'Bottle+Creek+Blues'+Sam+Hunt

A Bottle Creek Blues
By Sam Hunt

The wind can’t blow any harder The airs as heavy as Hell…

I watched blue diesel smoke like mist hanging on a high suburban hill; Wind I thought would blow it away But the wind itself is diesel.

And yet the smoke disappeared absorbed by that suburban hill; The problem of disposal was solved by the lungs of the people

Two years ago we used to row to an island here called Cockleshell: Gather cockles in a sack warm them up and gorge ourselves.

A friend we used to do this with near died from typhoid fever: They had the cockles analysed shit from down the coastline further

Barefeet on the beach is madness, this beach that was once made of sand: the sun shines bright on broken glass Cockles from Cockleshell Island are banned

Sad protest songs are sung and heard like this one here. And afterwards the audience goes home convinced the shit’s cleared clean away with words…

The wind can’t blow any harder, the air’s too heavy for the birds.