Lets travel to the end,
we'll go and end up right back here again,
we're seein' the faces but nobody is our friend,
the irony is that you end where you begin.

Dear Mr. Cardigan,
your threads are tight, but are they just a trend,
stereotype of old and whithered men,
in the end you become one, and when you spend

Alongside some meadow,
an old post and a sitting crow,
who at nighttime would seem black to me and you,
in the daylight he shines incandecent blue.

Waltzing Matilda,
your dance is nice but it will kill ya,
so think twice before you two-step up to me,
you should sit down and rest just rest those weary feet.

Some desert island,
a marooned man doing just the best he can,
a bottled letter floated ashore in the sand,
Hey Red, help me, I'm stranded. Signed the Maroon Man.

Oh shining shooting star,
hold on tight and you just might go far,
tragectory and destinty, one and the same,
the mystery is when you point out who's to blame.

Let's travel to the end,
we'll go and end up right back here again,
we're seein' the faces but nobody is our friend,
the irony is that you end where you begin.

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