That old gate still looks the same, 
still hanging off it's hinges,
they were just kids playing games.
And that old driveway's just as rough,
still tired from all the truck tracks
etched in to the dust.
Her hands are clean and moisturised,
there's powder on her face,
and shadow on her eyes.
She's not the same girl that she was,
living in the city...
that's just what it does.
She rolls up to the house, 
her Mum still there, 
brewing tea,and peeling pears, 
the farm that she has always known,
there's nothing quite like going home.
Twelve trees line a fence of wonky wire,
and wait for her, loyally wait for her to ??
standing tall, they might age, they might shed their 
leaves,
but they'll always be there for her, 
twelve trees.
Ten years on, and growing up,
remembers twelve trees in summer,
was the time she had most fun.
Peeling yabbies just on dusk,
some bread and butter and a can of coke,
they could not believe their luck.
There were summers spent down by the sea,
a glass of wine on a balcony,
some times she feels all alone,
there's nothing quite like going home.
Twelve trees line a fence of wonky wire,
and wait for her, loyally wait for her to ??
standing tall, they might age, they might shed their 
leaves,
but they'll always be there for her, 
twelve trees.
Twelve trees.
Twelve trees line a fence of wonky wire,
and wait for her, loyally wait for her to ??
standing tall, they might age, they might shed their 
leaves,
but they'll always be there for her, 
twelve trees.