Sung to the tune of Bowling for Soup’s 1985

Woohoohoo
Woohoohoo

Joely just hit the wall.
He never had it all.
Protesting ANZAC day,
Isn’t really that OK.
His dreams start to fade.
He was born in the wrong decade.
Now he feels like a fool.
Communism used to be cool.

He was gonna have a shave,
He was gonna get a job,
He was gonna change his t-shirt,
The one about his knob.
But he became a Commie,

‘Cause he’s no good with money.
Has nothing to protest against,
Except those imperialist veterans.

The Springboks, Riot Policemen,
Way before Tianamen,
There was Muldoon, such a dag,
And reasons still to burn our flag,
His comrades, Reith and Pratley,
Dismiss the past quite flatly,
But he would have so much fun,
In 19, 19, 1981.

Woohoohoo,
(1981)
Woohoohoo.

He knows all the protests.
He wishes a fucking ton,
That he could screw Kate Sheppard,
Or strike in ’51.
He was opposed to Vietnam,
But he was born a bit late, damn.
It’s too late to defect,
And become a Soviet.

What do you have against laying a wreath?
Why does ANZAC offend your beliefs?
Were you kicked out of the RSA?
Or did a veteran tell your beard looked gay?

The Springboks, Riot Policemen,
Way before Tianamen,
There was Muldoon, such a dag,
And reasons still to burn our flag,
His comrades, Reith and Pratley,
Dismiss the past quite flatly,
But he’d be cooler than Atilla the Hun,
In 19, 19, 1981.

Woohoohoo,

He hates time, make it stop.
Where’s that Delorean made by Doc?
And when did stealing become a crime?
Please make this stop.
Stop!
And bring back…

The Springboks, Riot Policemen,
Way before Tianamen,
There was Muldoon, such a dag,
And reasons still to burn our flag,
His comrades, Reith and Pratley,
Dismiss the past quite flatly,
But he’d kill his first born son,

To live in ’81.

Hard press machines, the scent of ink
Get your monthly copy in,
Printers deadlines, censorship.

Fat Freddy stalked your pages in the 70’s
alongside tips on bombs, concern for trees,
Mao Tse Tung, and nuclear freeze.

Brunswick found his glory here.
Anarchists, you filled with fear.
Even good in Eastside with a beer.

Hate mail from Chinese,
Critical Critic bought us to our knees
To my heart you hold the keys.

Till twenty oh eight we find you here,
the magazine you still once were.

Toilet paper, bible, accelerant,
you are still salient.