Our Tilba
Hills here, they roll
with green and gold.
Black cockies in the air with the sun,
and woodsmoke in the air with the cold.
A few schooners after work in the summer;
in the winter, the schooners are filled with ‘Old’.
There’s stories here
and they’re printed in the pavement.
They whisper to you,
wherever you walk on Bate Street.
The wall of every building will sing its unique song,
and before you know it,
you’re on Tilba Time; nothing ever takes too long.
All places here appeal to someone;
