| Queenie was born on the banks
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| Of the great Ord River, 1930, maybe
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| Her mother was black, her daddy white
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| Papa was a fine horse-breaker
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| Mama sang the songs of the old lawmakers
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| She used to hide young Queenie in the bush
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| And rub black charcoal all over her hair and her face
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| Every time the police came around
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| Looking for any blond haired, brown skinned children
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| To round ‘em up and take ‘em on down town
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| Shine on, shine on, immortal one, aha
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| Shine on, shine on, immortal one, aha
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| Rover was born in the desert, he lived out there ‘til his mother died
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| Then he moved around a lot from place to place
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| Bedford Downs, Bow River, Lissadell, Wyndham
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| Building fences, working as a stock man
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| Then he had a series of dreams
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| He started painting what he’d heard and he’d seen
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| Rainbow serpent, Krill Krill, Cyclone Tracy, the killing fields
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| Everything that lives and breathes
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| Ride on, ride on, immortal one, aha
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| Ride on, ride on, immortal one, aha
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| Your story will always run
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| When Rover and Queenie were young
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| They met out on New Texas Down station
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| She worked as a cook there for a long, long time
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| She said, «Hey, Cowboy» later on she said
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| «Nice boy, good worker, top rider, lucky one, that one»
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| One day a mean horse ripped the scalp from his head
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| She stitched him up with a boiled needle and thread
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| Good as any doctor, they were friends ever after
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| She said, «I want to paint,» he said, «I'll teach ya»
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| They died within months of each other
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| Ride on, ride on, immortal ones, aha
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| Shine on, shine on, immortal ones
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| Ride on, ride on, immortal ones, aha
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| Shine on, shine on, immortal ones, aha
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| Your story will always run, always run, will always run
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| Forever run, forever run, forever run
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| Forever young, forever young |