Colin F. Jones


Them what live in shacks of sticks,
wiv dorgs and scraggy cats,
Catchin’ blowhards from the criks,
as bait fer catchin bats,
Sleep on lizards skins at night,
wiv pillows made from bags,
Glory in the star filled night,
As they suk on ome made fags.
They luv the nellie in their throats,
And the buzz inside their heads,
And dress up in their Emu coats,
Or all get drunk instead
Each leap year breed the Kangaroos,
Crossed with a sheep or four,
Make woolly jumpers for the crews,
That sail off from the shore.
The cuckaburras laugh like hell,
And the parrots chatter back,
To see the moonlight cast its spell,
Through all wots bloody black.
Hey mit, ya wanna nother snort?
‘Cause the port she’s runnin out,
is oft the only sad retort
on their favourite walkabout
But let me tell you while I can,
me mate was one of them,
who lost his life in Vietnam,
never came ‘ome agen.
So round this spot, this sacred place,
our boomerangs are thrown no more,
cause ‘arry of the abo race,
wus kild in that there war.