In every major city, where people live and eat,
There is a place, Suburbia, where Suburban people meet
They give Suburban lectures, of gossip till you scream.
And still they try to put you in their great Suburban dream.
And Mummy still loves Daddy, ’cause Daddy pays the rent.
And Sister loves the boy next door but I know that boy is bent.
And Brother’s got his closet, and Junior’s got his chains.
And I still have to hear about Gran’s arthritic pains.
And Granpa thinks I’m communist, Dad thinks I’m a queen.
Mum thinks I’m on heroin but my arms still are clean.
And my sweet lovely lady wants to go and slash her wrists,
She’s asking me for razor blades and it’s hard to resist.
But tonight when all is quiet, no one’s going to sleep.
For downtown in Suburbia the wounds run oh so deep.
It was 1983 and I was living in a fibro death trap in North Ryde, Sydney, sharing it with my best mate D and an array of colourful characters who came and went over the next eleven months. I’d just left home and full of hormones and THC I Wrote Suburbia.
I think I had some issues
God I hope I’ve worked them out by now.