Adelaide, Your Balls Are Showing

Don't worry, it isn't as dirty as it sounds.

Adelaide, your balls are showing,
Glistening on the refracting streetlight from shops and lamps,
Silver and stainless they stand,
Your wonderful city with culture so grand.

Adelaide, your mall echoes with a sound,
Electronica didgeridoos and people pacing around,
The xylophone hobo percusses out of tune,
With his fake $50 dollar bills on the ground.

Adelaide, Ben Folds wrote a song for you,
He's right, there is better beer,
I dream of wandering your streets,
Inebriated by its crisp taste fresh from tap.

Adelaide, Hindley street is filled with strip clubs,
Tattoo parlours, drunk teenagers and overworked cops,
Yet even there, a sense of culture, class and cultivation,
Mixed with the seediness of human instinctive, sensual sorrow.

Adelaide, all your people know each other,
You're like a country town,
Who forgot to remain small,
Yet still, I feel like a stranger.

Adelaide, you don't need to be more than what you are,
Even with a tiny casino and desperate attempt to flash up Rundle street,
Everywhere in your bounds, a wonderful feeling rushes me,
Filling me with vitality, making me content and happy.

Adelaide, never lose your soul... Or your balls for that matter.

The End

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