Chorus: In the time it takes to sing this song There'll be four acres cleared in the Amazon The jungle burns all through the night, They say you can see it from a satellite. The smoke's so thick for miles around, They have to close the airports down. The green of the jungle turns to flaming red, As another cattle ranch gets the go-ahead. Now hamburgers grow where the forest once stood, Somehow I get the feeling that we've all been fooled. I heard a man on the TV say That if they take the forest away The world will be ruined, our future will go, He's a Kayapo, so he should know. But this very same man still cuts down trees, For him it's a question of necessity, A family to feed, and he must pay the rent, But when you add it all up it just doesn't make sense. I heard about a man called Chico Mendes, He fought the cattle ranchers head to head, He taught the rubber-tappers to stand up and fight, To protect the forest which is theirs by right. But the ranchers had their claims to lay, They wouldn't let a conservationist stand in their way, One night at his home they took him unawares – Forty bullets in the back for Chico Mendes. Now hamburgers grow where the forest once stood, Another twenty years it might be gone for good.

I could’ve been a child in Chernobyl, Poison running through my veins, Searching for a reason through the rubble, Searching for a way to ease the pain. I could’ve been a young man on the ocean, Seeking safety far from home, Running from a land that’s sad and broken, Wondering where compassion’s gone. It's just an accident, Just an accident, Just an accident of birth. Could have been a kid brought up in Derry, Taught to hate the other side, Could have been forced from birth to carry The burden of my people's pride. And I could have been one of Bush’s soldiers, Or a young boy fighting for the Taliban, You give your life, just like they told you, For Allah, God, or Uncle Sam. I could have been a princess in a palace, With a double barrel name, Could have been a millionaire from Dallas, Sacrifice all for wealth and fame. And I could have been born as a Brahman, I could have been born Untouchable, I could have grown up as an Afrikaner, I could have been black under white man's rule. I happened to be born in a land of plenty, I happen to be male, and I happen to be white, It happens that my bowl has never been empty, It happens that I've never been forced to fight. In everyone's life there is some power, A chance to choose which road to take, But at birth, we don't choose the hour, We all just take the hand of fate.

I'm gonna write a pretentious song, Where all the chords are gonna be diminished, Or minor sevenths or suspended fourths, You're gonna hate me when I'm finished! I'm gonna write a pretentious song, With a message that's subtle and obscure, And if you cretins can't understand, It means you're not ideologically pure! I'm gonna write a pretentious song, Full of angst and histrionics, And then just to impress you all I think I'll throw in a few harmonics! I'm gonna sit with my head right down, Mumble my words into my guitar....(mumble rest of verse) I'm going to write a pretentious song Full of words that will mystify; Surrealistic dreams of anabolic steroids, Metaphors that will make you cry. Preliterate stimulation of surrogate elites Exempted from revolutionary hands. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. I hope everybody here understands! I'm going to write a pretentious song, So that top music pro's will respect me. But I'll have to stop now, 'cause the men in white coats Have kindly come along to collect me!

Tangled threads of green and brown run through the land like veins, I watch the channel country from the window of my plane, I'm flying from the south, up to Queensland once again, Coming into Isa. You wouldn't think to look out there that there'd been rain for years, These skeletons of rivers can't be filled by human tears, This land's not at the beck and call of those who think it's theirs. Up around the Isa. Hot sun, pounding down, Dust and flies, Hard town, mining town, Mount Isa There's one grey ribbon cuts its way from Isa to the sea, Eleven hours to Townsville, just as far to Tennant Creek. 30,000 all alone, together in the heat, Livin' in the Isa. There's houses built of fibro, and broken, battered cars, And sprinklers flicker endlessly to make a green backyard, And people share with gracefulness, and drink their liquor hard, Up around the Isa. There's refugees from cities here, from a life they won't accept, There's refugees from women here, whose promises weren't kept, They work out in the blazing sun, or in the blackest depths, Underneath the Isa. 3,000 feet below the ground it's hot as flaming Hell, And up above the stacks pour out their poison sulphur smell, But people don't complain, 'cause they pay you very well, In the mines of Isa. Tangled threads of green and brown run through the land like veins, I watch the channel country from the window of my plane, I'm flying to the south, back from Queensland once again, Coming down from Isa.

