| An old man stands by the homestead door
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| In his boots and his bushman’s gear
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| His Akubra hat has a hole in the felt
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| And the blue cattle dog sits near
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| The old man’s son owns this run on the North West Slopes and Plains
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| With his sons and wife it’s their whole life
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| And the home of the big road trains
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| And the bush kids come home with their welcome run as they greet us each time
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| Near where the dams are dry 'neath the dusty sky
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| Some things never change out here
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| Some tales have told of the days of old when the horses pulled the plough
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| Of the yokes and chains and the bridle reins when they rarely went to town
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| The myxo kills the rabbit still, it’s a painful death that’s clear
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| The horses shade from the midday blaze
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| Some things never change out here
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| Yes, the bush kids come home with their welcome run as they greet us each time
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| Near where the dams are dry 'neath the dusty sky
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| Some things never change out here
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| The dingoes run from the dogger’s gun
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| The emu proudly roams
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| With his sharpened beak he’ll fiercely reap the crop that’s just been sown
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| The night sky falls, the shadow calls the big white moon to Earth
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| In the morning time the frost will shine like a blanket on the Earth
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| Yes, the bush kids come home with their welcome run as they greet us each time
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| Near where the dams are dry 'neath the frosty sky
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| Some things never change out here
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| Yes, the bush kids come home with their welcome run as they greet us each time
|
| Near where the dams are dry 'neath the dusty sky
|
| Some things never change out here
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| Some things never change out here
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| Some things never change out here |