It's a harsh dry land, it breaks your back and scars and gnarls your hands

Now carcasses rot in the sun and dust silts up the dams

Sacked two men when the postie poked those blueys through the flyscreen doors

The welfare state dried up ten years before



It's Hobsons' choice, they run this plain and the flocks melt into bone

You can drove the stock routes for a year and cripple life at home

I still look forward to every day but every day's the same

Awake in a sweat, a dream of the smell of rain



But a river runs silent, runs deep, I work this land, it grips me by my feet

Staying 'til my blood runs cold, spark of the heart, iron in the soul



My great grandfather pushed his luck beyond the goyder line

Now all that's left are mute ploughshares and a gravestone caulked with lime

In tribute, I still use his Swiss barometer in vain

Fate be damned, the weather hasn't changed



Fifty miles by riverland, there's pasture fenced and sprayed

Profit margins chinagraphed on boardrooms in L.A.

Absenting landlords meet to match their smiles and fake suntans

In three years they'll have leached the soil to sand



But a river runs silent, runs deep, I work this land, it grips me by my feet

Staying 'til my blood runs cold, spark of the heart, iron in the soul



Josie searches saltbush, where rain once ran its course

It's a shock to see a child of twelve grow old upon a horse

The glory box lies locked with memories silent as the phone

But even in the shadows, it's our home



Government relief just might keep breeding stock alive

The agents jumped the cost of feed and the export market's dived

And if it breaks, I'm still in debt until I'm ninety eight

Will the last one out please shut the blody