Cheers to Sarah for the beautiful harmonies!

Paper Daisy Plains (original song)

Are you living charming? 
Are you living nice? 
Are you living pleasant? 
Are you living nice? 

Are you without a house, man? 
Is your bed in your car? 
Are you living homeless? 
Is your bed in the park? 

How many hands did your father shake
to get you in the circles you choose to grace
and how many interviews ‘till Billy loses heart
because no one’s hires a fella who’s living in their car. 
and there’s a bloody, vicious circle 
A bloody, vicious circle stretching out. 

The snake has pink skin, dear. 
his teeth are milky white. 
Your blood will turn black, dear
should you receive his bite. 

Walk careful, my friend
around every bend, friend
‘cause lying in the sand, man
could be the landlord’s fangs, man. 

A bloody vicious circle ‘round Mr White and Mrs Brown. 
A bloody vicious circle that wraps around this town. 
A bloody vicious circle turns the mind, blinds the eyes
to how a bloody, vicious childhood makes a bloody, vicious life. 
and I’m bloody sick of seeing it
sick from these blood-sucking parasites.

A Bloody, Vicious Circle - original song

Something for Treakle. 

THE TEARS THAT HILLS CRY

For friends who are gone, 
and friends who remain - 
and precious ones, 
who are one, and the same. 

Who carried me through 
my sorrow, and strain, 
and gave me the sweetest
warmth of my days. 

Who showed me that kindness
is the purest of prides;
that love is a river, 
and that tears are her tides. 

Thankyou for lighting
my darkest of nights. 
Thankyou for walking
your life by my side. 

Where was fear of dying, 
I now have none. 
For nothing is new
underneath this old sun. 

From dust, are we sprung, 
and to dust, we become - 
and love is the bedrock 
that anchors the grass. 

For I come from a long line
of soldiers and currs; 
slaughter-house men, nurses, workers
trailing their bloodied hands through the Earth - 
and Love is the bone that 
firms their frail grasp. 

Who showed me no mountain 
of money can buy
a single star more, for to string
in the sky. 

Thankyou for warming
my coldest of nights. 
Thankyou for walking 
your life by my side. 

The crickets are louder
than black thunderclaps. 
Their songs are swirling, 
to spite dizzy bats 

and the sky whirls, burned
like an old treasure map - 
and this desert is still, 
and cold, as blue steel. 

Your presence comes back 
like de ja vu's spark, 
in Joker's Tunnel, little feet
braving the dark

and I am without you
but we are not apart, 
and I cannot explain
the sadness I feel. 

Who showed me that good
little boys never die. 
You who show me 
the tears that hills cry. 

The ranges are wet
where we'd romp, and we'd stride. 
My child, I love you. 
Little one, goodbye.

The Tears That Hills Cry - banjo (original song)

A song about something my Dad told me today, and a dream that I've had that seemed to give the same strange lesson.  Every word of this song is true, so far as I'm aware. 

WAINUIOMATA

Near Wainuiomata, 
the stones upon the beach are black -
and likewise, is the roaring ocean
and the thunder clouds that crack. 

Near Wainuiomata, 
where my father, he was born. 
Rongorongo’s weary river
washes Mata’s tears to the dawn. 

My father said, this very morning -
he has one strong memory, 
of seeing his old grandfather 
in Hawke’s Bay, by the sea. 

With brown hands, like my father’s -
and broad hands, like my own. 
He sat, unblinking, untangling
fishing line, washed in with the foam. 

He did not speak, but might have sung a song - 
“Tangaroa, Tangaroa, roll along.” 

He was a slaughterhouse worker. 
He was not a fisherman -
and he threw away the line that
he’d spent hours, straightening by hand. 

And 55 short years later, 
in a red land, across the sea. 
I dreamed a dream of Wainui
in which my father said to me 

“The waves wash these black stones, my boy
but you must, through day and night
take my burden, and take this paintbrush
and paint these black stones white.

You will not win against the water, 
but do not tire of your task. 
Paint these stones white, my blue eyed son
and do for me, this thing I ask.

“The waves are always moving, always travelling in lifelong song. 
Tangaroa, Tangaroa, roll along.” 

I try to think of meanings
for these visions, side by side -
and the fruitless, endless toil
my forefathers did with pride. 

Father, I cannot paint these stones white, 
I cannot unwind my family’s knots. 
Rongorongo’s river flows forward, 
ever onward, and does not stop.   

Near Wainuiomata, 
the stones, on the beach, are black -
and likewise, the roaring ocean
and the thunder clouds that crack. 

Near Wainuiomata, 
where my father was born. 
Rongorongo’s shining river
washes Mata’s tears to the dawn.

Wainuiomata - original song, Darcy Hay

I don't like to write about school shootings. The cold, hard fact though is that they'll keep happening, and if they're going to be a part of the American cultural landscape, Americans need to hear that reflected back to them. 

MAKE USA GREAT AGAIN

I was asked to write a song
about goodness, gone wrong. 
About the days you shone, 
and of what you have become. 
But I’m too poor to waste my time
on sentimental lines
and characters, and so and so

But if you’ve got the dough 
we can go out, and disco -
like it’s a high school Summer baby. 

Get down. Get down. Get down. Get down. 
And the first shot blows a round. 
GET DOWN. GET DOWN. GET. DOWN. GET. DOWN. 
Don’t you make a sound. 
Ah, ahh, ahhh, ahhhh
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Freedom lost and found. 
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Learn rules they laid down. 
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Don’t you make a sound. 

Something tells me that’s too graphic
to horrify you, in a song with
but somewhere in the USA, there’s 
a man my age. A man my age 

who’s fantasising of slaughtering
dozens of teachers and children 
and how many times can we ask why
when half a you can't be fuckin bothered trying? 


Every decade you've been with us
you have been at war.
You keep the peace with business briefs
in a dog-eat-puppy world.
You all hanging together
and hanging separately.
Sowing separate seeds
in a whirlwind a-roar.

You’re not at war anymore
but that won’t be for long, 
or will it? 

GET DOWN. MAN DOWN. MAN DOWN. GET DOWN.
Entertainment on the screen. 
I'M HIT. OH GOD. OH GOD. I'M HIT.
Watch the young men scream. 
Get down. Get down. Boogie left, boogie right 
As the snowballs gather tonight 
Get down. Get down. Get down. Get down. 
The Screen cannot hear your sounds.

MAKE USA GREAT AGAIN - original song

Solidarity Forever cover

When The Saints Go Marching In cover

Clancy Of The Overflow - Slim Dusty/Banjo Patterson Cover

Where You Tread - Darcy Hay

A poem written by Aunty Nola Gregory, and put to music by Darcy Hay.

Klansman - Original Song (Nola Gregory, Darcy Hay)

A Tall Ship - original poem

The Cameleer's Joy - original song

you don't get to wear those hated robes anymore 

Klansman - written by Nola Gregory

Something from back in high school, when I was a Tool fanatic

Dunes (original instrumental, from 2009)

I'm a singer-songwriter from the Mid-West of Western Australia. My lyrics are the most important thing (to me, anyhow!) about my music, and I would be stoked if other people around the world saw value in them and wanted to cover my songs, which range from overtly political to more philosophical and personal in content. 

Darcy Hay

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