If there's one thing Julie didn't need to hear Was when her friend at the office said, "Oh dear, I'm pregnant again!" She's the third one at work already this year, Julie says congratulations, and fights the tears Till she's alone again. It just doesn't seem right, and it's just not fair, When it happens to every other woman out there. After ten years of trying, it shouldn't hurt now, It still does somehow Silent conversations, Tears at night, For the chance she never had. Wistful celebrations, Smile held tight, Telling friends you're really glad. Well there's Thomases and Stephanies and Bens to be adored, And she could strangle those who dangle signs of BABY ON BOARD, They seem designed to taunt, And there's those who rightly say that a woman of today Doesn't have to be a mother, overworked and underpaid, But they're just missing the point. And scientists will tell you just what science can do, But Julie she can tell you what it's like to go through That roller coaster ride with its highs and its lows, 'Cause Julie knows. Julie and her husband don't talk about it now, They've been through all that, and it's better somehow To let sleeping dogs lie. But he knows what she's thinking from the little things she does, He doesn't say a thing, but he'll give her a hug, And quietly sigh. 'Cause the wishing and the hoping start to take their toll, So you turn off the dreams and go to damage control, And there's pleasures in the freedom and fulfilment in career, But dreams don't disappear.

The history of British royalty is the story of disloyalty, Characters like Richard III, Henry VIII (Part One) And, what's her name? …. Diana. Today one would like to present one's own story, And disabuse the public of some singularly unfavourable impressions about one, eh what! One's name is Charles George Phillip Arthur … Or is that Charles Phillip Arthur George? At any rate it's Charles, (Char-ar-arles) Prince Charles (Char-ar-arles). One was born at an appropriately early age, Silver spoon in one's mouth in a gilded cage, From true British stock and the best pedigrees, Though one's mater's from Germany and one's pater's from Greece. There was concern that one was awkward and a social failure, So they shipped one off to Timbertop in bloody Australia, Then back to Gordonstone and Cambridge Uni, The end result: A privileged, well-educated loony! The name's Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles), Prince Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles). And all through this time one was gently encouraged To find a blue-blooded woman with a view to one's marriage, One searched high and low, in town house and manor, Till one found a sweet pretty young thing called Diana. She was loved by the press and the folk of the heartland, Even though she is related to that dreadful Barbara Cartland. But things soon went downhill, one was so hard to please, So one went out bush, and one talked to the trees! Poor Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles), Prince Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles). I don't know why she left me, my behaviour wasn't cruel. One has a passion for shooting peasants (er, pheasants) and urban renewal, One’s a sensitive New Age Royal, not like other dukes and peers, One listens to one’s subjects - Believe me, I'm all ears. But now I’m married to my true love, a thriller with a Rolls, A jolly decent lady, one Camilla Parker-Bowles, I said to her, "If only one weren't a Prince, a pathetic moping sadsack, If only one were . . . . A box of those feminine hygiene product thingies, don't you know." But one's Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles), Prince Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles). All in all we royals lately have copped a deal of fertiliser Over incidents like Fergie's toe-sucking financial adviser. One never knows just who'll be next to share the royal bed, They say Andy's back with Fergie, and dear Edward, well, least said! It's been absolutely beastly, why just look at the facts, Worst of all, can you believe it, Mummy's even paying tax! And there's all those damned photographers and ghastly Fleet Street scribblers, Is it any wonder Mummy had an anus horribilis? Hit rock bottom really! And I'm Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles), Prince Charles (Char-ar-ar-arles).

Farewell comrades, You who believed in justice and right, That workers of the world would one day unite. Farewell comrades, You who believed with a radical passion, In a vision that's faded and gone out of fashion. A dream of salvation, a world without nations, Of equality, progress and youth, A dream that was twisted by men who insisted That they were the keepers of truth Farewell comrades, Who marched with your banners in Sydney and Spain, Defied bloody fascists, for the cause, not for gain. Farewell comrades, Betrayed and dismayed as you started to learn That the party you loved became fascists in turn. Who sat in cafes, read Mao and read Che, Who talked of a world that would change, While greed and collusion replaced revolution, And workers still clung to their chains. Kulaks, Budapest, the Prague Spring, Gdansk, Kabul, Tiananmen. Farewell comrades, Like the Wall of Berlin, the vision is gone, Like a hole in the heart, like a forgotten song. Farewell comrades, Who suffered the venom, the slander and lies, Of the haters who saw you as traitors and spies. Who stood by the party, despite Joe McCarthy, Surviving through work and through faith, Maybe now you can show that the vision can grow, When it comes from the heart, not the state. Farewell comrades, Farewell comrades...

There are trenches in the hills by Sarajevo, Where soldiers hunch against the wind and snow. Their eyes, their guns, sparkle in the red glow Of the houses burning in the town below. Their hearts are filled with pride, Their minds are filled with hate, God is on their side, They fight for glory, land and state. There's a trench in a field by Sarajevo, Where a mother lays her precious child to rest. He was looking for his father from the window, When a sniper's bullet took him in the breast. She mouths a silent prayer, She shivers in the frost, The countryside is bare, There's no wood for a cross. There are trenches that will rend the hearts forever Of the women raped in anger and disdain By the soldiers who in peaceful times could never Have believed they'd be so eager to cause pain. When purity is all For women and for race, To the victor goes the spoils, To the victim sheer disgrace. There are trenches between people in the Balkans, Of ethnic pride and history's ties to land. But wherever hearts are cold and lives are broken We all must see the blood on our own hands. From the shanty towns of shame, To the famine's cruel decay, Between us and them We build trenches every day, Trenches every day.

