If you go to Tintinara
You'll find they're all genetically inbred,
The Beckers own the supermarket,
And the hardware store, and the pleasure shed.

You can't ride your bike on the footpath,
The townsfolk, they have no slack,
You might as well just drive on to Adelaide,
And they've got weird mud, and they're perverts.¹

The busses drive past every hour
Filled with footy kids and a slab,
And the picnickers think that it's all very quaint
But they don't have to live every day in this shithole.²

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