gallon drums
There's hooks at the gate where the halter's hung
For the teams of yesterday

And those stately home may stand and cheer
If they tear the old place down
I can't help but think that the loss be less
The other way around.

Chorus