The Last Gig In Melbourne

Sunday afternoon in a café. He sits alone on a stool
Channelling George Benson on his threadbare Gibson guitar
And who’s there to see it? The bouncers are tired
Outnumbering the punters but they’re legally required
It’s not how we planned it. They’ve never had fights
What are they here for? This is The Last Gig in Melbourne...

Don’t tell me you missed it? That very last gig?
Don’t tell me – you were tired?
Maybe you’d go next time. Pity there’s no next time.

A Fitzroy pub on a Tuesday. Electro kids jabbing on a drum pad
Volume turned down to nothing so the flats next door don’t get mad
And no one can hear them over the register
The venue had letters via the council
It’s not how they planned it, waited months for this night
What are they here for? This is The Last Gig in Melbourne...

Don’t tell me you missed it? That very last gig?
Don’t tell me – it was cold?
Maybe you’d go next time. Pity there’s no next time.

On Thursday evening, the folkies
Beat bodhrains and pluck on their mandolins
In a fortress of pokies which drown them out with the din
The words are in Irish so no one understands
“Seachain fearg an fhir foighneach”
Beware the anger of a patient man
It’s not how we planned it. It doesn’t seem right.
What are they here for? This is The Last Gig in Melbourne...

“I’m sorry I missed it. That very last gig.
I’m sorry, I was skint - Maybe next time?
Wrong side of the river. Babysitting the kids
Hey I didn’t have petrol - Maybe next time?
Had to work in the morning. I drank too much beer
My boyfriend felt queasy - Maybe next time?
Stayed home and watched TV. I couldn’t be stuffed
Hey I’ll make it there next time.”

Pity there’s no next time.
Pity there’s no next time.
Such a pity there’s no next time.
Pity there’s no next time.