| Oh it’s-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
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| By the campfire at night we’ll hear the wild dingoes call
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| But there’s-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear
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| Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer
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| Now the publican’s anxious for the quota to come
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| And there’s a far away look on the face of the bum
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| The maid’s gone all cranky and the cook’s acting queer
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| Oh what a terrible place is a pub with no beer
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| Then the stockman rides up with his dry dusty throat
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| He breasts up to the bar and pulls a wad from his coat
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| But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
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| As the barman says sadly the pub’s got no beer
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| Then the swaggie comes in smothered in dust and flies
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| He throws down his roll and rubs the sweat from his eyes
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| But when he is told, he says what’s this I hear
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| I’ve trudged fifty flamin' miles to a pub with no beer
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| Now there’s a dog on the v’randa, for his master he waits
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| But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates
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| He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear
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| It’s no place for a dog 'round a pub with no beer
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| And old Billy the blacksmith, the first time in his life
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| Why he’s gone home cold sober to his darling wife
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| He walks in the kitchen, she says you’re early Bill dear
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| But then he breaks down and tells her the pub’s got no beer
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| Oh, Billy the blacksmith, rides home on his horse
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| The cops bull him over, but he’s sober of course
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| He blows in the bag and they all shed a tear
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| It’s no place for a Booze bust 'round a pub with no beer
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| Oh it’s hard to believe that there’s customers still
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| But the money’s still tinkling in the old ancient till
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| The wine buffs are happy and I know they’re sincere
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| When they say they don’t care if the pub’s got no beer
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| So it’s-a lonesome away from your kindred and all
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| By the campfire at night we’ll hear the wild dingoes call
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| But there’s-a nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear-a |