BILAMBIL CALLING
Last thoughts of the Prez…
That big grey flowing beard, those deep dark knowing eyes, and many a Friday football night, we debated on them tries…
Then when the game was over, we struck up with a jam,
The Boss was there with brushes, Prez with mouth harp in his hand…
The Prez would throw his head back, and draw a soulful wail, while we would stay there with the groove, and I would tell my tale…
We would loose the blues, blowing madly through the night, the Prez is with the southern cross, sailing with that kite…
There’s more to it than they would know, the man we call the Prez, on a long board sliding down a slope, big breaker so he sez…
Once he was in Tassie, in that horizontal sleet, a diamond drill was in his hand, the weekend was his treat…
Then pushing books at libraries, driving here and there, also had a Teeshirt shop, on Griffith street somewhere…
Use to be a hippie and became a family man, the other side of Nimbin, living in a Kombi van…
Bilambil in the valley, where he did hold his chair, and the blues club just ain’t swinging, now that he’s not there.
That big grey beard, those deep dark eyes, they will linger long…
And we’ll just keep on moving, as the palm tree drops a frond…
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