In the summer all the old men, they sit on their front porches,
While the women comb their hair, shell their peas
And wonder what they've missed.
And the forlorn children scan the streets
For wayward dogs, with fading torches.
It's no amazing sight, it's something that I miss.
I still hear the trucks
as they crunch their gears going through the lanes,
And curse all folk who get stuck in their way
And the roaring forklift starting up
At 7am of a weekday morning
How I cursed them then, now I see things another way.
And if I see things through a hallowed gaze,
Well is it such a crime?
When I ai'nt been to Brunswick for a long long time.
There was a kind word you could get
>From the man who ran the milk bar,
And a rough one from the old bloke
Who lived across the road, and though
The footpaths stank with the refuse
Of overfed Alsatians,
The air was rife with Tip Top Bread,
The baker's morning load.
And if I see things through a hallowed gaze,
Well is it such a crime?
When I ain't been to Brunswick for a long long time.
And there's a cottage I think of,
Sometimes when I've been drinking,
And in the bottom of my glass,
I see a life I've missed,
Of summer walks and well trained dogs
And plenty of time for thinking.
So just don't bother asking why the hell I'm always pissed.
But if I see things through a hallowed gaze,
Well is it such a crime?
When I ain't been to Brunswick,
No I ain't been to Brunswick,
I ain't been nowhere near it for a long long time.