Run it for me Bub.
Run the song.
That song I cut up, the one the ladies sing.
Yes Gran. Again? You sure? You OK?
Yes Bub. Sure. I’m a bit cold.
Light the fire? Cup of tea?
Thanks Bub.
Crockery clatters.
Why’d you cut it up Gran, the song?
It was wrong. They got it all wrong. It was the wrong song.
You could then, it was going around. Nineteen seventy seven.
You could just cut things up. Rearrange the pieces.
Writers were doing it, like collage.
Line up the bits any way you like.
Juxtapose. Use judgement.
So I cut it up. Put it back together again.
You see things weren’t there before. Get something new.
Were you a scientist then Gran, an inventor?
Ha!
No. They thought I was mad. But they gave me a grant.
One hundred and eight pieces.
I just threw them up in the air
again and again
until I got it right.
We won a prize. I was avant-garde.
Play it for me now Bub?
OK Gran.
You comfortable?
Yeah Bub.
Kindling takes.
Fire brightens.
A choir of spectral voices ululates
an incantation
from beyond.
us sing advance
us sing advance
let us
rich and rare strains then
let us
sing free
golden soil and wealth then
us sing advance in joyful strains
with courage
let us
combine joyful strains then
let us
history’s page then
let us
with hearts and hands then
boundless plains our land abounds
strains then
let us
rich and rare
us sing advance
us sing advance free with courage
let us
gifts of beauty in history’s page
let us
golden soil and wealth
of ours renowned of all
boundless plains to share then
let us
combine all combine
in joyful strains
in nature’s gifts in history’s page
us sing advance
every stage advance then
let us
(voices rise)
let us
sing
us all combine then
us sing advance
us sing advance
us sing advance
all combine with courage
let us
Choir stops.
Fire cracks.
Sparks fly.
Gran?
Softer,
Gran?
Gran sleeps.
Gran dreams?
Us sing advance?
Cut up song.
Image: ‘Collage-062’ / flickr
