Thirty Six Africa Street in Bushtown,
Number a name and a street.
But old Bushtown has tumbled down
And overgrown with concrete.
I was born in old Bushtown without a claim to fame.
I don't think that anyone could quite recall my name.
I grew up with a mongrel pup and fishing hooks and line,
Winding tracks and treehouse shacks, and Africa was mine.
Thirty Six Africa Street in Bushtown,
Number a name and a street.
But old Bushtown has tumbled down
And overgrown with concrete.
I remember rainy nights
And drums across the sky
And I'd get lost in my kaross,
So frightened I could cry.
I remember the blazing days,
A drought and once a flood,
My first sight of a bar-room fight,
Of dead men and of blood.
Thirty Six Africa Street in Bushtown,
Number a name and a street.
But old Bushtown has tumbled down
And overgrown with concrete.
First time that I left that place
Was in a Model A.
We rolled down to another town
'Bout thirty miles away.
Moonlight showed up a two-track road,
The middle grass was high.
I felt the stump ripping off the sump
And the radiator ran dry.
Thirty Six Africa Street in Bushtown,
Number a name and a street.
But old Bushtown has tumbled down
And overgrown with concrete.
Thirty Six Africa Street in Bushtown,
Number a name and a street.
But old Bushtown has tumbled down
And overgrown with concrete.