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The Shearer's Lament
We were shearing outback on a wayside track,
And nothing in the world could please us,
Where the trees are tall and the gins are small,
A cunt of a place, by Jesus.
The rouseabout was a pommy lout,
And the boss was a hungry bastard,
He wanted the wool so we had no pull,
It was go while our cutters lasted.
The expert cunt with his tools all blunt,
And his headgear rocked to pieces,
But I kept my place in this louse-bound place,
While mixed up in his fucking fleeces.
The rams they fetched made my arsehole stretch
Like an old gin's pizzle cleaner,
My pen-mate strained till his shirt got stained
And his arse went off like a cracker
A boss's man with his sheep-dip can
He was up to his knees in maggots,
Little did he know what I did with that blow
What I did with his prize ram's agates.
I struck a blow at a dirty old yoe,
And the wool on her hide was all rotten,
And I cursed and I swore as her shitbag tore,
And reached for the needle and cotton.
As I stooped to stitch the dirty old bitch,
I was snobbed, I was fucked, I was mastered,
So I kicked her arse down the let-go pass,
"Get out! You silly old bastard!"
Now the greasy cook with his sore-eyed looks
Half covered with fat and ashes
He stuffed our holes with his half-baked rolls
And he poisoned us all with his hashes.
Should you catch me back in this louse-bound shack
I'll be fucked to the world and cringing
He can stuff the lot up his old brown blot.
He can start with his bloody engine.