Текст песни Nourishment - Abbe May , Mathas

Born in the red dust,
Aus custom,
Many Blackfellas know more but we hushed em.
Gagged em, shut em up, stuck a sock in the cake-hole,
Let em chew fat with the rest of us fake-snack labrats.
In a snake hole plugged up with a cork,
And a fork into an abortion of food,
With the force and the proof of a self-made suit.
Science wont let the decay take place,
Prolonged lifetime of a dry-aged stake
In the money pool swimming in the green privilege,
Gobbling a composite, no fresh green.
Keep those greens in a place unseen,
So they fiend for the fat and the salt and the sweet.
Finger Lime, Desert lime, Illawarra Plum,
Mountain Pepper, Quandong, Witchetty Grub.
All Aus delicates go unsung,
Rung through the price point, never see sun.
I do not know a single recipe.
Do not know an elder to ask.
Do not speak a word of tongue of all my country's timeless past,
A single ritual song or dance about that burning fire side.
Seems there is no merit here in trading in amongst our tribe
Am I right?
Yeah... well alright then.

Someone made our sustenance foul in the board room.
Clocking on the hour in search of power.
Age old recipes buried in book piles.
Set alight to fuel conveyor belt lines.

We will never form a culture in a trade-less tribe.

And that's textbook modern Aus,
No loss,
Borrowed cup of sugar from the next door knock,
Iceberg lettuce in a bowl with a block of tasty cheddar and a steak or a chop.
I've never had a belly full of Pepperberry any epidemic from the ships helped kill it off quick,
When they shands with us and traded tricks,
And we sback hellfire stole their kids.
No preach here, just a little pop quiz,
For me and my flock and the box that we're in,
The exact same fact game shovelled to the kids,
In a lunchbox chips, white sugar, box drink.
I've never made a meal with a Noongar touch,
I've never heard a story that came before us,
Out loud in a class or curriculum,
I think you'll find, they train you up and spit you out.
Gobble up a gallon of whatever cheap kick you're on,
Sick you up, prep your fists.
To never greet a brother with a hug and bumped fist,
They're clever to the point of predatorial numbness.
I'm living on the largest island,
Where trees still exist from the times of Gondwana,
But the past is pardoned,
For the turf and the birth of the pale home armoured.
And we're pondering karma, praying for calm within a safehouse,
Living a craze out regardless,
Pulling a six out the bar fridge,
Heads down when a council park is passing.
No eye contact you bastard,
Listen to your boss in a trade-less oz.

And borrow all the culture you can get your hands on.

Someone made our sustenance foul in the board room.
Clocking on the hour in search of power.
Age old recipes buried in book piles.
Set alight to fuel conveyor belt lines.

We will never form a culture in a trade-less tribe.