| Yeah, he was a real dried up old gravel voiced bushie this feller
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| Wonder where he is now?
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| I was standin' in line all the mornin'
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| To answer an ad that I saw
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| Regarding the job on the council
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| There was me and quite a few more
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| A dried up ole bushie before me
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| Pulled a battered old tin from his coat
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| And from fine cut and Tally Ho papers
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| Proceeded to roll up a smoke
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| A hairy young man in the office
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| Rapped on the desk and said next
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| The old feller stepped up before him
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| And gave him his name and address
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| And the hairy one asked of the old bloke
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| If he had any reference to show
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| If he’d ever done manual labour
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| Or had experience out on the road
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| The old feller reared up and snorted
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| And the cigarette hung from his lip
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| His hat was pushed back on his forehead
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| His hands they were firm on his hips
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| He looked the young feller all over
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| Took in the mode of his dress
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| The peaches and creamy complexion
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| And I felt that he wasn’t impressed
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| Then he pushed a big hairy paw under
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| The young feller’s lily white nose
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| Slowly he spread out his fingers, hey
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| Said take a gander at those
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| These are my reference for working
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| I was at it before you were born
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| And I’ll bet you a quid even money
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| I’ll be at it long after you’re gone, you mug
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| I’ve played the mad pick and the banjo
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| Done many a season in cane
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| I’ve worn out a dozen good kellys
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| While fencing out there on the plain
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| I’ve worked for my board and my lodgings
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| In conditions you’d not understand
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| And by hell I’ve brought in some good money
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| With these very same battered old hands
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| Experience out on the roadway
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| Is something I learned all about
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| When the banker foreclosed on the mortgage
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| Just after the '65 drought
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| I rolled up my swag and departed
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| A sorry but much wiser man
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| With only my memories to show for
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| The years that I’d spent on the land
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| So I tramped and I travelled the highways
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| And in bitterness cursed every mile
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| But in time I got over my troubles
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| And learned once again how to smile
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| It’s the likes of you pen pushing gentry
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| To bring out the laughter in me
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| You little tin gods of the office ha ha
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| You’re too pumped with power to see
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| Then with a good old Australian expression
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| We were left in no doubt what he meant
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| He turned on his heel and he left us
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| And God only knows where he went |