barn and sheds and trees on fire and the Southern paddock burned.
Flames as high as watertowers, Satan’s face.
Get the youngsters in the wagon, quick, the road will soon be closed
never mind the bloomin’ papers and the dough
come Black Fella, start the ute, there is no need to get her hosed
there she comes with all her power, see the glow?
Leave the horses, cannot shift them, and the poultry all the chooks
there is nothing we can save, they all must die
all my photos, steins and persians, the collection of old books
let’s get cracking, and please Martha do not cry.
I can tell you, my Black Fella, you have been a loyal drover
and your word has always been a solemn pledge,
but my trust in the creator it is finished, gone, all over
there is nothing that would keep me near the edge.
That a power up in Heaven oversees this great disaster
and he doesn’t interfere or even blink,
I shall find amongst the people, black or white another Master
’cause the present one is nothing but a fink.
I can see how starched assessors from the city will arrive
sorry, mate, you are not covered for this loss,
though we’re happy you were lucky and came out at least alive
this catastrophy is just a doublecross.
Act of God we call this, really and the policy is void
you may take it up with Him or with the priest
but cheer up, you look so gloomy, quite depressed and well, annoyed
I invite you to the agents’ sausage feast.
Get some tucker in your tummy and your mind on other things
have a stubby and some cake, a bit of booze,
there are those who did not make it and their souls grew final wings
it is destiny, but don’t you sing the blues.