Theres a place they sitnwhere the wind don’t hitnwith a shadow hanging over itnand sing with a sighnmy dirt, my dirt is drynThey put us on the steepnside of the hillninto our weatherboard shack on stiltsnall of the whilenthe deeper the spiralnInside ,all eyesnfi x upon a great dividenOutside ,all eyesnfi x upon an empty skyntheres something in the gardennthat makes her unhappyntheres something in the gardennthat makes her unhappynI dreamt that they found usnthe colour of coalnas smoke crept through the fl y wire holesnand my dirt it was driernthan the ash from the fi renI count the daysnin sand and sticksnand act brave on the face of itntheres not a cloud in the skynmy dirt , my dirt is drynInside ,all eyesnfi x upon a great dividenOutside ,all eyesnfi x upon an empty skyntheres something in the gardennthat makes her unhappyntheres something in the gardennthat makes her unhappyncome on let it wash us down,ndown deep