Our lives are led, the streets are full.
The air is filled with the wretched fuel. At night the cars are tucked up tight, as close as the kerb allows.
By day they flee on a shopping spree, the Mullens Darling run. From town we come past old White Bay, at 80, 90, a 100 K.
The roads are drains we waste along, Robert Street here we come.
We're charging up, you can hear us roar.
From time and peace, you will hear no more.
There's work and space and things to do.
While the engine is running, our blood does too. We lock them and shine them and make them sing.
Their song is a siren. The Balmain sting.
Stop!
There is something we think we cannot do.
There are currents and waves and tides too.
There's a voice that is rising and floating along,
And we can steer it, and shape it and make it as strong
As the voice of the reason of machinery's song.
So while logic and facts and circumstance declare
A brave new voice returns the stare. It can be done, the cars will go.
We must show, belief can know.