I
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Cancer? Cancer?! I dream of cancer -
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Cancer can eat my bones:
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O, lucky I would consider myself
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To be racked by cancerous moans.
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A fate more evil, a life more lost
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The Devil for me foresaw:
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Imagine the day I woke to find
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The Milats had moved next door!
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II
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Was I a man of the bourgeoisie?
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Ha! Of course I was more than that!
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I was a latte drinking, clever thinking
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Documentary making pratt.
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I ran my own film company,
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I was an artist, I was sure.
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Then I heard my neighbour say:
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"I'm Alex Milat. I'm in next door."
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III
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My films explored the evil side
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Of Mankind's unknowable self;
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My kids all went to private schools,
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My wife, she bloomed with health;
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The critics applauded my visual style
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And my dissection to the core
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Of the Freudian, Jungian evil id.
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Then the Milats moved next door.
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IV
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Ivan, of course, was doing time
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But his brothers are all free men.
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"There's me, there's Walter," said Alex Milat,
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"And Richard - in all, there's ten.
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Me and the wife moved in last week,
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And when Richard's coming we're unsure.
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You like films? Well, I'll bring over someA¡¦ shots.
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Wink. Wink. We only live next door."
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V
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A shadow, a pall, hung over my days
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The first weeks after I found out.
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The bruchutto was off, the antipasto stale
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At the cafes where we'd all hang out.
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"It's good for your art," said my cameraman,
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"They're just the sort your films explore."
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"Fuck my films," I told Toby, "you pretentious git -
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My fucking films don't knock on my door."
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VI
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My wife was a painter, sculptor too -
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Her studio was set up at home.
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"I can't stay here," she'd scream at me,
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"It's impossible to work alone."
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Her exhibition was coming up soon -
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A review in the Age for sure.
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"Just stay calm," I'd scream - so loudly, too,
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I bet you they could've heard next door.
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VII
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A couple of months after they came
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I got a call from my children's school:
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"Your daughter's been caught smoking pot,
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And your son's started playing the fool.
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The counsellor's asked them both to say
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If their home is quite safe and secure."
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By his tone I knew straight away
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He lay the blame right at my door.
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VIII
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My next film was a critical flop
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For the first time in my career.
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"He seems to have lost his ability
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To show evil up close and near."
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I read that review, and gave a laugh -
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Critics always think they know more.
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Fucking critics should try living up close
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To the people who live next door.
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IX
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Toby left me the very next month
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To shoot a Gillian Armstrong flick.
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"You know," he told me when he left,
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"I always thought you a soft cock prick."
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Funding dried up; grants turned down;
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My wife couldn't take any more:
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"I'm leaving," she said, "I'm getting out.
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I can't live here with them next door."
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X
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But the way she said it, how she left,
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I knew the Milats were her excuse:
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She married a successful film artist,
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Not a failure. The final proof
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Came when I heard three months later
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She'd moved in with some director bore
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Whose film was at Cannes. She was gone -
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But I couldn't blame the people next door.
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XI
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My children went to some alternative school
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Where all the hippy children go;
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After that, we sort of lost contact -
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I last heard from them two years ago.
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I got a job in advertising
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Shooting commercials - on video, what's more.
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No super 8, only mainstream crap
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Designed for the people who live next door.
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XII
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And yesterday came my greatest shock -
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Oh, Truth comes bound in Pain:
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I went to next door's intercom
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And asked for Alex Milat by name.
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"Who?" said a voice, incredulous.
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"Why, they're not living here no more.
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They moved out nearly two years ago.
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Hey, aren't you the weirdo who lives next door?"
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XIII
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No matter how easy or sweet life is,
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Be sure - your life will change;
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There is a shadow hangs over us
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That leaves none of us the same.
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There is another person waiting to come
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Buried in your deepest core:
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You'll be |