I never wrote a love song, Never thought I could do it. We've been together for so long, Guess I knew that you knew it. I know you know my heart, Cause you've grown to be a part Of me It wasn't like in the movies, We didn't hear violins, More like a couple of schoolkids, Nervous laughter, nervous grins. It's funny how things change, Love's a thing you don't arrange. I've seen one become two, I've seen two become four, I've seen me become you, I've seen us become more. Don't know the reason why, Just know that you are my Best friend. For richer for poorer, In bad times and good, We'll face it together, Knock on wood. Don't know the reason why, Just know that you are my Best friend. I never wrote a love song, Never thought I could do it. We've been together for so long, Guess I knew that you knew it. Don't know the reason why, Just know that you are my Best friend.

Go to sleep my little angel, you've had such a day full Of laughing and living and mucking about, Built great wooden towers fought monsters for hours, My brave little hero, you're all tuckered out! (Time passes) My sweetheart, my sugarplum, my schnookems, my snugglebum, My darling, my dearest, my angel, my pet, It's nice to rock you in my arms to tight and sing you to sleep tonight, But it's been two whole hours and you're not asleep yet! (Time passes, eons elapse) Now I know you're a tease, but please please please please Go to sleep, I've had enough, my patience is done. I like bedtime stories, but after 15 it gets boring, Especially when it's all the same one! (Time passes, eons elapse, entire civilisations rise and fall) Now listen up, you little wise guy, it's no more Mr Nice Guy! Just go to sleep right now - do I make myself clear? Now get back into bed! And stop throwing Ted! And quit driving toy trains all over my ear! I've tried I've tried I've really really tried I've really tried, But after all this effort it's me not you that's tired! It's hours past your bedtime, it's even way past mine, Now I'm in charge of this place mate, You'll have to toe the line! Just go to sleep, not one more peep, Excuse me while I yawn . . . Dream, dream, dream . . . My goodness, it's morning, and children are crawling All over the bed, all chirpy and fresh. With twisted back and aching head from sleeping in my child's bed, I stumble to work, looking forward to some rest!

There's something I must tell you all, It's really rather vital, This song has got a message, you can tell that from its title, My message is important, too important to get wrong, So I'll wait for now, and tell you a bit later in the song. It's taken me some time to get to writing on this topic, There were times I felt disheartened, and convinced that I should drop it, I set up a committee to investigate the question, And after much deliberation, they came up with this suggestion: Procrastination, It's something we should start to think about doing Something about looking into how we can begin to Consider ways in which we might eventually find a framework for Establishing parameters for coming to terms with All the things we've put off till tomorrow. Our committee has been looking into things that we might do, And very soon we'll start to work on several projects bold and new, Our Federation party will be wonderful, it’s true! It’s a pity it won’t happen it until 20-22! And soon we're going to organise to stop the Vietnam war, And we'll fight to dump Bob Menzies, and protest the Springbok tour. (Pause) Now, I never got around to writing an end to this verse, So let's go straight to the chorus, before things get much worse! Do not do today what you can put off till tomorrow, Don't get around to giving back those things that you have borrowed, You can do those dishes later, you can pay that bill next week, And there's no dreadful hurry to fix that little leak. There's a moral to this story, there's a moral to this song, And if you'll all just please bear with me, I'll tell you all, anon, But don't rush to conclusions, don't cut your options off just yet, Now, what was I going to say, oh dear . . . I'm sorry . . . I forget. So let's do something positive and definite about it . . . . Later.

From the splendour of Daintree to the wild Lemonthyme, Where the old giants sway with the breeze. They've cut down the Jarrah and the great Huon Pine, They can’t see the forest for the trees. The life-giving bushland was meant for us all, In the cycle of life, death and birth, Sustaining earth’s creatures, the great and the small, There’s no-one can say what it's worth. Some can’t see beyond their own profit and loss Only bounty to plunder as they please, They can‘t see the beauty and they don‘t count the cost ’Cause they can‘t see the forest for the trees. It’s true trees mean jobs and we must work to live, The answer’s not simple, I know, But there’s only so much that the forests can give, They must have the space to grow. It takes 400 years for the tree to grow tall, The chainsaw can slice through with ease, The men stand and cheer as the great giants fall, They can‘t see the forest for the trees.