Parang Man, I suck me tooth when I hear how dem croptime fiddlers lie, and de wailing, kiss-me-arse flutes that bring water to me eye! Oh, when I t'ink how from young I wasted time at de fetes, I could bawl in a red-eyed rage for desire turned to regret, not knowing the truth that I sang at parang and la commette. Boy, every damned tune them tune of love that go last forever is the wax and the wane of the moon since Adam catch body-fever. I old, so the young crop won't have these claws to reap their waist, but I know 'do more' from 'don't' since the grave cry out 'Make haste!' This banjo world have one string and all man does dance to that tune: That love is a place in the bush with music grieving from far, as you look past her shoulder and see like her one tear afterwards the falling of a fixed star. Young men does bring love to disgrace with remorseful, regretful words, when flesh upon flesh was the tune since the first cloud raise up to disclose the breast of the naked moon.