This Highway Is Stained

There's a statue of a murderer in our city,

Beneath the buildings on Hay St.

Even named a highway after this murdering, racist,

And a pub where the students drink.

And as cars drive along in the distance,

I watch them hurry out of view,

Whilst I sit here, at this same pub just a little drunken.

And wonder what the hell to do.

About the horror and the stench of this crimson red highway.

The crooked color of these white washed walls

Strangers in the pub sat happily drinking,

Don't seem to notice the stains on the floor.

Don't seem to be bothered by the dissonance,

Or the smell that rots with time

Guess it's not so obvious when we've grown up, in a graveyard,

The union jacks' bastard child.

But this highway is stained,

Yes, this highway is stained with blood.

This highway is stained,

This highway is stained,

This highway is stained,

This highway is stained with blood.