A song about musicians not being recognised as sole traders by Centrelink. 

RATTLE UP THE DRUM
 
Come out and join this fight, 
workers one, workers all. 
Come out and organise 
Workers all. 
Come out for recognition
of the worth of our positions
and come out, musicians
and rattle up the drum. 

Come out and sing for change
workers one, workers all. 
Come and sing for your wage
workers all. 
Come out and tell them you
are a human being too, 
and their pettiness, they will rue
and rattle up the drum. 

Come out and make a noise
workers one, workers all. 
A noise they can’t avoid, 
workers all. 
Come out and shake the walls
when ten thousand voices call 
“You shall not do this anymore.” 
Beat the drum. 

Come out and make them squirm, 
workers one, workers all. 
Come out and starve the worms, 
workers all. 
Come out and don’t back down
until they’ve given ground
and make them fear the sound
of our drum.

Rattle Up The Drum

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

Who carried me through
my sorrows, 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, 
that tears are her tides. 

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

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

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

Oh, 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
one single star more, 
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 thunder claps.
Their songs are swirling, 
to spite dizzy bats -

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

Your presence comes back
like de ja vu's spark
in Joker's Tunnel, little
feet in 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 showed me
the tears that hills cry. 

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

The Tears That Hills Cry - original poem

I Walk The Line - Johnny Cash cover

A song for young men, maybe 7 or 8, who don't like the bad things their fathers do, and who want to be better men than their fathers.

HOW TO BE A MENSCH 

Used to be they’d tell you, 
“Sonny, you wanna be a big man. 
You wanna throw your weight.
As hard as you can. 
 
You wanna get your way. 
You wanna be at the top
Top dog of the lot,. 
You wanna be the boss.”
 
Well, now young man
or woman too, or anybody
in the world will do. 
We are all equal, equally
and the best things to live for are free. 

What makes a good man 
makes a good woman too, 
and to be the best person
is the best you can do. 

You can’t say it enough -
how women can be tough. 
How girls can be brave, 
and play fisticuffs. 

There’s some in between
or doing their own thing. 
But the best way you can be
is to treat them equally.

What makes a good soul
makes a good friend too. 
Be the best person
is the best you can do. 

Good ethics are good things
whichever gender you are.
To be a good man, 
just be the best man you are. 

Well, now young man
or woman too, or anybody
in the world will do. 

We are all equal, equally
and the best things to live for are free.

How To Be A Mensch - original song

The final somg on my upcoming concept album of songs for young adults. 

This song tells the story of the narrator of the album, Texas Dann. 

Dreaming Of Texas - 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

A teenager regrets not standing up for a friend being bullied

Jazmin - If Only

Do You Know Me (1st March 2020) at Geraldton

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. 

The Tears That Hills Cry - original poem

Darcy Hay

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