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She’s a quiet wee thing, though her temper's often flaring, 

swearing and carrying on through the night, 

she stays in the middle and many lost wanderers, come to her 

to offer themselves to her bodice and consume her life, 

see dedication in her soul and devastation also, 

medication bottled in brown paper bags, 

she is trauma, she is drama, she is talking back, 

she is dingoes stalking prey along walking tracks,

dry river beds carve a path through her spirit, 

when the water comes you can see her swimming in it, 

she builds herself up, and digs herself deeper, 

though growing stronger takes much longer than becoming weaker, 

many have heard of her and made their assumptions, 

and sometimes their assumptions are correct, 

but sometimes the presumptuous connect with their perceptions and learn to love and respect, 

from above she is marred with the bones of the old, 

her people they all look exactly the same, 

from above she can see the cracks from the flames which burnt her 

way down the track.. 

the jacaranda grows out the back, when it comes she knows the year is closing, she is fear and loathing some believe she's near broken her sad past, appears, choking her dear friends who have been there since the start,

but then she begins to sparkle and wins the heart of all those who would disregard her and her past,

she is love and hate, she'd probably punch a mate, 

she's always coming late but never running late, 

she is timeless, she is violence, she is sirens through the silence, 

she is surviving through a crisis, she's driving without a license. 

she's loved truly for her beauty 

and by those who've called her back,

to the "touries" she's "The Alice" 

But you'd never hear a local call her that.