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letra de wangaratta gazza - peter bibby

i’ve been sippin’ this high class liquor for months, it’s time to get back on the flaggon
because my wallet is drained and i’m stuck in the rain
i can’t buy an umbrella because i spent all my skrilla
and my cat is sick and wet, i cannot take him to the vet
because i spent all my dimes on all these high class times

and i’ve been sitting around l!cking my wounds for too long
it’s time to get back on the wagon
but my days as a chef have left my fingers dead
and my days as a smoker have left my lungs choking
and my days as a drinker have left my body sinking
and i’m struggling to climb upon it
cake pie sausage meat

sun tree grass eat
rock sauce birthday party
best friend present, old glass barbie
rain cloud tea cold
twenty six wrinkles old
blue price solid gone
hammer car walking fun

well gazza grew fatter and moved to w-ngaratta
he got a dog but he couldn’t pat her, staring games and chitter chatter
then one day he hitched to rosedale, put the poor b-tch up for sale
got $10 and a pat on the back, headed west along a beaten track
lost 50 kilos, joined a gang, looting towns as he sang a happy song of cake and pie
a menacing glare filled up his eye
and wanted posters with gazza’s face were pinned up all over the place
twenty thousand to the bloke who brings gaz in strung up in rope
and shoots him dead when he’s confessed to all his blunders, sins and mess
nowhere to run and nowhere to hide gaz went to town thinking genocide
he k!lled the lot except for the dog who was watching quietly from a rock
she had been back east in rosedale, and come back west to morwell
run jump catch ball
dodge bullet k!ll them all
sick ’em sick ’em sick ’em pooch
go for the jugular i’ll get the loot
escape horse bush cave
eucalyptus red dirt trail
search party pangerang tracker
hands up gaz put down your tucker
you’re coming with us you wretched f-cker!
but not the dog someone shoot that f-cker
let’s haul gazza back to w-ngaratta and hang the f-cker
there’ll be twenty thousand pounds in our hands thanks to you gazza
we’ll p-ss on your body when it’s limp and rotting you wretched f-cker!
gazza was hung in the town square at midday

the january sun it beat hot
the noose had been tightened and the trap had fallen open
and gazza, he took a long drop
the crowd let out a cheer, they celebrated with mugs of beer
and they all agreed old gaz had copped his lot
and then they cut him down and chopped him up
and buried him out near myrtleford
there was no tombstone, the clergyman forgot it

- peter bibby

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